The War After Armageddon

by Ralph Peters

  “Militarily, of course, Tiberias is worthless to you. A dead end, except for the road that follows the lake. But your faith, like mine, is a powerful matter. And you will accompany this attack yourself? To stand where your Christ is said to have stood when he delivered his great admonition? Only, this time, with cameras to record the event? My friend, I almost expect you to walk on the waters of the Sea of Galilee. Surely, that would impress your audience at home.”

  “You understand the importance of symbols as well as I do. Baghdad matters more than Damascus, for example.”

  “I did not mean to be insulting. There are times when my attempts at humor in English have an awkward inflection. Forgive me.”

  “Your last defensive positions facing my main attack will be on the ridge just west of the Sea of Galilee. That has to look like a serious fight. For the holy sites.” Montfort stretched across the table and pulled the bowl of dates within reach. Hoping a sugar high would get him through the rest of the meeting. And back to his headquarters.

  “It will be up to your MOBIC forces, as well, to give the appearance of a great battle,” al-Mahdi said. “You must make it appear that you have employed overwhelming force. For my part, you will permit me to place some of my poorer units on this Galilee ridge for you to use as targets. I must preserve my elite units and formations. For the future.”

  “Leave me the expendables. As long as it looks like a fight. To liberate the key Christian sites surrounding the Sea of Galilee. And don’t worry about overwhelming force. I’m going to mass so much combat power that you won’t have any explaining to do to anyone.” The dates were delicious. The taste carried him back to his days as a ju nior officer in Iraq. Montfort took another.

  “Insh’ Allah, it will be exactly as you wish. A great show.”

  “And the uprising in Baghdad? Is that on schedule?”

  “If all goes as planned this day and this night on the battlefield, my supporters will rise tomorrow. Then I will be forced to withdraw beyond Damaskus, to march east to save the caliphate from anarchy. And you will help me with this great task.”

  “Just give us the targets, and the Air Force will turn them into rubble.”

  “I’m glad you’re enjoying the dates. They’re the best in the world, you know. But one mustn’t eat too many. Your flight back down the wadi might be unsettling. And you must be fit for tomorrow, so you can stand where your ‘Savior’ stood.”

  “I have the constitution of a horse.”

  “Not a purebred Arabian, I suppose. But you know, General Montfort, the notion of your Jesus Christ as your ‘Savior’ has always confused me, given your doctrine that ‘God helps those who help themselves’.”

  “That isn’t doctrine. It’s just a saying.”

  “But isn’t it your doctrine, General Montfort? Your personal doctrine? You suspect me of being an idle phi los o pher, but I know that I lack the quality of mind to be a theologian. There are so many contradictions, both in our Holy Koran and in your Bible. It’s much easier to be a general.” Al-Mahdi smiled with one side of his mouth. “But you are yourself a scholar. I know this. I have read your dissertation from Harvard University: ‘Case Studies in Governance Challenges After Successful Coups.’ Really, it’s full of profound insights. Especially into Muslims and our errors. I learned a great deal from it.” Suddenly, his smile, ever close to a sneer, became almost shy. “But I don’t suppose you have ever read my book? It has been printed in the French language, but not, I regret, in English.”

  “Sorry. I haven’t read it.”

  Al-Mahdi waved it away as of no concern. “Perhaps, when all this is done, I will provide an English translation for you. I think you would find it of interest.”

  “What’s it about?”

  “How Arabs turned defeat into victory in the late twelfth century. Of course, I wrote it as a younger man, and young men fail to appreciate the complexity of Allah’s creation.”

  “We all make mistakes when we’re young.”

  “Did you? Really? I find it difficult to imagine you as a young man, to begin with. You possess a gravity a fellow can only envy, General Montfort.”

  Montfort returned his counterpart’s smile. “It’s not gravity at the moment. It’s exhaustion.”

