The War After Armageddon

Bratty tested his whis kers with the remaining fingers on his right hand, feeling them bristle around his chin strap and catch on the ban dage, which already smelled like old socks.

“I’m just an old country boy,” Bratty told his subordinate. “But I can tell you one thing: A moonshiner only stops for someone he trusts.”

SIXTEEN

HEADQUARTERS, III (US) CORPS, MT. CARMEL RIDGES

The first thing Flintlock Harris heard when he walked into his headquarters well after midnight was his G-3, Mike Andretti, telling General of the Order Simon Montfort, “That’s an unlawful order. This corps will not obey it.”

The second thing Harris heard was cheering, followed by applause. It took him a moment to understand that the accolade was for him, not for the defiant operations officer.

The officers in the briefing room stood up. Yelling their heads off. Greeting Harris. Electrified, despite the wretched hour.

The welcome gave him an additional shot of adrenaline, reaching down into the part of his soul that would always be a soldier. Yet, Harris found himself behaving calmly. Unexpectedly so. During the wave-skimming flight in the black-ops helicopter, he’d felt a killing rage, imagining variations of revenge. Now, with his subordinates behaving like children who had just been informed that Christmas wasn’t canceled after all, Harris simply wanted to take care of business.

Still, he couldn’t resist stepping up beside the MOBIC Commander, leaning close as the ruckus began to subside, and saying, quietly, “Call me fucking Lazarus. Right, Sim?”

Montfort was stunned, but he’d always been quick on his feet. He thrust out his hand and babbled a welcome.

Harris ignored him, turning to his G-3. “What’s this about an unlawful order, Mike?”

“Sir… We’d been told by HOLCOM that your helicopter was down, that it disappeared from the radar screen offshore.”

“Reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated,” Harris said.

“General Montfort…” The G-3 looked at the MOBIC commander with molten hatred. “…happened to be in the area. He claimed he was in command.”

“Temporary command, of course,” Montfort told Harris. “Until things got themselves sorted out.”

“Remarkable timing, Sim,” Harris said. “Amazing luck, you being in the vicinity of my headquarters.” Then he turned back to the Three. “What was the order, Mike?”

The room had grown death-watch quiet.

“Sir, General Montfort ordered us to kill the civilian refugees in Nazareth.”

Harris glared at Montfort. Unable to mask his disgust. The anger burned back up inside him.

In a voice as controlled as he could make it, Harris said, “You were right. That’s an unlawful order. In any case, General Montfort has no authority over this corps. Did he issue any other orders?”

“No, sir. He just got here.”

“Anything new on the ground?”

“The J’s are fighting for every speck of dirt along the Highway 65 line, but they’re taking heavy casualties for it. We’re chewing into them. Two reports of EMP mines in General Scott’s First Brigade sector. 1st Cav’s got elements of two brigades in the fight, and the division staff estimates they’ll have their last combat brigade in its forward assembly area by 1400. Tactical comms suck.”

Harris surveyed the room. Swiftly. “Anybody got anything urgent for me? No-bullshit urgent?”

Some of the faces just stared at him, calculating the situation’s implications. Several heads swiveled back and forth: No. Nothing that urgent. All of them were waiting to see what would happen next between their commander and Montfort.

“General Montfort and I have some matters to discuss in private,” Harris told his subordinates. “Excuse us, gentlemen. Sim? Join me in my office? It isn’t much, but it’s home.” Harris turned to his aide, who had just stepped inside the room. “John, make sure we’re not disturbed.”

The MOBIC commander opened his lips to speak, then thought better of it. Old Sim’s still reeling, Harris thought. But he knew the man. Sim Montfort would be back in control of himself before a condemned man could smoke a last cigarette.

Harris herded his old acquaintance out into the central hall of the big house, then led him down a corridor to his combination office, bedroom, and refuge.

“I’ll say a special prayer of thanks tonight,” Montfort told him. “For your safe return. I’d been told—”

“Fuck you, Sim. Let’s leave it at that. I’m unfamiliar with the proper etiquette for dealing with a fellow American who tries to kill me.”

“That’s preposterous.”

“I said, ‘Let’s leave it at that.’ ”

“As you wish.”

“Sit down, Sim. This is going to be a serious talk.”

“Gary, I’ve got commitments. It’s three in the morning. We each have a corps to run. There’s a war on, if you haven’t noticed.”

“You weren’t concerned about that fifteen minutes ago.”

“I was trying to help. We were monitoring the HOLCOM net, of course. And when I heard the report, I was afraid your staff would be demoralized. We couldn’t afford—”

“And you were just in the area. By dumb, fuck-me-dead luck. Christ, Sim… Save it for Sunday school.”