The War After Armageddon (23 page)

The attack on their rear distracted the Jihadis just long enough for the battalion commander to thrust his saber into one man’s torso, draw back, and smash the hilt into another’s mouth, knocking him headlong from the tank.

Suddenly alone, Maxwell looked about wildly. As if disappointed there was no one left to kill.

Behind the battalion commander, one of his crewmen slumped from the loader’s hatch. His posture said “KIA.”

Maxwell leapt from the tank, stabbed a writhing Jihadi, and jogged back toward Brickell. With his face blackened by smoke, the battalion commander’s grin looked like a madman’s.

Still clutching the saber that had been the joke of the battalion, he scrambled aboard the tank that had come to his rescue. Panting, he leaned into his subordinate’s face.

“Isn’t this the most goddamned fun you’ve ever had in your life?” Maxwell cried.

HIGH GROUND, NORTH OF THE JEZREEL VALLEY

Brigadier General Avi Dorn wanted to fight. To slay those who de-stroyed Israel. But Israel’s rebirth was more important than personal revenge.

Speaking on his internal brigade net, he gave the command: “All units, all units. Halt at your present locations. I say again, halt at your present locations.”

As Dorn expected, Yakov Greenberg responded immediately.

“Avi, are you crazy? I could walk to Miqdal from here. We’re smashing them. They’re running like mice. We can be in Nazareth before the Americans reach Afula. It’s wide open.”

“All units. Halt at your present locations.”

Zvika Abramoff was next: “Yakov’s right. They’re simply running away. A halt now makes no sense. And I’m on exposed ground, I don’t want to stop here.”

“All of you. Listen to me. I gave an order. You’re not in the old IDF anymore; this isn’t a debating society. I’ve been ordered by the Americans to halt. You’ll halt, or you’ll be relieved.”

“This is idiocy,” Greenberg responded. “You can tell the Americans I said so. I thought they wanted us to cover their attack.”

“Plans change. I don’t understand everything the Americans are up to. Just do your duty and obey orders. Out.”

Avi Dorn switched off the microphone and sat down. He closed his eyes, finding all of this unbearable. But he had to do what was best for the once and future Israel.

Soon enough, the Americans would be calling. The Americans, from whom he had not heard a word since the attack began.

Captain Jason Albaugh of B Troop, Quarter Cav, ordered his driver to pivot and head uphill. He wanted to verify personally what 3rd Platoon’s leader had just reported.

The Israeli Exile Brigade had been advancing aggressively since it launched its supporting attack onto the heights. Now, Lieutenant Daly reported that they’d come to an abrupt halt, with no tactical rhyme or reason.

Quarter Cavalry’s mission had been to screen to the left of 1-18 Infantry, which was moving forward to cover the flank of the 1st ID attack. Albaugh’s troop, on the extreme left, was to maintain contact with the Israeli exile brigade.

Albaugh passed a few smoldering Jihadi trucks, but the fighting—what little there had been of it here—had moved on. In less than ten minutes, he spotted the turret of Daly’s tank. The lieutenant had put the vehicle in hull defilade, in a swale below a high meadow.

The lieutenant’s head poked up from his hatch. When he saw Albaugh approaching, he climbed out of the turret and jumped to the ground. He waited until Albaugh’s M-1 had come up behind, then trotted over and gestured that he wanted to climb aboard.

Albaugh clambered out of his hatch. Ready for a stretch. The lieutenant hauled himself up onto the fender.

“What the fuck? Over.” Albaugh said.

“Get up on your turret, sir,” the lieutenant told him. “If you stand up, you can see them from here.”

Albaugh scrambled over his tank’s packed bustle racks and stood up between the hatches. Thinking that he made a lovely target for some stay-behind.

Daly was right. The Israelis had just stopped. Albaugh didn’t even need binoculars. Half a kilometer away, he could see a half-dozen IEF tanks and a pair of infantry carriers. No flames, no smoke. They were just plain stopped. Some of the crew members milled about. Others were doing maintenance checks.

“You have their freq?”

“Yes, sir. But they’re not responding.”

“This some kind of union rule? A siesta break?” Albaugh said. Mostly to himself. He was mad that he hadn’t taken the lieutenant’s word and called in a report immediately.

“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