  “Then I am doubly in your debt for your willingness to make this journey to accommodate me.” The emir-general stood up. “You need to return to your troops. To prepare your offensive. Do you really intend to move into the attack so quickly? After your long advance up the Jordan Valley? Won’t you need more time? To refuel, to rearm. To catch your breath, as they say.”

  “Not if you live up to your part of the bargain.”

  “If you’ll permit me the observation, I’m concerned that you may be impatient. Neither of us can afford problems. We must remain methodical. Perhaps al-Ghazi’s units could hold Harris for another night, and your attack could commence tomorrow? I’m willing to make that sacrifice, should you deem it necessary to guarantee against failure.”

  “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.”

  “Showers?” Bratty cried, going into one of his favorite routines. “Jesus Christ! You’re just starting to smell like soldiers. I hear about any enlisted man in this battalion getting a shower before I personally hand him the soap, and he and his chain of command are going to wish they’d been captured by the J’s. Got that? You tell everybody in Hindquarters Company what I said.”

  “Yes, Sergeant Major.” The sergeant glanced at Cavanaugh again, then did an about-face and walked off. Radiating dejection like a disappointed kid.

  “Fucking clerks,” Bratty said. “This is a goddamned Infantry battalion.”

  “Why won’t you let them take showers? Just curious.”

  Bratty looked at the battalion commander. “Sir, you’re a kick-ass officer. But you’d never make an NCO.”

  “And why’s that?”

  “You don’t think the right way. Look. All our grungies are going through a cold-turkey withdrawal after being in the fight for a couple of days. After the high comes the crash. They don’t know what they want, exactly, but tired as they are, they hear the fighting over that ridge, and it’s like laying down a scent in front of a pack of hounds. Makes them want to kill people and bust stuff. And right now, the closest people to hand that might be available for killing are the local yokels. Who, in the soldiers’ minds, are responsible for yesterday’s crucifixion scene. Under the circumstances, the task of a battalion sergeant major is to redirect the negative energies.”

  “Which means?”

  “I’d rather have our soldiers pissed at me and griping because I won’t let them wash their nasty asses than have them eyeing the rags and twitching their trigger fingers. Better for them to bitch about the hard-ass, pigheaded, unreasonable sergeant major.”

  “Thanks for sharing your trade secrets. You know, Frederick the Great believed that his soldiers needed to fear their officers more than they did the enemy. Wouldn’t work in our Army, of course.”

  “Sir, I don’t want them to fear me. Not exactly. I just want them to stop fantasizing about double-tapping rags and go back to dreaming about getting out of the Army and landing a job that, one fine day, puts them in a position to employ me in cleaning public toilets for the rest of my life.”

  The battalion command channel crackled to life. It was the Charlie Company commander, Jake Walker.

  “Bayonet Six, we got trouble in River City.” He sounded out of breath.

  “What’s the situation?”

  “They’re bringing corpses out of the houses. All over the place. You should hear them hollering and screaming.”

  “What kind of corpses? Military?”

  “No. Civilians. Kids. Old men. Everybody.”

  “How many? How many corpses?”

  “I don’t know… dozens… hundreds. They must’ve died during the night. Can’t you hear the screaming?”

  “Hold tight,” Cavanaugh said. “And don’t touch any of the bodies. Get your men under positive control. No physical contact with the corpses. Keep your distance. Shoot anybody who gets too close. I’m on my way. Out.”

  Cavanaugh turned to the sergeant major. “Get Doc Culver. Wherever he is. We’ve got an epidemic on our hands.”

  As the two men exited the command vehicle and stepped into the cool, bright morning, they saw a soldier stagger out of a house, clutching madly at his stomach, then at his throat, then at his lower abdomen. Before anyone could reach him, he toppled to the ground.

  NINETEEN

  NAZARETH, TACTICAL OPERATIONS CENTER, 1–18 INFANTRY

  “Just stay back,” Chief Warrant Officer Culver yelled. Lowering his voice, the physician’s assistant said, “You, too, sir. Let me figure this out.”

