by Ralph Peters
“What’s going on, sir?”
“I’m stumped, T.J. Try to raise them again. If you get a response, give me a holler. Immediately.”
“Roger, sir.”
Albaugh dropped back into his turret and reconnected his helmet. “Dragoon Six, this is Bravo.”
“Go ahead, Bravo.”
“The India-Echo-Foxtrot unit is holding in place two clicks west of Miqdal. There’s no opposition up here. They just stopped. And they won’t respond on the liaison channel.”
“Who reported that?”
“I’m up here myself. Just north of the white-ball in sector. When I get up on my turret, I can see them. They’re just smoking and joking. One company of them, anyway.”
On the other end, there was a pause that amounted to an unspoken obscenity.
“Good copy, Bravo. Stay tied in with them. Maintain visual contact. And let me know immediately if they go boots and saddles again. The Scotsman isn’t going to be happy about this. Out.”
HEADQUARTERS, III (US) CORPS, MT. CARMEL RIDGES
Things were going a little too well for Harris’s peace of mind. Dropping the countermeasures had worked exactly as Scottie’s major had predicted — although an entire company had gotten ahead of the phase line and lost every vehicle it had forward. Otherwise, the losses reported thus far were lighter than the low-end projections. The parasite in the Jihadis’ target-acquisition system had worked perfectly. Scottie’s 1st Brigade was in control of Afula, with lead elements pushing east.
Yet, the general’s expression had hardened almost to grimness. He’d just grilled his G-2 publicly with questions he knew Danczuk couldn’t answer off the cuff. It was Harris’s way of warning the staff not to pop any invisible champagne corks just yet.
“Where’s their armor, Deuce? Where’s that brigade they had tucked in below Mt. Tabor, the mixed outfit with the Egyptian M-1s and captured Merkavas? That was a counterattack force. So why aren’t they counterattacking? Al-Ghazi’s a serious soldier. What’s he up to? Why didn’t we see more drone activity? Why has the jamming fallen off? So we can all listen to the MOBIC Gospel Hour? Christ, Val, they put up just enough of a defense to play pretend. I’m embarrassed that al-Ghazi thinks I’m stupid enough to buy this. And now you tell me they’re pulling back all across the sector? What planet are we on? What’s al-Ghazi got up his sleeve?”
Danczuk had been smoking from both ears as he marched off to scour the universe for answers.
The staff members stayed out of Harris’s way as best they could, heads down over their work or headsets clamped on. Harris was a calm man in adversity, but success made him nervous.
“Sir,” the ops officer sitting on the command net for him said, “General Scott needs to talk to you. ASAP.”
Harris grabbed the headset. As if repossessing it from a deadbeat.
“Talk to me, Scottie.”
“Has anyone up there ordered the India-Echo-Foxtrots to halt their attack?” The 1 ID commander sounded hot. “I’m getting reports that they’re taking the longest piss break in human history.”
“Who’s reporting that?”
“Quarter Cav. They’ve got visual. And the India-Echos won’t respond to the cav’s efforts to contact them. The troop commander down there says they’re just kicking back and playing with themselves.”
“Hold one, Scottie.” Harris turned his head. As if it were on a greased swivel. “Three? You have anything new on Avi Dorn’s brigade? General Scott says they’ve halted in place.”
Mike Andretti gave Harris a deer-in-the-headlights look.
“Get on it,” Harris told the startled officer. He turned his attention back to the comms rig. “We’re looking into it, Scottie. I’ll get back to you. How’s everything else going.”
“Almost too good. I’m not sure I like it.”
“That makes two of us. So don’t let your guys get victory-is-ours syndrome just yet.”
“Roger that, sir.”
“Out.”
Harris looked at the row of officers and NCOs sitting comms. “Somebody get me General Dorn. Now.”
HIGH GROUND, NORTH OF THE JEZREEL VALLEY
“I’ve got reports of minefields ahead,” Avi Dorn told the corps commander on the land line. “I need to send out dismounted probes.”
“Come on, Avi. Do it with your blade tanks. Shoot out some line charges. What’s the matter with you? Get moving.”
