The War After Armageddon

“We attack at 1800. Today. Just do your part. And I’ll do mine.”

“And then, Insh’ Allah, we will see American aircraft over Baghdad again. History repeating itself.”

Montfort grunted. “Not if you provide better targeting data.”

“You will have no worries on that account. But I wonder, General Montfort, when will we meet again? The ambitions that brought us together will pull us asunder now. Physically, I mean. Anyway, I shall send you a translation of my book, when all of this dust has settled. I’ll commission one, just for you. Something for you to remember me by, as they say. But I will walk you out.”

As they went, side by side, Montfort said, “We despise each other.”

“Of course. But it’s a curious matter. We respect each other, as well. Respect for the corresponding abilities, for the other’s vision to see beyond the moment. But distaste for the reflection we discover of the self. You and I are condemned, General Montfort, to be men of action. Too much introspection would hardly suit us. It’s a frailty I struggle against.”

The glare of the morning sun on the barren hills that had once been Jordan stunned their eyes. At the sight of Montfort, his he li — cop ter crew immediately set off the rising whine that would bring the rotors to life.

“By the way,” al-Mahdi continued, “you don’t really plan to hand your new possessions back to the Jews, do you? Isn’t that what you’ve promised them, that the state of Israel will be reborn? In return for their support?”

“The Jews killed Christ,” Montfort said. “We’re going to remind them.”

NAZARETH, TACTICAL OPERATIONS CENTER, 1-18 INFANTRY

“Sir,” Command Sergeant Major Bratty said to his battalion Commander, “it’s not your fault. That was a setup from the get-go. Those MOBIC pukes were going to get whacked no matter what you did.”

Overnight, the heaviest sounds of war had rolled east — except for the friendly artillery batteries firing from forward positions down in the Jezreel.

“It’s still my fault. I lost my temper.”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“The truth is,” Lieutenant Colonel Pat Cavanaugh said, “that Flintlock Harris should’ve booted me out of the Army back in Bremerhaven. I lost my temper with some Germans the same way.”

“The Krauts get waxed?”

“No. Harris grabbed me by the stacking swivel.”

“Too bad.”

Cavanaugh shrugged. “Even if it was a setup, I played right into their hands. Whoever was behind it.”

“MOBIC’s my bet. Blue on blue. They’re working so many scams they’ve probably started scamming each other.”

“Your hand hurting, Sergeant Major?”

“It’s the damnedest thing, sir. Sometimes I feel the fingers. Like they’re still there.”

“Your trigger finger, too. And your joker-poker.”

“They’re the fingers that hold a guitar pick against your thumb. That’s what really pisses me off.”

“I hadn’t thought of that.”

Bratty made a same-old-shit-for-breakfast face. “I’ll learn to play with my toes or something. The Jihadis are not going to fuck with my front-porch retirement plan.”

“I shouldn’t have lost my temper like that, though. No matter how I cut it, I sent them out like sheep to the slaughter.”

“Sheep are meant to be slaughtered,” Bratty said. “The point is not to be a sheep. Look, sir. We’re all tired. And we’re all pissed. And we’ve drawn about the shittiest duty in this war so far, babysitting Arabs every soldier in this outfit would like to double-tap. And while we’re on the subject, I was amazed you didn’t deck that smart-ass Ranger major when he reported in. I’ll bet he’s a closet fag who drives a Volvo.”

“In his position, I would’ve been pissed off, too. This isn’t exactly a Ranger mission.”

“Well, he needs to suck it up. And I need you to buck up, sir. Don’t do this self-pity riff on me — because that’s what it sounds like, to tell you the truth. We can get right with our consciences later. You get any sleep?”

“Couple of hours.”

“How’s that coffee?”

“Bad beyond belief.”

“Glad to hear it. Wouldn’t want to think Sergeant Kiefer was losing his touch.”

“I’m going to shave and make the rounds. Want to come along?”

“I’d better stay here, sir. ‘At the still center of the turning world’.”

“That from one of the songs you wrote?”

The S-1 NCOIC approached the command vehicle.

“What now, Sergeant Yannis?” Bratty asked.

“Morning, sir… Sergeant Major. Sergeant Major, did you know the water’s still on? In the buildings? No shit. There’s still water coming through the pipes. With plenty of pressure.”

“I told everybody to stay out of the buildings. Let the rags alone.”

“The buildings are empty around here. The rags all took off. Back when they nailed up our guys, I’d bet.”

“I still don’t want anybody going on souvenir hunts.”

“Nobody’s stealing anything, Sergeant Major. There’s no looting or nothing.” The sergeant glanced at the battalion commander, then looked back at Bratty. “I just thought that, since it looks like we’re going to be stuck here for a while, maybe we could rotate people through for showers.”