“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
Harris shifted his attention to his G-2. The intelligence officer looked as neatly pressed and well-scrubbed as ever. Maybe even taller and handsomer than the day before. Ready for a magazine cover. Except for the dark circles. Harris tried to enforce a sleep regimen, but it never worked.
“Talk to me, Val. Short and sweet, so everybody can get back to work.”
Colonel Val Danczuk cleared his throat. As if about to deliver a sermon to a multitude. “Sir, the Third Jihadi Corps has its A-Team in the fight. Re sis tance has stiffened markedly, with the J’s committed to a defense along the line of Highway 65 north of Mount Tabor.”
“So they gave us Afula and Nazareth. So to speak,” Harris interrupted.
“Yes, sir. General al-Ghazi sacrificed a good twenty percent of his best antitank systems, but the troops in Afula were reservists. Stiffened by one commando battalion.”
“And Nazareth was undefended.” Harris looked around the room again. “You all get the point. Took me until this afternoon to figure it out for certain, but it’s evident that the Jihadis are counting on us to give them an atrocity, to turn Nazareth into a butcher shop. That’s why they’ve crammed it full of professors and engineers and so forth. Figure it out: We slaughter their intelligentsia, getting rid of a noisy problem for the Muslim hardliners. And they then use our action to rally the Arab world against us. Just in case Arabs needed any more rallying, after what’s happened in Jerusalem. Okay, go ahead, Val.”
Danczuk traced his light-pencil over the map. “Al-Ghazi only has a division-minus as his corps reserve, dispersed across the Golan and curving around to the Metulla pocket. They’re out of artillery range but positioned for a counterattack. Intercept — what there is of it — suggests they’ve got a looming fuel shortage. They’re marshaling their supplies… to the extent that only the most gravely wounded are being evacuated beyond Quneitra. By the way, we’re increasingly certain Quneitra is their corps headquarters. If we had fixed-wing air support, we —”
“We don’t have it,” Harris snapped. “And we’ll discuss that later. Bring everybody up to date on the MOBIC situation down south.”
“Yes, sir.” The light-pencil went into action again. “The remnants of the Second Jihadi Corps, directly subordinate to General-Emir al-Mahdi, have abandoned Jericho. Al Mahdi appears to have split the corps, sending his 99th and 156th divisions east across the Jordan. We believe they’ll set up hasty blocking positions on the east bank after dropping the fixed and temporary bridges, but their primary mission will be the defense of Amman. Meanwhile…” the tiny spot of light traced northward on the wall map, “… al-Mahdi’s ‘September 11th’ Armored Division and the 40th Jihadi Commando Brigade have been withdrawing up Highway 90, paralleling the Jordan River, as you see here. Al-Mahdi’s reportedly with that force.”
“A fighting withdrawal?”
“Only when they have to fight. They seem intent on moving northward fast, with the apparent intent to consolidate forces with the Third Jihadi Corps in our area of operations. And the limited road network in the vicinity of the Sea of Galilee would explain why the Third is now so determined to hold onto Highway 65—or at least keep us off it.”
“Treatment of civilians?”
“By which side, sir?”
“Both.”
“Bad. The J’s have attempted to put refugee streams from Jericho between them and the advancing MOBIC elements. Buying time with lives.”
“MOBIC?”
“Sir, they’re killing everything in sight. Their engineers have been ordered to level Jericho.”
Harris grunted. “More work than it was in Joshua’s day.” He felt the silent gasps. But Harris was sick of pretending. He was furious and disgusted by the behavior of his fellow Americans and their “God wills it” rampage. To the extent that he had flashes of fantasy about turning his corps against the MOBIC corps, to put a stop to the bloodbath.
What had his country come to?
Harris turned back to his operations officer. “Mike, how’s the MOBIC corps responding to al-Mahdi splitting his force?”
“Sir, the Military Order of the Brothers in Christ units are pursuing the Jihadis northward along the Jordan as their primary mission. General of the Order Montfort’s positioning one division torn up in the Jerusalem fight and a fresh follow-on division to secure the Jordan crossing sites vicinity Jericho and protect the MOBIC lines of communication.”
Harris nodded. “Anybody needs the latest enemy order-of-battle info, get with the Deuce’s number two after this meeting. Now… Let me just think out loud, gentlemen. The worst-kept secret in the world is that our campaign objective is Damascus. And the best approach to Damascus from Jerusalem just now is via Amman. The obvious choice for al-Mahdi would’ve been to pull his entire Second Corps back to the east bank of the Jordan. But he didn’t. Anybody care to guess why? Go ahead, Monk. Speak up. Your eyes are popping.”
The Marine general didn’t leave his chair. “The Jihadi withdrawal up the west bank of the Jordan is bait. To draw off the MOBIC forces. Keep them from pushing straight for Amman.”
“Okay, Monk. That’s the bait. What’s the trap? How do they spring it?”
“That one… I can’t figure out yet.”
“Anybody? No? Well, I can’t crack the code yet, either. Deuce, watch that one. If ever I smelled a setup, al- Mahdi’s putting one together. They’re playing chess, while we’re playing checkers.” He looked around the room. “Three? Anything critical you haven’t briefed earlier?”
Mike Andretti rose again. “Sir, the 1st Cavalry Division has one brigade ashore, with its lead elements conducting a forward passage of lines with Avi Dorn’s brigade. The IEF is still just sitting there west of Nazareth. Another 1st Cav brigade’s about 50 percent ashore, as of 1800. General Stramara believes he’ll be in position to execute a divisional attack by 1200 tomorrow. General Morris’s Marines—”
“We’ll go through that later. Drone problems?”
“Sir, they’re still coming hot and heavy. Killer number one of our armored vehicles. And they’re still a bitch on the beachhead.”
“Jamming.”
“Like a sky full of mud. The J’s don’t want anybody talking. They’re blanketing the spectrum so heavily they can’t talk, either. And 1st ID reports that a broadcast e-cancer has penetrated their logistics network.”
“Four? You got your firewalls up?”
Colonel McCoy nodded. “Corps is clean so far, sir.”
“Anything else for the assembled multitude?”
The G-4 looked tired but didn’t sound it. “The Haifa pipeline should be partially operational by tomorrow. Full flow in forty-eight hours. God bless the SeaBees. Other than that, sir, everybody needs to understand that the bottled water’s for drinking. No washing in it. Or dehydration’s going to be a bigger problem than those drones.”
“Thanks, Real-Deal. All right, you all heard him. Make sure you’ve got good water discipline. And good discipline in every other respect. All right, gentlemen. Boots and saddles. Monk, you hang on here. Deuce, Three. You, too.” He looked at the plans officer. “And you, Marty.”
The other officers cleared the room. Usually, after a briefing, one or two would approach Harris with a problem they didn’t want aired too widely. But each man sensed that this was not a day when the corps commander was feeling charitable.
When the last straphanger was gone, Harris turned to his aide and said, “Close the door, John.”
Then he turned to the remaining officers, making no further attempt to hide his anger.
“Now, what the fuck is going on?” he demanded.
“Three,” the corps commander snapped. “Have your people laid hands on that goddamned zoomie yet?”
Colonel Andretti looked down at the tabletop. It was never good news when the G-3 did that.
“Sir, he flew up to Cyprus this afternoon. To Holy Land Command. He told my deputy—”
“I hope he took his beach towel and flip-flops. Where’s
“He went with him to HOLCOM.”
