The War After Armageddon

“End. It won’t end. Al-Mahdi’s Jihadis and Sim Montfort’s Crusaders may think this is the Battle of Armageddon, but there’ve been a lot of battles of Armageddon. The big-dog religions just take turns winning. We massacre you for Jesus. Next time, you massacre us for Allah. But there’s always another round.” It struck Harris — hard — that it was time to get back to his own headquarters, that there was nothing left for him here. It also struck him that his boss didn’t want him to leave, that his old acquaintance was desperate for someone trustworthy to talk to. “Sir, if we get down to just one of them and one of us left, the last two will go at each other with rocks. Each yelling that God’s on his side.”

“And if one of them knocks the other down and kills him? Doesn’t that undo your theory? Isn’t he the winner, the last man standing? Or if they kill each other, what then?”

“In the latter case, the monkeys win. Until they evolve. And start creating new theologies to explain that they were never monkeys at all. That God X created them from sandalwood and spices.”

“That’s pretty cynical. Coming from you, Gary. I thought you were a devout Christian yourself.”

“I’m a Sermon on the Mount Christian. Sim Montfort’s a Book of Revelation Christian.”

“It’s hard to square the Sermon on the Mount with being a soldier.”

Harris smiled. “That’s where faith comes in. ‘I know that my Re-deemer liveth.’ But I can’t claim to know it intellectually. I believe in the mercy of Jesus Christ with all my heart and soul. My head just has to catch up. But I don’t happen to think He wants human skulls piled up at his feet. Sir, I’d better pull pitch. I’ve got a war to fight.” He rose from his chair. Surprised by the stiffness in his back and legs. Too much sitting. The long helicopter flight. The b.s. session that solved nothing. Age. And another flight to come.

“Gary?”

“Yes, sir.”

“I need you to have faith in me. I need you to do something for me.”

“Sir?”

“You’re going to have to chop a brigade to Montfort as soon as his bunch effect the linkup. He was demanding a full division. I held him to one brigade. For now.”

Harris opened his mouth to protest. But the beaten face of his superior stopped him. That, and an idea that made him smile.

“All right, sir. I’ll give old Sim some shit about it on principle. But he’ll get his brigade. Thanks for the top cover.”

The older man looked unmistakably relieved that Harris hadn’t put up a fight.

“Vaya con Dios, Gary.”

Harris paused for a farewell salute. Snapped from the end of his right eyebrow.

“He’s busy, sir.”

* * *

Harris crunched a stale chocolate-chip cookie and regretted not bringing his aide along. Major Willing had remained behind at corps to put the day’s paperwork in order for Harris’s return. He’d made the flight with a single bodyguard. But Willing was responsible for his care and feeding. His aide would’ve seen to some chow — Harris had realized belatedly that he was as hungry as a bear at his first springtime wake-up call. So the general had just grabbed a couple of care-package cookies from a box by a coffee urn as he left the HOLCOM headquarters for the flight line.

“Get any chow, Sergeant Corbin?” Harris asked the NCO riding beside him in the back seat of the sedan. First my mission, then my men…

“I’ll eat when we get back, sir.”

“Cookie?”

The NCO seemed to avoid looking at him. “Thanks, sir. I don’t eat sweets.”

“Well, you’re not missing anything. Mom sent last year’s leftovers. You feeling all right, Sergeant Corbin?”

The vehicle sped along the dark runway apron, outracing the cast of its blackout lights. As the sedan rounded a wall of blast barriers, the moonlight revealed a brand-new UH-80 just ahead.

Only the MOBIC forces had the new helicopters. Harris’s old Black Hawk was nowhere to be seen.

The UH-80 was being fueled by a tanker parked close behind it.

“What’s going on here?” Harris tossed the last bite of cookie on the floor.

The officer riding shotgun up front turned around. With a pistol in his hand. Sergeant Corbin grasped Harris by the upper arm. The SF NCO had a mighty grip.

“Sir,” the officer twisting over the front seat said, “you need to do exactly what I tell you to do. You need to trust me.”

“I tend not to trust people who point guns at me.”

The officer didn’t waver. “Then don’t trust me. Just do as I say.”

The vehicle squealed to a halt. Too near the helicopter. The crew chief stepped back.

His bodyguard kept a tight grip on Harris’s arm.

“Listen to me, sir,” the officer with the pistol said. “I need you to climb into that helicopter. Then you’re going to climb right out the other side. The door will be open. You will then low-crawl to the fuel truck. You will crawl around the front end, then enter the cab of the vehicle. You will crouch down on the floor, out of sight. Sergeant Corbin will be right behind you.”

“Who are you?”

“Major Daniel Szymanski, sir. U.S. Army Special Forces. Just do as I say right now. You’re welcome to court-martial me later.”