The colonel clapped his hands. Nasr heard a car door slam behind his back. A moment later, an NCO stepped up, snapped to, and saluted. After which he handed the col o nel Nasr’s transmitter.
“It seemed unjust,” the col o nel said, “to make you climb those streets again. Frankly, you don’t quite look up to it.” He switched to Arabic and told his men to place Nasr on the far side of the road. They dragged him across the asphalt but sat him down almost tenderly on the curb.
The officer stood over him. The man’s shadow dulled his polished brown shoes.
The col o nel set the transmitter down in front of Nasr, then dropped to his haunches to look Nasr in the face a last time.
“You’re a brave fellow,” he told Nasr. “One respects that. Even in an enemy. Now, I think I shall be going. Might get sticky, were I to stay. Peace be unto you, Major.”
And he walked off. Car doors slammed. Engines gunned. Nasr closed his eyes and listened as the vehicles turned around and sped off.
When he thought he could bear it again, he took another look at the forest of crosses. And he began to count them. When he was done, he managed to pick up the transmitter with his good hand and cradle it in his lap.
Harris strode back into the command cell. Before he got a good look at the general’s face, the ops sergeant working command comms said, “Sir, I’ve got General Stramara on—”
“Three,” Harris snapped. “Take it. Just tell Stramara to get moving.” He turned to the comms crew again. “Get me General Scott.
The general hovered. It didn’t make things go faster. But he didn’t want anyone to get a dead-on look at his face. It might betray too much.
After a flurry of attempts, a captain told him, “Sir, General Scott’s on a latrine break. He’ll be—”
“Get him off the can. No. Give me the handset. General Harris here. Listen. I need to speak to General Scott. I don’t care if you have to run wire out to the shitter. Get him on the line.”
The routine noise of the ops center had faded to hospital-ward-at-night level. They’d all worked together long enough to read the ruling mood.
After a reasonable wait that pushed Harris to the brink of fury, the 1st Infantry Division commander came on the line. Harris cut the other man’s apology short.
“Scottie. Fire mission. Which unit of yours is closest to Nazareth, to the road into town from the south?”
“That’s in the Fourth BCT sector. I’ve got 1-18 covering—”
“Pat Cavanaugh’s unit. Is he the closest to the road?”
“Yes, sir. I’ve got Quarter Cav screening and holding on to the India-Echoes, with—”
“Jump the chain. Get on the horn with Cavanaugh yourself. Tell him to get on that road and get into Nazareth. Fast. I have reason to believe the road’s not mined. I need him to accept maximum risk.” Harris paused to choose his words. “And tell Pat he’s absolutely got to keep his men under positive control. Weapons tight.”
“The Jihadis may still have—”
“Trust me on this one. I want 1-18 going into town with their weapons on safe. The line doggies are going to be tempted to shoot things up. The officers, too. 1-18’s mission is to penetrate the city until… until they reach the scene of a reported war crime. They’ll know it when they see it. That’s all I can say about it for now. Just tell Pat Cavanaugh to secure the scene of any suspected war crime, to push out his perimeter and send patrols into the city. With restrictive rules of engagement.”
“But, sir, we’re in—”
“Just follow my orders, Scottie. And tell Cavanaugh to report directly to you. Get him on your net, and keep everybody else off it. You’ll understand soon enough. And frankly, you’ll wish you didn’t.” Harris took a deep breath. “Maximum risk, weapons tight. Get Cavanaugh moving.”
1-18 Infantry had spent much of the day taking stray Jihadis prisoner and shooting up vehicles fleeing the main battle. Pat Cavanaugh had lost one Bradley to an antitank missile, with four KIA and the rest of the squad and crew burned and busted up, but breakdowns had been a worse headache than battle damage. He’d been living vicariously by listening in on 1st Brigade’s net during the attack on Afula.
Now things were getting surreal. With a tank platoon leading Jake Walker’s Charlie Company up the Nazareth highway in a hedgehog formation that straddled the median strip, Cavanaugh had positioned his own track as the ninth vehicle. Standing up in the commander’s hatch, he watched the M-1s in the lead traverse their turrets as they scanned for targets. Although they knew — and hated — the order that they weren’t to fire unless fired upon.
Had the Jihadis just quit? War crime? What was that about? No details. Just the Scotsman himself on the other end, telling him to move out like the wrath of God was on his ass. Accept maximum risk. Weapons tight. A few hours before, the valley had been a slaughter house. Jihadi combat vehicles and supply trucks were still smoldering in the road. The M-1s had to slow and push them aside.
They rolled past an intersection where a ruined rest stop and service station looked like relics of a lost civilization. Which they were, Cavanaugh figured. Ahead, the road rose up through a saddle crowned with once- white buildings.
Nazareth. He wondered if he’d feel anything special, any hint of the sacred, when he actually entered the city. Word was that the place was a pit, an Arab town spared by the Ira ni ans in the great nuke duel because of its Muslim population. And its lack of importance.
He lifted the visor of his vehicle commander’s helmet. The brighter world and the rush of air stung his eyes for a moment. But the wind of movement soothed his skin.
Almost as good as a shower. Or maybe not quite.
“This is Bayonet Six,” he said into his helmet mike. “Perfect ambush site as we get up into that saddle. Make sure everybody stays alert.”
But no rounds challenged them as they growled up the highway. Crazy war. Last night, they were fighting to the death. Now it’s won’t-you-please-come-in. Cavanaugh didn’t trust it one bit.
There was no sign of life from the building as they approached. Either deserted, or the locals were down in the basements holding their breath. Cavanaugh’s first sight of the city of Christ’s youth was of grubby sprawl speckled with litter.
He listened while Jake Walker ordered the lead platoon to slow down as the building density increased. Heads and weapons popped up through the hatches of the Bradleys, scanning upper-story windows and rooflines.
As the column approached a small plateau beyond the crest of the saddle, Jake ordered the tanks to go into overwatch. The infantry tracks would lead into the city. Maximum risk, all right.
Cavanaugh let Walker run his company. The captain was making the right calls. So far. Pedal-to-the-metal was fine out in the great wide-open, but you had to throttle back when the road started turning through a maze of high-rises, shops, and residential compounds.
Cavanaugh’s track was the fifth vehicle in column now. The Bradleys nosed down the far slope, torturing their brakes.
The lead track stopped. Lurching heavily. The ramp dropped, and the squad scrambled out. Cavanaugh didn’t hear any firing. He could just see a break in the line of buildings. Beyond a row of worse-for-wear apartment houses.
Jake Walker came up on the battalion net. He skipped the call signs. “Sir, you need to get up here. Double- quick.”
The company commander’s voice trembled.
Cavanaugh got on the intercom. “Ryder. Move us out. Forward. Get around those tracks.”
The driver released the brakes, and the Bradley groaned down the road, biting into curbs that looked like they’d been bitten by bigger dogs in the past.
The sight that waited was the worst of his life.
Standing in the road and staring, Cavanaugh knew he needed to get on the net and call in his unit’s discovery. But he couldn’t quite tear himself away. Beside him, Jake Walker fidgeted. The captain’s confidence had deserted
