activate every artillery spotter and amateur bird watcher in the corps. We’ll get tech readings, live imagery, and visuals on all those points of light around Afula when the launchers go hot. And you know their tactics, sir. They always pair up their Explorers and Hunters, long-range and mid-range systems. Hit the Explorers, you kill the Hunters as a bonus. The plan would be to dump every round the corps can shoot right smack on the bad guys.”
Harris could feel his subordinate watching him through the darkness. He sensed how badly the man wanted reassurance, approval, a blessing.
“What percentage does your Red Leg figure we could take out?”
“At least thirty. Forty, if we’re lucky. We’d get disruption of the others, as well. As soon as the arty hits, we’ll go pedal to the metal.”
“Hell of a risk, Scottie. Leaving the entire corps buck naked for almost a minute.”
“Yes, sir. But I’m looking at the difference between twenty percent blue casualties and maybe getting it down to ten percent.”
“Guess this is why I get paid the big bucks. Okay. Let’s go inside and work it out with the gun-bunnies and Mike Andretti.” As they walked, he drew his forefinger back and forth across his nose a single time. “God help us if it doesn’t work. And God help you if you’re not in Afula by noon, Scottie.”
Harris smiled in the darkness. He liked the boldness of the idea. Major Sanger. Have to remember the name, if it worked. Sometimes, fortune really did favor the bold.
Thinking out loud, Harris said, “You’d damned well better make sure your boys hit that phase line right on the money. Or that valley’s going to be a junkyard.”
“Sir, I have considered that possibility.”
“By the way, tell Pat Cavanaugh he did a good job clearing Megiddo. I understand it got ugly.”
“Yes, sir. We’re still sorting it out. 1-18 took some hits.”
Harris put a hand on the taller man’s shoulder but felt only body armor.
“And one more thing, Scottie: It’s not going to be Phase Line Hollywood. To be honest, I never felt a great deal of sympathy for those folks. Let’s call it Phase Line Watts.”
As they were wrapping up the corps-level changes to the next day’s plan, Major General Scott took a call from his division on the land-line. When the 1st ID commander came back into the plans cell, Harris said, “Scottie, I thought you’d be on your way back to your division by now. They’re probably enjoying your absence much too much.”
“Yes, sir. May I have another minute? In private?”
“Let’s go.”
Instead of putting his body armor back on and stepping outside again, Harris led his subordinate into his makeshift office, a bedroom that smelled more of sheep than of people.
“Talk to me.”
“Sir, I just got a summary of the debriefings on the Megiddo fight. The man who actually got the charge into that tunnel was the 4th Brigade chaplain. Apparently, he’d been there on a pilgrimage a while ago. Back before. The platoon leader said they were pinned down and the chaplain took off at a run. After three previous attempts had failed.”
“Hell of a chaplain.”
“He was killed. He must’ve dived right into the tunnel’s entrance with the charge.”
Harris shook his head. But he said nothing.
“Sir,” General Scott continued, “if the other debriefs confirm his actions, I’d like to submit him for the Medal of Honor.”
“No.”
“Sir?”
“Don’t waste your time, Scottie. Put him in for a Distinguished Service Cross. That should get him at least a posthumous Silver Star.”
“But—”
“Congress isn’t going to award anybody in this corps a Medal of Honor. The MOBIC supporters on the Hill would kill it. Especially since they haven’t yet amended the law, and MOBIC troops aren’t eligible, by my reading. Oh, they’ll change the law, once they figure that one out.” The corner of his mouth twisted. “Sorry if I sound cynical, Scottie, but between our new SecDef and this Congress, they’ll make sure we’re just a footnote to the MOBIC annals of the brave.” He sighed. “Now go back to your division and gird your loins for battle.”
General Scott made a wry face. “ ‘Girding loins’ always sounded goddamned uncomfortable to me. I’ll have Charlie Kievenauer write the chaplain up for a DSC.”
EIGHT
“With all due respect, sir,” Command Sergeant Major Dilworth Bratty told the battalion maintenance officer, “I’d like to see more security out.”
“Can’t do it, Sergeant Major,” Captain Butts said. “Can’t spare any more mechanics. Bayonet Six wants these tracks up by zero-dark-thirty.”
CSM Bratty understood. But he didn’t like it. For all the activity down along the road, 1-18’s forward maintenance site seemed exposed. An elephants’ graveyard of broken-down tanks, infantry tracks, V-hulls, and recovery vehicles, it flickered with shocks of light as walking-dead mechanics plunged through blackout curtains. The noise was at the demolition-derby level.
Bratty stood in silence before the BMO. Giving the captain his disapproving command-sergeant-major face. Calculated to give any officer through the grade of major an irregular heartbeat. Even when the officer couldn’t see it properly.
“Tell you what, Sergeant Major,” the BMO said suddenly, “I know you’re right. Tell Sergeant MacKinley I said to free up two more men and put them out on perimeter with the others. Any word on the XO?”
“Mr. Culver believes it’s dysentery, sir. I blame the Navy food. One of life’s great disappointments.”
“He’s going to be pissed as hell at missing the war. So… I guess I’ll be seeing more of you, Sergeant Major.”
“Yes, sir. Colonel Cavanaugh’s asked me to look after the maintenance side of things. Until Major Lincoln’s back up and running.”
“He holding up okay? Bayonet Six?”
It wasn’t a question for a captain to ask a battalion command sergeant major about their commander, but Bratty realized it was meant sincerely.
“Lieutenant Colonel Cavanaugh’s just fine, sir. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll get with Sergeant MacKinley and—”
A volley of rocket-propelled grenades whooshed through the night. In quick succession, three of them found targets. The blast and dazzle shocked.
A rush of air tried to push Bratty over. Automatic weapons fire pursued the explosions.
When the BMO didn’t react instantly, Bratty yelled, “Sir! Go back and get folks organized. I’ll hold here.”
But there was no time. Tracers hunted them like flashlight beams. Muzzle flashes approached at a run.
The captain dropped to one knee and raised his carbine.
Good. That was fine. Fighting was better than floundering. Bratty dashed into the maze of vehicles occupying the level bits of ground. He grabbed a running soldier. Unable to recognize the man in the dark, the sergeant major shouted, “Get
He found two mechanics paying out rounds behind the front of a V-hull. Beyond them, a soldier lay still, glistening with blood in the rips of light.
He heard the voices then, calling on Allah.
“That you, Sergeant Major?”
