The War After Armageddon

“Bravo, roger.”

“Charlie, roger.”

The radio remained beautifully clear. What on earth was going on? No Muslim artillery. A handful of drones. No jamming. Was it some kind of trick? Was it all going to come down on them at once?

They entered the veil of smoke and tuned obscurants. Even the late-model thermal sights revealed only ghosts. It was a fistfight through a curtain now.

The LD-KE had been the wrong round to load. They were moving into HE country. Antitank defenses, but no Jihadi tanks reported in Afula.

Were they holding them back? For a counterattack? Was the blow coming? Maxwell decided he’d just plain called it wrong.

“Loader. Reload HE.”

“Safe,” Specialist Prizzi shouted into the intercom.

Maxwell heard the breech clank open.

A target registered hot in Maxwell’s thermal sight. He punched a button, and the gun slewed around.

“HE loaded. Up!”

“ATGM. Two-two-hundred.”

“Identified.”

“Fire.”

“On the way!”

The gun’s recoil, too, was a thing of beauty.

The target bloomed.

Maxwell decided to load sabot. For another click, Jihadi vehicles would register as the principal targets. And sabot would get the attention of any ATGM gunners using buildings, too.

“Up.”

The gunner, who had a hunter’s high-tuned senses, called, “Identified. PC.”

“Fire.”

“On the way.”

The targets came swiftly after that, nebulous forms and shapes, slowly refining themselves. Twice, another tank’s rounds struck the chosen targets just before Maxwell’s gunner fired.

“Loader up!” Prizzi shouted. He was already hoarse.

“Stallion Six, this is Charlie. Ammo compartment burning. Passing the stick to my Niner.”

“Roger. Stay in the box. Break. Charlie Niner. Keep your victors tight with Rapier Six’s. Don’t let a seam open up over there.”

“Roger. We’re grinding sprockets.”

“Gunner. Target. Seven hundred.”

“On the way.”

The target exploded. One secondary blast followed. A third eruption raised a wall of flame.

“Good shootin’ this morning, Sergeant Nash,” Maxwell told his gunner.

“Sir, would you watch that fucking sword?”

The tank jumped a small berm and shot across the north-south highway.

“Up!”

“Driver, hard left.”

An invisible fist punched the turret, knocking Maxwell’s head-gear against steel. “Everybody okay?”

“Roger.”

“Clear.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Driver, hold your right track. Let’s get back on course, Specialist Vasquez.”

“Stallion Six, this is Bravo. Green. Lead elements Phase Line Pasadena now. Two big boys down. One cat-kill. Minefield vicinity Checkpoint Rosie.”

“This is Stallion Six. If you’re in it, just keep going. Bull through.”

“Wilco.”

“Stallion Six, this is Saber Six. Status report.”

The brigade commander. Clear as a bell.

“Green. Seven victors down. Lead elements Pasadena. We’re closing on the first line of buildings. Continuing mission. Gunner. ATGM. Fire. Getting interesting down here. Over.”

“Good job, Stallion Six. Give ’em hell. Out.”

“Target!” the gunner shouted.

“Driver. Punch it. Straight ahead…”

The gunner fired into an antitank position. Or what was left of it. Every visible Jihadi emplacement was attracting attention from multiple tanks.

The artillery had lifted, and the Jihadi obscurants were fading. Now it was peekaboo in the patches left behind.

“Load canister.”

“Canister up.”

“Gunner, clear that street.”

“On the way.”

The round exploded from the gun tube. A torrent cut down a gaggle of Jihadis — some running toward the fight, others fleeing, some just ambling and stunned.

The tank bit into a low earthen barrier.

Sure enough, a missile thunked against the bottom of the hull as the vehicle climbed over the obstacle. Man-portable, judging by the noise. Too light to penetrate.

As the tank came down again, a heavier missile clanged against the turret.

The vehicle kept moving, but Sergeant Nash shouted, “My sights are gone. You’ve got it, sir.”

“Roger. From my position.”

“Prizzi’s down.”

“Any blood?”

“No, sir. He’s crumpled up.”

“Take over as loader. Now, Sergeant Nash. Canister.”

Maxwell fired the round into a vehicle that looked like an armored pickup with a missile launcher and gunner perched in its bed. The truck had been coming straight at them. Brave, if nothing else, Maxwell thought. He watched the vehicle disintegrate as the center of mass of a thousand metal balls tore into it. The gunner in the bed simply disappeared.

Flames. Smoke. Smoldering metal.

“Driver. Forward.”

The tank crunched over metal, concrete, and bone, grinding through patches of fire. More light missiles bit into its armor, none penetrating. It sounded like a slow-motion hailstorm.

Approaching an intersection, Maxwell told the driver to slow.

“Crew report.”

“Gunner up. Sir, I think Prizzi’s got a broken neck. He’s—”

“Alive or dead?”

“Sir, I don’t know… I don’t—”

“Load canister. Pull yourself together.”

“Stallion Six, this is Alpha. We’re four streets in. One Bradley down. Not sure anybody made it out.”

“Roger. Keep pushing.”

At least a dozen Jihadis — more — rushed from an alley and leapt from adjacent doorways. Several carried shoulder-fired missiles.