“I can’t order my men into minefields.”
“Avi, what’s up? This isn’t like you. Yesterday, you couldn’t wait to get at the Jihadis. Now you want to break for tea and sympathy. Level with me — are you going to continue the attack, or not?”
“With all due respect, sir… How many soldiers does Israel have left? My brigade and the two brigades with the MOBIC corps… a battalion of paratroopers in reserve. That’s it. I can’t risk nearly a third of what’s left to us by charging blindly into minefields.”
“Who told you there are minefields? We haven’t seen any intel on it.”
“Local sources. We still have some contacts.”
“Then why not share the information?”
“It just came in.”
“Avi, this stinks to high heaven.”
“I have my responsibilities.”
The silence on the other end of the line was easy to read. Dorn pictured Harris fuming, struggling not to burst into obscenities that could not be recalled. He felt sorry for the general, who was a fighter. It all might have been so different. Dorn wished it had been different. But he would’ve made a deal with the dev il if it resurrected Israel from the dust. Even a shrunken, new-beginning Israel.
He had made a deal with the dev il, Dorn decided. What else could you call it?
When the general’s voice returned, it was measured and cold with harnessed fury: “Avi, I’m giving you a direct order to resume the attack. Now.”
“Acknowledged,” Dorn said. “My brigade will resume the attack. As soon as we clear any minefields between our current positions and Miqdal.”
Harris hung up.
HEADQUARTERS, III (US) CORPS, MT. CARMEL RIDGES
Harris turned to his G-3. “Mike, get a FRAGO out to the 1st Cav. I want their lead brigade moving within two hours to assume Avi Dorn’s sector and continue the attack.”
“Sir, they’re still unloading their—”
“I don’t care if they have to move out with two Bradleys, one tank, and a three-legged goat, I want them moving. General Stramara’s had it easy up to now. It’s time for the 1st Cav to pick up the pace.”
Without waiting for a response, he turned to the officer and the two NCOs babysitting the primary command-channel comms. “Get me Major General Stramara. On the land line, if it’s up.”
A staff sergeant straightened his back and said, “Yes, sir.” Without meeting Harris’s eyes.
Val Danczuk walked back into the room. His gait struck Harris as odd. Almost as if it wasn’t really the G-2, but a robot or a zombie got up as the Deuce. And it was the first time in his life that Harris had literally seen a human being’s face go white.
“What is it, Val?”
The G-2 stepped close enough for Harris to see that the man’s eyes were lost.
“Talk to me, Deuce.”
“Sir… We’ve got… I’ve just got in two reports. One from Jerusalem. The other’s from Nazareth. From our man on the ground.”
“Jerusalem can wait. I’ve got a fight going on right here. What’s happening in Nazareth?”
Harris was startled to see tears well in the G-2’s eyes.
“Sir…” Col o nel Danczuk told him, “… we need to speak in private.”
NAZARETH
Major Nasr wet himself. He couldn’t even rise from the bed to stagger to the cabin in the yard. He struggled to rise, at least to a sitting position. But it was a no-go. The effort of the night before had drained him of all the juice he had left.
He had slept. Hard. But the penalty was that his body
had locked up. As if it were encased in a hard, jointless shell. The lobster man. Through the slits of his swollen eyes, his smashed hand with its broken finger really did look like a claw.
When he coughed and spit up blood, it hurt his entire torso, his neck, his head. Kidneys, groin, ribs, indefinite organs that had never complained before. The sheet was raw with sweat and lumped with clots of maroon blood.
He could hear, though. With at least one ear. The sounds of battle had come much closer. Not just artillery, either. He believed he could hear the crack of main-gun rounds.
“Pussy,” he told himself. “You cunt. Get up. Get up. You gonna lay here and piss your pants all day?”
Yes, he was going to lie there and piss his pants all day. And all night. As long as he continued to live.
The owner of the house hadn’t dared look in on him. At least, the owner hadn’t done so while Nasr was awake.
Was he awake? He wasn’t even certain if he was conscious with any consistency.
The bastards who had beaten him were artists, he decided. How else could they have done so much damage without killing him?
