The War After Armageddon

Harris wanted to reach across the table and smash his Air Force counterpart in the face. But he controlled himself. A complete waste of time, the face-to-face meeting had already cycled through all of the arguments, only to arrive back at a repetition of Lieutenant General Micah’s original position.

“The MOBIC air’s flying,” Harris said. “Dawg Daniels and his Marines flew.”

“The air defense environment is different in the MOBIC area of operations. And the Marine sorties were a fluke. They had the element of surprise.”

“How is the environment different? The MOBIC ground forces are approaching a linkup with my corps. The sectors are merging. The air defense envelopes already overlap. And we need air support now.”

“Our intelligence shows a different threat environment in the Third Corps area of responsiblity.”

Harris wiped a finger under his nose. “Come on. MOBIC’s flying. The Marines want to fly. And I have it on good authority that even your own Air Force pilots want to fly.”

“They don’t have the big picture. We can’t afford to lose irreplaceable, very expensive aircraft in support of purely tactical missions.”

“Why do you think the taxpayers paid for your ground-attack fighters?”

“We have to preserve our air power.”

“For what?”

“For threats to our national security.”

Harris leaned in over the table and lowered his voice, attempting to lock eyes with the Air Force general — who studiously looked down at the paper his deputy had passed to him.

“General Micah, do you understand that we’re at war? Right now? That soldiers and Marines are dying? While the United States Air Force is jerking off?”

“The Air Force is prepared to do its part. As soon as conditions permit.”

“But why shouldn’t the Marines fly, for God’s sake? If they’re willing to accept the risk?”

“The Marines don’t have the big picture. And I object to your taking the Lord’s name in vain.”

“Exactly what is the big picture? What do you have to ‘preserve the force’ for? Fucking air shows in Orlando?”

“Our decisions are based on sound intelligence and cost-benefit analysis. Unlike the Army and Marines, the Air Force is a strategic service. We have to think far into the future.”

Harris leaned back in his chair. Disgusted. And tired. They just wore you down.

“That much, I believe,” Harris said. “About the cost-benefit analysis. What benefits have the MOBIC bunch promised you? Do you or any of your brethren really believe that the Air Force isn’t next? Do you really think that, if the U.S. Army goes away, and then the Marines disappear, you’re going to get a special dispensation from the Military Order of the Brothers in Christ?”

General Schwach stiffened as Harris spoke. A decent enough officer, if no lion, the four-star looked as if he’d stacked arms on the matter. And perhaps on other matters, too. He clearly didn’t want to get into a pissing contest over the MOBIC.

“That’s enough, Gary,” his commander told Harris.

“Of course, we want to fly,” the Air Force general added. “That’s what we do for a living. We’re just waiting for the threat environment to clarify.”

“You’re full of shit. You don’t want to fly at all.”

“Are you calling me a coward, General Harris?”

“No. You’re not a coward. Cowardice at least has a certain logic. You’re a fool.”

“That’s enough, Gary,” the HOLCOM commander said. But his voice barely sounded firm. Just drained.

The Air Force general stood up. His deputy aped his action.

“This meeting has been counterproductive,” General Micah declared. His uniform was tailored as neatly as a corporate executive’s. “If you’ll excuse me, General Schwach, I have Air Force business to attend to.”

But Harris couldn’t let go. Even though he recognized the childishness, the sheer spite, in his final remark: “Mark my words: You’re destroying the U.S. Air Force. Without firing a shot.”

The HOLCOM commander made a steeple of his fingertips and rested his brow against it until the Air Force officers had left the room.

“Jesus, Gary. That didn’t help anything,” General Schwach said at last. “You’re smarter than that. You’re better than that.”

Harris leaned toward his boss. Schwach looked at least a decade older, although the age difference between them was only three years. “Sir… This is madness. You know it is. Can’t you order them to let the Marines fly? At least that? My Deuce has a foot-long list of high-value targets even tactical missiles can’t range. That’s what air power’s for, for God’s sake.”

Schwach waved his face back and forth like a flag of surrender. “It’s not General Micah. He’s just a place- holder. Gary, this order comes directly from Washington: No fixed-wing sorties.”

“But the MOBIC aircraft can fly.”

“We both know what’s going on.”

“Sir, we have to do something.”

“What?”

“Fight.”

The four-star glanced toward the door of his office. Making sure it was closed. “Gary… I don’t even know how much I should tell you anymore. This is all uncharted territory… ethically, professionally, practically.” He fortified himself with a deep breath, then continued. “Right now, I’m fighting to keep your rotary-wing assets flying. And I’m not sure it’s a fight I can win. You may even lose your helicopters. And when it comes down to it, we’re lucky the Army’s still able to fly its drones — we’ve got the Navy to thank for that, God bless ’em. They dug in their heels on the drone issue. They want you in the sky between their ships and the Jihadis.” The elder general summoned a last shred of strength and looked directly into his subordinate’s face. “Gary, I’m also fighting to prevent you from being relieved.”

That knocked the breath out of Harris’s lungs for a long moment.

“Why? What’s their excuse?”

“They don’t have one. Yet. But putting a couple of tap shots into the forehead of that Air Force flunky didn’t help your cause any.”

“But why?”

The four-star smirked. “Don’t be obtuse. You’ve been doing too well. Sim Montfort’s got a bloodbath on his hands — Gary, he’s lost nine thousand Americans killed in a matter of days. Maybe three times that number wounded. Montfort may have taken Jerusalem, but he’s lost half of the combat power in his corps.”

“It’s a big corps. The biggest that ever fought under an American flag.”

“Not big enough, though. And there you are, fighting smart, pulling off a landing that was just short of another Inchon—”

“That was Monk Morris and his Marines.”

Schwach waved off the demurral. “And you’ve committed the unforgivable sin of not bleeding enough. What’s your latest KIA figure?”

“Just over six hundred, sir.”

“I rest my case. No matter how the MOBIC publicists try to spin it back home, questions do come up. The press isn’t totally house — broken yet. And President Bingham doesn’t have the nerves of steel the vice president does. Vice President Gui and his Arkansas Inquisition have to do something fast to make Sim Montfort look like the only competent military commander in this war. The script says Montfort’s the hero, Gary.”

“Sim is competent. He’s just a butcher.”

General Schwach sighed. “Well, I want you to listen to me: Don’t get in his way. Not any more than you absolutely have to. Don’t give him any excuses to cry that he’s been betrayed by Judas Harris and the U.S. Army.”

“I won’t tolerate the massacre of civilians in my sector, if that’s what it comes down to.”

“I’d relieve you myself, if you did. But we both may have to look the other way at what goes on in the MOBIC AO.”