Ralph Peters - The War After Armageddon

“Where’s Freytag and—”

“Just move out, Corporal.”

The platoon had walked in on a suicide company. Rear guard for the Jihadis pulling off the high ground. Bad hombres . The first thing that hit Garcia’s squad was a volley of flash grenades, blinding them through their night-sights. The headache from Hell. The new platoon sergeant went down trying to get things unscrewed, along with Sergeant diMeola. Now the lieutenant was dead. Fucking lot of good college did him. And Sergeant Twilley before him. One ambush after another. They’d caught it good. Tired as shit. And higher pushing them to keep moving.

Now what was left of the platoon was his. Until company sent down somebody with a higher rating.

He wasn’t ready for this.

Garcia followed Corporal Banks back across the alley. Machine-gun fire chased them. The Jihadi on the trigger didn’t know how to lead a target.

“Barrett.” He slapped the lance corporal’s shoulder as he passed him. “Come on. Let’s go.”

“Where we—”

“Move. Follow me.”

He didn’t want this. Not now, not yet. Goddamned Jihadis. Maybe the MOBIC pukes were right. Only good Muslim…”

“Belleau.”

“Wood.”

“Coming in.”

“Hold for covering fire!” Corporal Gallotti. Head screwed on right. In a moment, several guns were up and nailing the darkness to the night.

“Go!” Garcia told Barrett. He followed. Splashing through muck that smelled like every sewer pipe in the country had broken at once.

The squad was too bunched up. Waiting for somebody to give an order. Gallotti was the natural leader but didn’t have the rank. Everything going to hell.

“Listen up,” Garcia said. Loud enough to be heard. But not too loud. Anyway, the Jihadis were making a noise like Cinco de Mayo in the Plaza de Armas. “We’re going to get our asses unfucked. Right now. Corporal Gallotti’s in charge of this squad. Because I said so. Corporal, get the roofs covered. Both sides.”

“Pullman’s topside, Sergeant.” He pointed across the street. “With Jamal.”

“I said both sides. This is it. We’re not moving back one goddamned inch from here. We’re fucking Marines. We’re going fucking forward, if we go anyplace.”

“Yo, Sergeant Garcia? Anybody ever tell you that you got a limited vocabulary.”

Laughter. That was okay. If they could laugh, they could fight.

“Buy me a dictionary. Now, check your ammo.“

Banks scrambled up along the wall.

“Corporal Gallotti,” Garcia continued, “get your squad set up with proper fields of fire. No more monkey-fucking. Banks, give me that.”

Banks handed over the platoon commander’s headset and drop transmitter. Garcia wrapped it around his skull, feeling the plastic scrape the bristles at the nape of his neck.

Before he could transmit, figures ran up behind them. The right helmet silhouettes and body-armor shoulders. Marines.

It was Captain Cunningham.

“Third Platoon?”

“Yes, sir,” Garcia said.

“Who’s in charge?”

“I am, sir. Lieutenant Delaney’s—”

“Well, take charge. You’ve got a squad and a couple of strays a block back playing with their dicks. We’ve got to clean this shithole out now . So the Army can go for a Sunday drive.” The captain paused for a moment. Looking at Garcia in the flickering light. “You’re the last E-5 in this platoon?” As if he doubted what he’d been told. Or doubted the man in front of him.

“I’m it, sir.”

The captain nodded, but hesitated. As if something in his head wouldn’t come clear. “Well, you know the mission,” he said at last.

“That a question, sir?”

After another flash-to-bang delay, Garcia realized that the captain wasn’t really thinking about him at all. He was thinking about his losses. One of his platoons shot to shit. Maybe thinking about the mission, maybe about his own future. It was a revelation Garcia would have preferred to postpone, but he saw to his bewilderment that officers had no special magic, after all. The captain was as shaky as he was. And struggling just as hard to hide it.

“No,” the captain said. His voice was firmer now. “It wasn’t a question. You’ve got the platoon. And the mission.”

A mortar round shrieked in. Everybody flattened. It struck in a courtyard behind high walls, close enough to give the earth a shiver. Another screamed toward them, falling short and biting into the street. Shrapnel stung the air.

“They’re bracketing us,” Garcia yelled. “Get out of here, sir. I got it. Just get us some mortars on that line of buildings up on the crest, if you can.”

“Fires on the way in five. Semper Fi.”

“Semper Fi, sir.”

Gallotti looked at him. The corporal’s eyes caught the glow off a fire down-range. “You still want us to—”

“No. Round ’em up and move out. Forward. Bring some heat on those sonsofbitches. No Navy Crosses, just keep ’em busy.”

Where did plans come from? The Virgin of Guadalupe? He knew exactly what he was going to do and how he was going to do it. So the Army could go for its Sunday drive.

Buy me a candy-apple-red, extended-cab pickup when I get back…

He told Corporal Banks and Barrett to stay with Gallotti and then hustled back to round up the rest of his platoon. His platoon. Wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen, but life was tough in the big city.

I can do this, he thought. Fuck, yeah. Go, Marine .

“Okay, Deuce,” Lieutenant General Harris said as he dropped into his chair, “talk to me.”

The G-2, Colonel Val Danczuk, stood up and made his way through the packed wardroom until he reached the screen.

“Sir,” he addressed Harris, “we had a solid imagery feed for almost a half hour. The Third Jihadi Corps has definitely been pulling back and—”

“Plan, or panic?”

“I’d say ‘panic.’ The deception worked. They were locked and cocked to defend south of the ridges. Thought we’d come ashore between Netanya and Caesarea, right on the flank of the MOBIC assault. Now they’ve abandoned Hadera, and it looks like they’ll tie in a new forward line of defense on the Megiddo-Qiryat Ti’von line.”

“Main line of defense?”

“Afula-Nazareth-Shefar’am.”

Harris nodded. “You sure they didn’t stop jamming the overhead link on purpose? To show us what they wanted us to see?”

The G-2 took a quick chaw on his lip. Tall and blessed with the sort of good looks that gray hair only improved, Colonel Danczuk looked like a general from the casting office. It amused Harris, who was five-eight and as plain as a church supper, to think that, if you took off their rank and put the entire staff in a line-up, any right-thinking civilian would pick out the Deuce, not him, as the corps commander.

“No, sir,” Danczuk said. “I wouldn’t ever want to underestimate an enemy, but I don’t think this was on purpose. The highways feeding back into the Jezreel Valley looked like a giant clusterfuck.”

Harris turned to the senior Air Force officer in the room. “And you boys still aren’t flying? We used to call that a target-rich environment, back in the days of the horse cavalry.”

The brigadier general reddened. “Sir… We’d like to be flying… We will fly… You’ll get your support… But right now, the jamming…”

Harris’s entire corps had just a few more artillery tubes than a division would have fielded a generation earlier. The Air Force was supposed to be the Army’s flying artillery, delivering precision munitions on any enemy foolish enough to fight. Except that now, the smart bombs didn’t work, and the airplanes couldn’t fly.