He tried to straighten his leg, to free it briefly of the cooling piss-wet and grime. But he couldn’t even do that.
I’m not going to cry, he insisted. Yesterday, I was weak. But nothing can make me cry. I’m not afraid. Not anymore.
Lies, lies, lies. A spasm wracked his lungs, and he barked up a clot of dark blood. Bright red blood chased it. Despite all the will he could muster, tears came to his eyes.
Get a new body at Ranger Joe’s. Next time I get down to Benning. One size larger, please.
Benning. The all-you-can-eat chicken at Country’s Barbecue. Goodbye to all that. Iron Mike was made of flesh and blood, after all.
He tried to think rationally, asking himself if he had left any part of his mission undone that he might still accomplish.
Nasr laughed at himself. Hurting his jaw, his smashed lips, his rib cage again.
You can’t even get up to piss. Who’re you trying to fool?
Me. Just me. Please help me, Jesus. I’m sorry for all the wrong things that I’ve done. I need your help now. Here. In Nazareth. I’m out of juice, and I need your touch to bring me back…
He was afraid to pray properly. Afraid that it would be a prelude to death.
With an effort that stole energy from elsewhere in the universe, he cocked himself up from the bed. Halfway. Just far enough to notice that he’d pissed blood.
There were people he would’ve liked to have seen a last time. Most of them women. It hadn’t been a bad ride, after all.
Jesus, I need you now. Holy Mary, Mother of God. Help me.
The door opened. Instead of spirits, Nasr saw a compact man in a perfectly pressed uniform. A col o nel. In the Jihadi regulars, the Blessed Army of the Great Jihad. The col o nel wrinkled his nose.
Yeah, I stink, Nasr thought. Come and have a lick, you cock-sucker.
When the col o nel spoke, without advancing from the doorway, his English accent was plummy. Oxbridge, Knightsbridge, and contract bridge.
“Dear me, Major Nasr, you’re looking the worse for wear. Would it be a great bother for you to get up now, do you think?”
No bother at all. I was just relaxing.
When Nasr didn’t move, the col o nel said, “You’re really looking rather peaked. We’ll see about some assistance, shall we?”
The col o nel clapped his hands and made way. Two underlings, also uniformed as regulars, excused their way past him and made for Nasr.
He couldn’t put up any re sis tance. The best he could do was not to break down in tears when they lifted him. It felt as though his every bone and sinew were coming apart.
The officer spoke in Arabic. Telling his subordinates to go gently, that they would suffer themselves if they did Nasr any further damage.
“I suppose,” the col o nel told Nasr, “I should have brought a nurse along. Thoughtless of me.”
As the men carried Nasr down the corridor, only one of his feet dragged. The other leg curled back, as if in an elbow cast.
Outside, the bright sun shut the slits of his eyes. The enlisted Jihadis really did try to be gentle with him. It didn’t help much. When they put him in the back seat of the sedan, he imagined himself imploding, collapsing into a mound of gristle and bone fragments.
“Your forces are doing rather well,” the col o nel told him, once he had settled himself on the seat beside Nasr. “We Arabs never do seem to get the knack of this sort of warfare. Of course, we have our own repertoire.” He tapped the back of the front seat with a swagger stick, and the car proceeded to grind down the broken alley.
“We haven’t much time,” the col o nel told him. “I expect your forces to arrive in Nazareth in a matter of hours. Perhaps sooner. And it would hardly do for me to be here.”
Nasr was so crumpled that he barely saw over the ledge of the car door, giving him a child’s view. The houses were shut up tight.
“The refugees,” Nasr said. He had to repeat it several times before he could make himself understood.
“Oh, they’re still here,” the col o nel told him, once he’d deciphered Nasr’s mumbling. “Down in the old city. I’m afraid we’ve had to shoot a few, to make them understand they’re not to leave.”
“Why?”
“Just riff-raff, really. The ‘intelligentsia’ of the Middle East. No feeling for Islam. No sense of faith, of purity. We see them as something of a fifth column. Impossible to reform.” The col o nel half-turned toward Nasr. “They’re our gift to you. Perhaps you can build your new Middle East with them. As your president wished to do, when I was a lad. One must never give up hope — isn’t that so?”
