journalists made their bones off the hysteria. And you saw how quickly they bought into the idea that we’d nuked our own cities.”
“It wouldn’t have surprised me if Sim Montfort and his crowd
“I’d watch the rations, sir. We should be seeing supply trucks going in with those buses. If they mean to feed those refugees and not just stage-manage a humanitarian disaster.”
“Three? Any ideas?”
“Val may be right. Or they may be planning to just kill them — and blame us. Humanitarian disaster, plus. Great images for America-haters everywhere.”
Harris turned to his aide, something he found himself doing more often these days. Probably the damned loneliness, he told himself. The only human being he could really talk to was his wife. And she was far away and a low priority on the comms account.
“John, how about you? Any ideas why they’d be packing Nazareth with their brethren from deep in the heart of wherever?”
The aide choose his words carefully. As he always did. “Well, sir… while you all were talking… I was thinking, ‘What if the Jihadis want
Harris’s eyebrows tightened toward his nose. Which happened only on the rare occasions when he was truly surprised.
The aide slipped back in his chair, as if retreating. “Just a thought, sir.”
Lieutenant Col o nel Pat Cavanaugh was tired of sitting on his ass trying to make sense of broken transmissions while two of his companies were in the fight, another was getting ready to go in, and a fourth was licking its wounds.
“Give me a yell if anything comes in,” he told his operations officer. And he stepped outside his command track. The enlisted men assigned to the battalion’s tactical command post had almost finished erecting the ghost netting over the vehicles. Cavanaugh pitched in. It wasn’t the kind of work a battalion commander was supposed to do, but he needed to use his muscles. Just for a few minutes.
The Jihadis were recovering from their initial surprise. He could feel it. No matter what the S-2 said. Despite the artillery barrage from Hell, antitank snipers were still popping up around Megiddo, appearing amid the rubble just long enough to launch a vampire ATGM and keep the highway intersection closed. Alpha Company had taken a nasty hit when it went in too fast, and now Jake Walker and Charlie Company had the lead, with Bravo in support. Trying to root out the Jihadi “martyrs,” so the corps could move forward.
Jake had been the big surprise of the day. Cavanaugh had worried about him back on the beach, when the captain seemed all nerves. But as soon as they came under fire, Jake Walker had turned into the alpha dog among the company commanders. Now Cavanaugh worried that the captain would employ Charlie Company too aggressively.
And Cavanaugh didn’t want any unnecessary losses. The battalion was already down three M-1s, four Bradleys, and a half-dozen support vehicles, just from drone attacks and the Megiddo sniping. And those were just the combat losses. Maintenance problems had caused vehicles to grind to a halt in the middle of an attack. They were just too damned old.
He had to remind himself, yet again, that he was the battalion commander, not a company commander. His instinct was to go forward and take charge of the direct-fire fight. But he wasn’t going to let himself do that.
Anyway, he was going to give Charlie and Bravo another hour to clean out the Megiddo rubble. Then maybe…
A V-hull carrier pulled off the trail just short of the tac’s perimeter. Cavanaugh went on with his work, walking a pole up to a steep angle as a buck sergeant made sure the netting didn’t bunch. Cavanaugh was anxious to get the netting plugged into the generator so it could go “full ghost” overhead. They’d already had to jump once, after a Jihadi artillery barrage came danger-close.
Had to clear Megiddo. Before the Jihadis really got their shit together. But there was no easy tactical solution. At least, none that wouldn’t be a bloody mess.
From the corner of his eye, Cavanaugh glimpsed two figures walking from the V-hull toward the tac. Behind them, a squad of soldiers dismounted and spread out in a tactical array.
Only when one of the approaching figures took off his helmet did Cavanaugh recognize the brigade chaplain.
The other officer was the brigade engineer.
Odd pair, Cavanaugh thought. He stopped fussing with the camouflage net. He couldn’t imagine what Father Powers was up to. But he felt a stab of deep pain the instant he recognized him.
The priest made him think of Mary Margaret. His wife who was not longer his wife. Except in the eyes of the Church. And his own.
He’d gone to the chaplain to talk when, after so many months, Mary Margaret would not leave his thoughts. Her and the kids. And the fuck-stick, double-promotion, live-in boyfriend the law said was her husband now. After crying his eyes out in front of the priest, Cavanaugh had been so embarrassed that he hadn’t been back to Mass for three months.
Surely, it wasn’t about that? Not now?
When the two men were within conversational distance, Cavanaugh said, “Put your helmet on, Chaplain.”
The chaplain smiled, but did as ordered. “I understand that war’s a horrible thing, Col o nel Cavanaugh. But I don’t know why it has to be so damned uncomfortable. Got a minute?”
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 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.”
