The War After Armageddon (15 page)

Cavanaugh looked at the priest, then at the engineer, and back to the priest. “Sure. What can I do for you, Father?”

They stood in softening light, with the slanted rays of the sun gilding the dust that floated around them.

“Well, actually, sir, the visit’s about what Jerry here and I might do for you. I was listening in on the situation reports back at brigade, and as best I could make out, you’re having trouble with hunter-killer teams up on Megiddo.”

“That’s right,” Cavanaugh said. Hoping that the chaplain wasn’t going to lecture him about violating a holy site. “They’re all over the place. We take out one team, and another pops up.”

“Do you have a tourist guidebook, sir?”

Cavanaugh always felt a bit odd when the chaplain called him “sir.” But the chaplain was only a major. When he wasn’t in front of an altar or in a confessional, Father Powers observed all gradations of rank.

“No,” Cavanaugh said, baffled. “I didn’t bring a guidebook.”

“Well, if you had—if you’d brought yourself a good one—you’d know what I saw myself during a pilgrimage I made before the world went mad. There’s an ancient tunnel that runs under the tel to a water source. It’s deep. Well, it struck me that any imagery of the rubble might make the entrance appear to be just another shell crater. If a big one. And the lower exit’s hidden. You’d have to be looking for it
and
know what you’re looking for.”

“And you think these antitank teams and the snipers are sneaking in and out of that tunnel?”

“That I do, sir. It’s deep enough to withstand quite a bombardment.”

Cavanaugh was excited. “Father Powers, I wish to hell you were my S-2.”

“Well, perhaps not ‘to hell,’ sir. As I was saying, then: Major Sparks here has brought you his best sapper team—since none of his fine robots seem to be working—and enough explosives to blow shut any tunnel in the world. He thought his team might—”

“Just hang on. Hang on a minute. Let’s look at a map. Nate,” he called to his S-3. “Come over here.”

When the operations officer didn’t hear him, Cavanaugh waved his hand. Frantically. That got the ops officer moving.

“Map!” he yelled. “And the recon photos.”

The chaplain looked at Cavanaugh. “And with your permission, sir—given that I’m the only one of us who’s actually been to the place—I thought I’d tag along. After all, it’s my job to help our soldiers find the way.”

Cavanaugh’s first impulse was to say “Absolutely not.” But it occurred to him that, apart from possibly incurring the brigade commander’s wrath, there was no practical reason why the chaplain shouldn’t go. Just might save a number of lives to have him along, given that he’d actually been on the ground.

“Well, the Lord works in mysterious ways,” Cavanaugh said.

“That He does, Colonel. That He does. Now, I’ve briefed Jerry here about the ins and outs, literally speaking. He can explain things to Major Gascoigne. And I’d appreciate a private word with you.”

Cavanaugh didn’t have time for private words. Not now. With so much to do, now that he had an idea what he was doing. But he felt he couldn’t deny the chaplain’s request. Given the gift the man had delivered.

Grudgingly, Cavanaugh nodded toward a grove that had been designated as a sleeping area. Soldiers were stringing concertina wire just out of grenade range.

“Pat,” Father Powers said, changing his tone and even his posture, “I’ve been thinking about our last conversation.”

“I’ve been meaning to come to Mass, but—”

“This isn’t about attending Mass. Now, would you just listen to me?”

“Yes, Father.”

“You told me that you’d never marry again.”

“I can’t. Can I? In the eyes of the Church—”

“Pat, it’s in times such as these that a man thinks hard about his beliefs. If he’s any kind of man and any kind of believer. Yes, in the eyes of the Church, Mary Margaret’s still your wife, will be, and shall be. But you know, I begin to suspect that the eyes of the Church and the eyes of God may not always see identical visions.” He gestured toward the sounds of war beyond their little sphere. “In the middle of all this, we have to remember that we serve a loving, forgiving Savior. Christ’s mercy is endless. Pat, you’ve got to let go of her. She’s not coming back to you, and not all the cardinals in the Vatican can bring her back. Live your life, be a good man. And if you meet the right lady . . . Well, trust your conscience, and don’t hide behind doctrine. Cowards do that. Trust me, I know. And you’re no coward. Well, that’s all I had to say, then. We’d best go back and serve the God of Battles.”

