The War After Armageddon

“I don’t care if they have to move out with two Bradleys, one tank, and a three-legged goat, I want them moving. General Stramara’s had it easy up to now. It’s time for the 1st Cav to pick up the pace.”

Without waiting for a response, he turned to the officer and the two NCOs babysitting the primary command-channel comms. “Get me Major General Stramara. On the land line, if it’s up.”

A staff sergeant straightened his back and said, “Yes, sir.” Without meeting Harris’s eyes.

Val Danczuk walked back into the room. His gait struck Harris as odd. Almost as if it wasn’t really the G-2, but a robot or a zombie got up as the Deuce. And it was the first time in his life that Harris had literally seen a human being’s face go white.

“What is it, Val?”

The G-2 stepped close enough for Harris to see that the man’s eyes were lost.

“Talk to me, Deuce.”

“Sir… We’ve got… I’ve just got in two reports. One from Jerusalem. The other’s from Nazareth. From our man on the ground.”

“Jerusalem can wait. I’ve got a fight going on right here. What’s happening in Nazareth?”

Harris was startled to see tears well in the G-2’s eyes.

“Sir…” Col o nel Danczuk told him, “… we need to speak in private.”

NAZARETH

Major Nasr wet himself. He couldn’t even rise from the bed to stagger to the cabin in the yard. He struggled to rise, at least to a sitting position. But it was a no-go. The effort of the night before had drained him of all the juice he had left.

He had slept. Hard. But the penalty was that his body had locked up. As if it were encased in a hard, jointless shell. The lobster man. Through the slits of his swollen eyes, his smashed hand with its broken finger really did look like a claw.

When he coughed and spit up blood, it hurt his entire torso, his neck, his head. Kidneys, groin, ribs, indefinite organs that had never complained before. The sheet was raw with sweat and lumped with clots of maroon blood.

He could hear, though. With at least one ear. The sounds of battle had come much closer. Not just artillery, either. He believed he could hear the crack of main-gun rounds.

“Pussy,” he told himself. “You cunt. Get up. Get up. You gonna lay here and piss your pants all day?”

Yes, he was going to lie there and piss his pants all day. And all night. As long as he continued to live.

The owner of the house hadn’t dared look in on him. At least, the owner hadn’t done so while Nasr was awake.

Was he awake? He wasn’t even certain if he was conscious with any consistency.

The bastards who had beaten him were artists, he decided. How else could they have done so much damage without killing him?

He tried to straighten his leg, to free it briefly of the cooling piss-wet and grime. But he couldn’t even do that.

I’m not going to cry, he insisted. Yesterday, I was weak. But nothing can make me cry. I’m not afraid. Not anymore.

Lies, lies, lies. A spasm wracked his lungs, and he barked up a clot of dark blood. Bright red blood chased it. Despite all the will he could muster, tears came to his eyes.

Get a new body at Ranger Joe’s. Next time I get down to Benning. One size larger, please.

Benning. The all-you-can-eat chicken at Country’s Barbecue. Goodbye to all that. Iron Mike was made of flesh and blood, after all.

He tried to think rationally, asking himself if he had left any part of his mission undone that he might still accomplish.

Nasr laughed at himself. Hurting his jaw, his smashed lips, his rib cage again.

You can’t even get up to piss. Who’re you trying to fool?

Me. Just me. Please help me, Jesus. I’m sorry for all the wrong things that I’ve done. I need your help now. Here. In Nazareth. I’m out of juice, and I need your touch to bring me back…

He was afraid to pray properly. Afraid that it would be a prelude to death.

With an effort that stole energy from elsewhere in the universe, he cocked himself up from the bed. Halfway. Just far enough to notice that he’d pissed blood.

There were people he would’ve liked to have seen a last time. Most of them women. It hadn’t been a bad ride, after all.

Jesus, I need you now. Holy Mary, Mother of God. Help me.

The door opened. Instead of spirits, Nasr saw a compact man in a perfectly pressed uniform. A col o nel. In the Jihadi regulars, the Blessed Army of the Great Jihad. The col o nel wrinkled his nose.

Yeah, I stink, Nasr thought. Come and have a lick, you cock-sucker.

When the col o nel spoke, without advancing from the doorway, his English accent was plummy. Oxbridge, Knightsbridge, and contract bridge.

“Dear me, Major Nasr, you’re looking the worse for wear. Would it be a great bother for you to get up now, do you think?”

No bother at all. I was just relaxing.

When Nasr didn’t move, the col o nel said, “You’re really looking rather peaked. We’ll see about some assistance, shall we?”

The col o nel clapped his hands and made way. Two underlings, also uniformed as regulars, excused their way past him and made for Nasr.