The War After Armageddon

Maxwell leapt from the tank, stabbed a writhing Jihadi, and jogged back toward Brickell. With his face blackened by smoke, the battalion commander’s grin looked like a madman’s.

Still clutching the saber that had been the joke of the battalion, he scrambled aboard the tank that had come to his rescue. Panting, he leaned into his subordinate’s face.

“Isn’t this the most goddamned fun you’ve ever had in your life?” Maxwell cried.

ELEVEN

HIGH GROUND, NORTH OF THE JEZREEL VALLEY

Brigadier General Avi Dorn wanted to fight. To slay those who de-stroyed Israel. But Israel’s rebirth was more important than personal revenge.

Speaking on his internal brigade net, he gave the command: “All units, all units. Halt at your present locations. I say again, halt at your present locations.”

As Dorn expected, Yakov Greenberg responded immediately.

“Avi, are you crazy? I could walk to Miqdal from here. We’re smashing them. They’re running like mice. We can be in Nazareth before the Americans reach Afula. It’s wide open.”

“All units. Halt at your present locations.”

Zvika Abramoff was next: “Yakov’s right. They’re simply running away. A halt now makes no sense. And I’m on exposed ground, I don’t want to stop here.”

“All of you. Listen to me. I gave an order. You’re not in the old IDF anymore; this isn’t a debating society. I’ve been ordered by the Americans to halt. You’ll halt, or you’ll be relieved.”

“This is idiocy,” Greenberg responded. “You can tell the Americans I said so. I thought they wanted us to cover their attack.”

“Plans change. I don’t understand everything the Americans are up to. Just do your duty and obey orders. Out.”

Avi Dorn switched off the microphone and sat down. He closed his eyes, finding all of this unbearable. But he had to do what was best for the once and future Israel.

Soon enough, the Americans would be calling. The Americans, from whom he had not heard a word since the attack began.

* * *

Captain Jason Albaugh of B Troop, Quarter Cav, ordered his driver to pivot and head uphill. He wanted to verify personally what 3rd Platoon’s leader had just reported.

The Israeli Exile Brigade had been advancing aggressively since it launched its supporting attack onto the heights. Now, Lieutenant Daly reported that they’d come to an abrupt halt, with no tactical rhyme or reason.

Quarter Cavalry’s mission had been to screen to the left of 1-18 Infantry, which was moving forward to cover the flank of the 1st ID attack. Albaugh’s troop, on the extreme left, was to maintain contact with the Israeli exile brigade.

Albaugh passed a few smoldering Jihadi trucks, but the fighting — what little there had been of it here — had moved on. In less than ten minutes, he spotted the turret of Daly’s tank. The lieutenant had put the vehicle in hull defilade, in a swale below a high meadow.

The lieutenant’s head poked up from his hatch. When he saw Albaugh approaching, he climbed out of the turret and jumped to the ground. He waited until Albaugh’s M-1 had come up behind, then trotted over and gestured that he wanted to climb aboard.

Albaugh clambered out of his hatch. Ready for a stretch. The lieutenant hauled himself up onto the fender.

“What the fuck? Over.” Albaugh said.

“Get up on your turret, sir,” the lieutenant told him. “If you stand up, you can see them from here.”

Albaugh scrambled over his tank’s packed bustle racks and stood up between the hatches. Thinking that he made a lovely target for some stay-behind.

Daly was right. The Israelis had just stopped. Albaugh didn’t even need binoculars. Half a kilometer away, he could see a half-dozen IEF tanks and a pair of infantry carriers. No flames, no smoke. They were just plain stopped. Some of the crew members milled about. Others were doing maintenance checks.

“You have their freq?”

“Yes, sir. But they’re not responding.”

“This some kind of union rule? A siesta break?” Albaugh said. Mostly to himself. He was mad that he hadn’t taken the lieutenant’s word and called in a report immediately.

“What’s going on, sir?”

“I’m stumped, T.J. Try to raise them again. If you get a response, give me a holler. Immediately.”

“Roger, sir.”

Albaugh dropped back into his turret and reconnected his helmet. “Dragoon Six, this is Bravo.”

“Go ahead, Bravo.”

“The India-Echo-Foxtrot unit is holding in place two clicks west of Miqdal. There’s no opposition up here. They just stopped. And they won’t respond on the liaison channel.”

“Who reported that?”

“I’m up here myself. Just north of the white-ball in sector. When I get up on my turret, I can see them. They’re just smoking and joking. One company of them, anyway.”

On the other end, there was a pause that amounted to an unspoken obscenity.

“Good copy, Bravo. Stay tied in with them. Maintain visual contact. And let me know immediately if they go boots and saddles again. The Scotsman isn’t going to be happy about this. Out.”

HEADQUARTERS, III (US) CORPS, MT. CARMEL RIDGES