The War After Armageddon

He shouted the words but couldn’t hear himself. An echo, though. Strange. More underwater follies.

“Yo? Anybody?”

He knew. No way any Marine was walking down those stairs alive. Then he realized there were no stairs anymore. Not above the first three or four. A new hole in the roof sucked in the starlight. Right through the swirls of plaster dust.

Garcia kicked something soft. Didn’t want to, but he reached down. A torso. Weight-lifter muscles. Nothing else. Just a rib cage and guts in bloody uniform cloth. Fresh meat from the butcher’s counter.

Somewhere in the mess, a kid began to wail. The buggers could live through anything. Hadn’t he? As a kid?

“Get your own fucking daddy,” Garcia told his fellow survivor. And he slipped back outside, almost in control of his balance now. Another concussion. He didn’t need a corpsman to tell him. Christ. How many could you take? End up punchy like the old guys at the gym. San Sebastian.

One more time, he scraped the minimike with his thumbnail. Like that was going to make it work. Right.

Movement. Not Jihadis. Marines.

He realized he could hear gunfire again.

One of the Marines raised his rifle.

“Belleau,” Garcia called. Hoping the other guy’s ears were in better shape than his own.

“Wood.” Gotcha, Devil Dog.

One Marine rushed across the street, keeping low, while the other covered him. Just like in training. Okay. The sprinter turned out to be Corporal Banks.

“Sergeant Garcia? Where you been, man?”

“Where’s the platoon commander?”

“Dead.”

“You know that?”

“I saw him. Headshot.”

“Shit.”

In nomini Patri… The lieutenant had been all right. But they could all feel bad about him later. Just now, there was more immediate stuff going down.

“That Barrett with you?”

“Nervous in the service. First Squad’s one street over. Hunkered down. After Staff Sergeant Twilley got hit—”

“Where’s the lieutenant?”

“I told you, he’s—”

“Where’s the fucking body?”

“Back a couple streets.”

“Can you find him?”

“Yeah. Sure. Sergeant Garcia, you’re the last—”

“Get his headset. And don’t forget to come back. I’ll be with First Squad.”

“Where’s Freytag and—”

“Just move out, Corporal.”

The platoon had walked in on a suicide company. Rear guard for the Jihadis pulling off the high ground. Bad hombres. The first thing that hit Garcia’s squad was a volley of flash grenades, blinding them through their night-sights. The headache from Hell. The new platoon sergeant went down trying to get things unscrewed, along with Sergeant diMeola. Now the lieutenant was dead. Fucking lot of good college did him. And Sergeant Twilley before him. One ambush after another. They’d caught it good. Tired as shit. And higher pushing them to keep moving.

Now what was left of the platoon was his. Until company sent down somebody with a higher rating.

He wasn’t ready for this.

Garcia followed Corporal Banks back across the alley. Machine-gun fire chased them. The Jihadi on the trigger didn’t know how to lead a target.

“Barrett.” He slapped the lance corporal’s shoulder as he passed him. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“Where we—”

“Move. Follow me.”

He didn’t want this. Not now, not yet. Goddamned Jihadis. Maybe the MOBIC pukes were right. Only good Muslim…”

“Belleau.”

“Wood.”

“Coming in.”

“Hold for covering fire!” Corporal Gallotti. Head screwed on right. In a moment, several guns were up and nailing the darkness to the night.

“Go!” Garcia told Barrett. He followed. Splashing through muck that smelled like every sewer pipe in the country had broken at once.

The squad was too bunched up. Waiting for somebody to give an order. Gallotti was the natural leader but didn’t have the rank. Everything going to hell.

“Listen up,” Garcia said. Loud enough to be heard. But not too loud. Anyway, the Jihadis were making a noise like Cinco de Mayo in the Plaza de Armas. “We’re going to get our asses unfucked. Right now. Corporal Gallotti’s in charge of this squad. Because I said so. Corporal, get the roofs covered. Both sides.”

“Pullman’s topside, Sergeant.” He pointed across the street. “With Jamal.”

“I said both sides. This is it. We’re not moving back one goddamned inch from here. We’re fucking Marines. We’re going fucking forward, if we go anyplace.”

“Yo, Sergeant Garcia? Anybody ever tell you that you got a limited vocabulary.”

Laughter. That was okay. If they could laugh, they could fight.

“Buy me a dictionary. Now, check your ammo.“

Banks scrambled up along the wall.

“Corporal Gallotti,” Garcia continued, “get your squad set up with proper fields of fire. No more monkey-fucking. Banks, give me that.”

Banks handed over the platoon commander’s headset and drop transmitter. Garcia wrapped it around his skull, feeling the plastic scrape the bristles at the nape of his neck.

Before he could transmit, figures ran up behind them. The right helmet silhouettes and body-armor shoulders. Marines.

It was Captain Cunningham.

“Third Platoon?”

“Yes, sir,” Garcia said.

“Who’s in charge?”

“I am, sir. Lieutenant Delaney’s—”