As they walked back toward the command post, Cavanaugh said, “And you really don’t mind us blowing up that tunnel? It must be a Biblical site, thousands of—”

“Sir, if I could, I’d destroy every stone that men have ever fought over in His name. He wants us to look Heavenward. And we revel in our shit and call it holy. Speaking of which—have you designated a latrine area yet?”

MEGIDDO

“Shit,”
First Lieutenant Tom Kosinski said. Then, with a sense that his mother hovered at his shoulder, he added, “Sorry, Chaplain.”

The priest didn’t seem to hear any of it. He gazed in the direction of the mound. Although he was staring into dirt and couldn’t see a damned thing from the shell crater.

Still listening. Hoping. Praying. Expecting a miracle.

But there wasn’t going to be one. There had been no explosion. That meant McGinley was dead or shot up too badly to get the job done. And McGinley had carried the last satchel charge the engineers had brought with them.

Suicide mission, anyway. Chances of getting close enough to the hole, dropping off the charge, and getting away were about zero. The engineer major, dead as dogshit after tripping a mine, had made it clear that he’d brought down the good stuff. Which was also the bad stuff.

“We don’t talk about it much,” the major had briefed, “but these charges were developed for just this kind of target. After the blast
itself, they throw off enough gas to kill anything within twenty meters in the open air—or down a hundred-meter tunnel. You don’t want to hang around. The existence of CV-11 is classified, by the way.”

The combat engineer squad the major had brought along was supposed to do the dirty work. Now the engineers were dead, wounded, or scattered out of Kosinski’s control radius. And that radius kept shrinking.

Whatever the hell else the Jihadis had in that tunnel, they had some powerful general-purpose jammers. Strong enough to deflect any precision-guided rounds that might still work. And dumb rounds, which the arty boys had dropped in multitudes, just didn’t do the trick. It reminded Kosinski of what he’d read about the Japa -nese dug in on Pacific islands.

The Jihadis fired a volley of smoke canisters. They were nervous-in-the-service, too. He had to remember that. When the waves of doubt came over him.

The jammers wiped out everything. His headset was worthless. And only five of his soldiers were within visual range—two of them in the same crater as Kosinski and the chaplain. Which made a nice target.

So he couldn’t talk. And the smoke meant he couldn’t get a clear look at the mound. McGinley was KIA or WIA with the last charge up in the mess of blasted shrubs, twisted chain-link fence, wire, mines, and corpses.

It wasn’t like Iwo Jima, Kosinski decided. It was like World War I.

What now, Lieutenant?
He mocked himself with the immemorial question. Now that you’ve got a minefield behind you, the enemy’s got clear fields of fire if you go forward or pull out, your chain of command wanted the mission accomplished hours ago, the light’s failing, and, although there seemed to be fewer of them now, enough Jihadis remained alive to dump the wrath of Allah on anything that moved.

Artillery rounds shrieked overhead. But the shells were headed elsewhere.

Okay, okay, Kosinski thought. I can’t talk. But they can’t talk,
either. I’ve got the U.S. Army behind me. These bozos are in for Mohammed’s Last Stand, and they know it. The battalion S-2 had briefed them all on suicide units that would never surrender. Roger. But there had to be some damned weakness.

They didn’t cover this at Benning.

Okay. They had to work in closer. Try to get to McGinley. Get the satchel charge. Which the engineer had described as almost a mininuke. And get it into the mouth of the damned tunnel.

I choose Course of Action B, sir.

You are a no-go at this station.

The Jihadis launched a pair of rifle grenades in Kosinski’s general direction. Maybe to check if any Americans were still alive. The smoke from the grenades immediately began to drift off. But the light was going. And with all the flashes on every side, the night-vision gear wouldn’t be worth much.

