The War After Armageddon

After a few seconds, the G-3 asked, “Sir… You really think you’ll get us fixed-wing support? I mean, do you believe there’s any chance at all? I’d love to whack Quneitra. And those reserve units.”

“I’m going to try, Mike. But I’m also going to try to do a preemptive strike on the command-relationship issue. To keep Sim Montfort’s hands off this corps.” The sweat-polished skin on the general’s face tightened. “We’ve already got enough blood on our hands.”

NAZARETH

“Maybe I should try drinking the local water, sir,” Command Sergeant Major Bratty told his battalion commander, gesturing with his bandaged hand. “I haven’t taken a dump in four days.”

Pat Cavanaugh couldn’t help smiling. Despite standing just down the street from two lines of body bags awaiting transport. After documenting the atrocity, he and his men had taken down their cruci-fied comrades. At one point or another, every man had wept. Except the sergeant major. Who insisted on treating everything as just another day at the war.

The sergeant major may have lost his trigger finger, but he was still rock-solid. Cavanaugh envied the sergeant major’s strength.

“Stop eating the cheese in the ration packs,” Cavanaugh told the other man. “And stop playing with that ban dage, Sergeant Major.”

The sergeant major shook his head. “I almost envy the XO. Dysentery sounds pretty good right now.”

Cavanaugh grew serious again. The evening air had the weight of wet sand on his shoulders. “What do you think, Sergeant Major? Can we keep them under control?”

“There’s a few of them I’d keep an eye on. I’ll pull the hard cases in close. But I don’t think any of our men are going to start anything. I’ve given the NCOs the full fire-and-brimstone. I’m just worried about some dumb-fuck Arab doing something stupid.” The sergeant major opened his hands as if freeing a bird. Cavanaugh noted a spot of blood on the ban dage where one of the finger stumps poked up. “It wouldn’t take much.”

Cavanaugh looked at the line of body bags. Where were the god-damned trucks? “Christ, Sergeant Major. I’d rather be fighting. Bare knuckles against razor blades.”

“Come on, sir. No self-pity at the top. Old Flintlock knew what he was doing when he dumped this shit on your shoulders.”

“Roger on the first. We’ll see about the second. Any word from the rear on Sergeant Brodsky?”

“Comms are still down, sir. Last I heard, they thought he’d lose the second leg, too.”

Cavanaugh shook his head. Staring off toward the body bags again, unable to keep his eyes under his command. But the sergeant major wasn’t having any of it.

“Come on, sir. This is what we signed up for. You need to eat some chow. Hell, I’ll give you my cheese pack…”

A shot. Followed by an echo. It punctured the odd stillness of terrified human beings, hiding behind closed doors in their thousands. Framed by the groans of military vehicles in the far streets and the relentless sounds of war beyond the ridges.

“That was downtown,” the sergeant major said. His even tone still managed to communicate that it wasn’t good news.

“You stay here, Sergeant Major,” Cavanaugh called. Already running for his track. “Let’s go, Hotel-1. Boots and saddles.”

Bratty barked, “Sergeant Rodriguez. Back up Bayonet Six with your squad. Move.”

Two Bradleys snorted down the hill, deeper into the unkempt city. Cavanaugh had already paid a quick visit to the old center, with its Biblical memories, while positioning his companies and refining their sectors. A wretched place, it didn’t excite any feelings of piety in him. Only repulsion.

In the dead heart of the old town, Cavanaugh spotted a new-model light armored truck. There were none in his battalion’s inventory.

“Specialist Quandt,” he told his driver over the intercom. “Butt-fuck that guy. I don’t want him going anyplace until I find out who he is.”

“Roger, sir.” The driver pivoted the big armored vehicle to the left, closing off the narrow street.

Cavanaugh saw two more of the brand-new vehicles. And a V-hull truck.

A pair of soldiers popped out of a doorway, weapons up. Not his men.

Cavanaugh had to get very close — snuggled right up behind the line of vehicles — before he could see the black crosses in the fading light. Black crosses, on the left breast of the uniform tunics.

Sonofabitch, he thought to himself. Then he warned himself to keep his temper. But he jumped down from the Bradley’s deck like a paratrooper landing ready to fight.

Both MOBIC troops were ju nior enlisted men. Cavanaugh had no intention of wasting time on them.

“Where’s your commanding officer?”

The two soldiers looked at him sullenly. Insolently. Then the corporal said, “Major Brown’s reclaiming the site of the Annunciation. For our Lord, Jesus Christ. And Christians everywhere.”

“Post one fire team here,” Cavanaugh told Sergeant Rodriguez, who had just come up behind him. “Then cover my six.”

“You got it, sir.”