The War After Armageddon

A pure-vinegar smirk twisted Harris’s face. It was an expression he never would’ve permitted himself beyond this small circle. “The Air Force thinks Sim Montfort’s going to leave them unmolested. When this is over. Because they helped screw the Army and Marines.”

The Marine two-star shrugged. “Divide and conquer. Montfort’s read his Sun-Tzu.”

Harris’s grimace deepened. He looked around. At his G-3, his G-2. At his plans officer and his aide.

“You know one of the reasons Sim Montfort’s taking that bait and chasing the J’s up the Jordan Valley? Other than the fact that he wants his MOBIC troops to have credit for liberating every possible Christian site? What do you think, gents? Any takers?”

“Because,” Monk Morris said calmly, “once he’s up here, he’ll argue for ‘unity of command.’ Under his command.”

“Bingo!” Harris said, cocking his fingers to imitate a pistol. “And then he’s got what’s left of the U.S. Army under his thumb.”

“And the Marines. Sir, I figure he’s going to try to subordinate us to the MOBIC Corps. Replacement cannon fodder.”

“God bless us one and all. Monk, you and I are looking at the same target array.” Harris pivoted sharply toward his plans officer. Every officer in the room was marked with sweat up and down his uniform. And yearning for fresh air. “Marty, show General Morris what you’ve got. Lay it out. Monk, here’s what I propose. I’ve got to get the rest of 1st Cav ashore tonight. But I want you to be prepared to start marching, on order, tomorrow morning. As soon as we can clear the junctions on the north-south roads. Your division, plus all attachments, will pull off line — we’ll get a Cav screen down there in front of you. You’ll road-march from the south of sector, where you’re an obvious grab for the MOBIC corps, and head north. Primarly on Route 70, going fast through the hot zones. You will then position your Marines on the corps’ northern flank. Marty, point out the—”

“I can see it, sir. I get it,” the Marine said.

“You’ll be positioned to attack east, on order, to envelop retreating Jihadi forces. On either or both of those axes. Right through what used to be southern Lebanon. Or, if we see a Jihadi counterattack first, you’ll be prepared to attack into its northern flank.”

Morris said, “We’ll need to space the convoy serials more widely than the tables call for. In case somebody gets bogged down where the radiation count’s still high.”

“Yes, sir,” the plans officer, Lieutenant Colonel Marty Rose, put in. “We’ve already rejiggered the movement tables.”

The Marine looked back to the corps commander. “Radio silence, I take it? Full electronic deception efforts?”

The plans officer answered for Harris again. A bit too eagerly. “We’re almost finished with the deception plan. Full spoofer support. We’re going to make you disappear.”

Monk Morris nodded, keeping his eyes on the corps commander. “Sir, if you can, give me one day to refit and rearm once I’m up there in those valleys. Then we’ll be ready to go anywhere you want to point us.”

“We’ll do what we can down here. Part of it depends on the Jihadis, part on whatever shenanigans Sim Montfort and the MOBIC crowd get up to.” Shifting his attention to his operations officer, Harris changed the subject. “Mike, can we provide 1-18 Infantry with an MP company? To beef them up in Nazareth? I’m concerned about things getting messy. Agents provocateur. From any number of sources.” A pair of flies conducted a dogfight in front of his face.

“Sir, we just can’t do that. Not for twenty-four hours, anyway. The Mike-Papas have all they can handle with traffic control, patrolling the LOCs, and handling POWs. They’re asking for additional support themselves. We’re running them ragged.”

Harris punched at the flies pestering him. “All right. Mike, scratch the raid those Rangers had scheduled for tonight. Yeah, I know. Got it. Hate to blow off the target. But Nazareth is going to become a strategic issue. I’d bet my retirement pay on it. And Pat Cavanaugh just won’t have enough boots on the ground to cope if it turns into a goat-rope. He’s going to need the toughest, most-disciplined hombres we’ve got. Send him a full Ranger company.”

“Yes, sir.” The Three, a former Ranger battalion commander, smirked. “They won’t much like serving under a mech-head, though.”

“They’ll suck it up, Mike. Just like you suck it up.”

“Yes, sir.”

Suddenly, Harris smiled. But there was no trace of joy in it. “When I was a ju nior officer in Iraq, we talked on and on about how there were no front lines in the war. We didn’t have a clue.” Then he dropped his dead-man’s smile and turned to his aide. “John, I want one of those old Black Hawks with the extended-range tanks ready to go. I’m flying to Cyprus. Immediately.”

Except for Monk Morris, each of the other officers alerted. Surprised. Monk never let anything surprise him much, and Harris loved the old Marine for it.