  “He’s dead, Chief?”

  “Yeah, he’s dead. Dead dead. Y’all get back, in case this is some Black Plague from Outer Space.”

  Doc Culver began stripping off the soldier’s uniform.

  “Shouldn’t you be wearing gloves?” Pat Cavanaugh asked him.

  “Yeah, but I’m not. If DeSantis here has anything that could kill him since I saw him doing pushups a half-hour ago, I’m already dead meat.”

  He tore off uniform parts and undergarments, ripping them with his Buck knife. When the reinforced cloth resisted, Culver’s roughness increased. He didn’t want anyone to see that his hands were shaking.

  Black flies settled on white flesh, scornful of attempts to shoo them.

  “Who saw him last? Who was with him? What was he doing? Anybody?”

  The dead soldier’s skin looked unblemished. Culver yanked down the trousers, looking for spots, glandular swelling, discoloration where it would mean something other than a combat bruise.

  All he found was a heat rash, raw pink inside the soldier’s thighs. “What was he doing when he ran out of the house? Tell me again. Anybody who saw him.”

  “Grabbing at himself. His gut, his throat,” Bratty said. The Command sergeant major surveyed the gawking soldiers. “It’s no-bullshit time. Tell Chief Culver what you know. Who was with him in that house? What was DeSantis doing?”

  A specialist looked away. Bratty caught it. “Prusinski. You in there with him? What was he up to?”

  Cavanaugh inched closer to the physician’s assistant, speaking quietly. “Chief, it sounds like we’ve got an epidemic in the city.”

  “You told me that, sir.” The physician’s assistant turned away from the battalion commander and the corpse to glare at the soldier Bratty had called on. “Prusinski, speak up. Unless you want everybody to know why you came crawling into my office last month.”

  “We weren’t doing anything
,” the specialist said. “Just washing up a little. He just washed his face and brushed his teeth. And I’m, like, washing my feet with this hose they got in there, and I look up, and he’s like somebody’s sticking a knife in him.”

  “He brushed his teeth?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “DeSantis brushed his fucking teeth? In rag water? From the tap?”

  Specialist Prusinski nodded.

  “Jesus Christ,” Chief Culver said. Then he turned to Cavanaugh. “It isn’t any kind of plague, sir. It’s worse. The water supply’s been poisoned.”

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

  “Trouble in Nazareth, sir,” Mike Andretti told Harris as soon as the general walked in for the morning go-round.

  That woke Harris up. Helped by the piercing smell of insecticide recently sprayed.

  “What kind of trouble? Talk to me.”

  “Looks like, before they left, the Jihadis poisoned the water supply. Big-time. The rags have been drinking it. And there’s a soldier down in 1-18.”

  “Jesus.”

  “General Scott’s got his PSYOP folks and the Civil Affairs straphangers running some loudspeakers into Nazareth. To warn the population. Meanwhile, Pat Cavanaugh’s using locals as town criers. We’re pushing up engineers to turn off the system.”

  “How bad is it?”

  “Still unclear, sir. Hundreds dead, at least. Cavanaugh believes there’s more of them in the houses. Corpses, I mean. Probably a lot more to come, before the word gets to everybody.”

  “They poisoned the water supply. On their own people. They knew we wouldn’t drink it. And they did that to their own kind.” Harris shook his head in reluctant awe of the level of ferocity that took. Maybe old Sim was right: An enemy who would do that couldn’t just be defeated but had to be eradicated. Immediately, Harris crushed the thought. But he understood why Montfort’s arguments were so seductive.

  “Sir… The Jihadis wanted those people dead.”

  “Yeah, got it, Mike. But they wanted us to do it. Guess they were afraid we’d be unreliable, that the MOBIC boys wouldn’t get here in time. Pretty good assessment of the situation on their part. So… What’s the good news? Got any this morning?”