What
now
, Lieutenant?

Forward, sir.

Kosinski motioned to Staff Sergeant Wasserman. You. And Winchell. Move out. Left. Then he signaled to Sergeant Baker, Martinez, and Liu. Covering fire, then move. Classic fire and maneuver. Bounding overwatch. Except this wasn’t an exercise with dummy rounds in the Georgia clay.

Let’s go.
Follow me.

“Father. You stay here. You’ve done your part.”

The priest shook his head. He took off at a run before Kosinski could get over the lip of the crater.

Okay, follow the priest.

The Jihadis didn’t open up immediately. The smoke grenades might have obscured the tunnel’s defenses, but now the last wisps obscured the Americans.

Were the J’s low on ammo?

No. They’d have plenty in there. Stacked up.

Run.
Run.

Kosinski caught up with the chaplain and yanked him into another crater. Just as interlocking fires from two machine guns swept the ground at thigh level.

Kosinski couldn’t see any of his soldiers now. He wondered if any had obeyed his order to move out. Past a certain point, he realized, a lieutenant’s authority reached its limit. The platoon—what remained of it—had probably passed it.

Machine-gun rounds ripped overhead. You could feel the air getting out of their way.

Couldn’t blame his soldiers much if they were still hunkered down. They’d followed him a damned long way. Maneuvering up to approach this Megiddo lump of dirt from the north, they’d hit the first belt of mines. Screams, and men squirming. Lost the weak ones right there, the newbies. Koskinski had watched the engineer major leap into the air like a super-hero. Except that his legs separated from his torso and flew off in their own eccentric directions. For all the noise of battle, he’d heard the thud when the major came back to earth. Anyway, he thought he’d heard it.

Dark coming. Not good news. Mission unaccomplished.

The machine-gun fire ceased. For the moment.

Kosinski looked around in desperation. And found only the priest.

Okay. Game over. Time to pay up. Time to at least
look
like a leader.

Course of Action C, sir?

It was up to him now. His turn. Go in and find McGinley. And the charge. Give it to the bastards.

Or.

No “or.”

Just
g
ive it to the bastards.

He already saw himself running forward, saw it all play out. It did not end well.

The priest had read his mind. He laid a staying hand on the lieutenant, forcing Kosinski back down as he began to rise. Father Powers inched close, until their uniforms met and the warmth beneath their sleeves connected. So human it made Kosinski wince. With the noise and stink of war roiling around them. In the loneliest place on earth.

“Listen to me,” the priest shouted. Or it seemed like a shout. “I’ve been there. I know where the tunnel starts.”

Their eyes met in the dying light. And Kosinski saw something in the other man’s eyes that he never found a word for. Maybe his mom was right and priests knew secrets.

“Stay here,” the chaplain commanded. “I’ll handle it.”

Kosinski felt as though a spell had been cast, as though the priest’s authority superseded that of generals. Later, he sometimes asked himself if he’d just been a coward. But even in his most cynical moments, he knew there was more to it than that.

The priest leapt into the dusk, running forward. Alone.

The machine guns opened up again. Kosinski didn’t dare raise his head to look. No screams. But heavy-caliber machine guns didn’t leave you much to scream with.

One eternity passed, and another began.

Kosinski readied himself. To follow in the priest’s footsteps. Suddenly emboldened, telling himself, “What the hell, I’m a bachelor. What does it matter?”

He refused to think further, to contemplate anything but the mission.

Go.

Just as he was about to climb from the crater, the heavens roared, and the earth shook, and darkness covered the land.

NAZARETH

Nasr waited far longer than the thirty minutes he’d granted himself before moving out to make his transmission. After reaching the tiny hole he’d rented and mortifying the landlord through whose rooms he had to pass, he’d fallen into unconsciousness. As soon as he lowered his body onto the mattress. When he woke again, after scorching dreams, the light was going, and it took him several minutes to master reality.