As the car threaded its way through the labyrinth of Nazareth, Nasr glimpsed crowds of civilians crammed together in the lower streets.
The noise of war ruled the world beyond.
The car turned south. On the main road.
“I really must apologize to you,” the col o nel said. “In advance. In war time, one finds oneself compelled to do things that don’t really square with the old conscience. Allah will forgive me, of course. Nonetheless, I find it embarrassing.”
Nasr didn’t find it embarrassing. Nor did he have another word for what he saw when they pulled up to a stretch of the road where empty lots on either side had become the site of an artificial forest.
“Get him out of the car,” the col o nel told his subordinates.
They came around and drew Nasr into the warm sunlight.
This? Was this the way it would end? Would there be a special dispensation for this?
They held him up in a mockery of standing. Before him, Nasr saw dozens of crucifixes. Each bore an American soldier or Marine.
“Deplorable, I know,” the col o nel told him. “But we feel we need to make a point. Not least, given what your MOBIC fellows have gotten up to in Jerusalem.” He brought his face close to Nasr’s, braving the stench. Nasr saw a youngish man, handsome, with skin the color of coffee with milk.
“The message is that there will be no quarter. From this day forward. This is a war of extermination. Do you think this display sufficient to drive that home?” He backed away. Slightly. “We’re not complete barbarians, you understand. Unlike your ‘Military Order of the Brothers in Christ.’ Is it really Christ’s message they carry? I’m surprised, really. But what I wanted to say was only that we’re not animals. We killed these men before we nailed them up. No need to gild the lily.”
Nasr let his head sink. He could bear the sight no longer. The crows were already at some of the crosses. Crows and flies.
“I suppose I should’ve mentioned it earlier,” the col o nel resumed. “Bad form on my part. You have nothing to fear. Nothing more, I should say. You’re not going to share the fate of your comrades. We need you to do us a last favor. If you don’t mind.”
The colonel clapped his hands. Nasr heard a car door slam behind his back. A moment later,
an NCO stepped up, snapped to, and saluted. After which he handed the col o nel Nasr’s transmitter.
“It seemed unjust,” the col o nel said, “to make you climb those streets again. Frankly, you don’t quite look up to it.” He switched to Arabic and told his men to place Nasr on the far side of the road. They dragged him across the asphalt but sat him down almost tenderly on the curb.
The officer stood over him. The man’s shadow dulled his polished brown shoes.
The col o nel set the transmitter down in front of Nasr, then dropped to his haunches to look Nasr in the face a last time.
“You’re a brave fellow,” he told Nasr. “One respects that. Even in an enemy. Now, I think I shall be going. Might get sticky, were I to stay. Peace be unto you, Major.”
And he walked off. Car doors slammed. Engines gunned. Nasr closed his eyes and listened as the vehicles turned around and sped off.
When he thought he could bear it again, he took another look at the forest of crosses. And he began to count them. When he was done, he managed to pick up the transmitter with his good hand and cradle it in his lap.
HEADQUARTERS, III (US) CORPS, MT. CARMEL RIDGES
Harris strode back into the command cell. Before he got a good look at the general’s face, the ops sergeant working command comms said, “Sir, I’ve got General Stramara on—”
“Three,” Harris snapped. “Take it. Just tell Stramara to get moving.” He turned to the comms crew again. “Get me General Scott. Now.”
The general hovered. It didn’t make things go faster. But he didn’t want anyone to get a dead-on look at his face. It might betray too much.
After a flurry of attempts, a captain told him, “Sir, General Scott’s on a latrine break. He’ll be—”
“Get him off the can. No. Give me the handset. General Harris here. Listen. I need to speak to General Scott. I don’t care if you have to run wire out to the shitter. Get him on the line.”
The routine noise of the ops center had faded to hospital-ward-at-night level. They’d all worked together long enough to read the ruling mood.
After a reasonable wait that pushed Harris to the brink of fury, the 1st Infantry Division commander came on the line. Harris cut the other man’s apology short.