The War After Armageddon

there’s not enough loaded on the ships.”

“How many water-purification sites do we have up and running?”

“I don’t have a current number, sir. But we don’t have the spare tankers, anyway.”

“Solve it, Sean. Make it personal.”

Colonel Sean “Real-Deal” McCoy gave Harris the polar-bear salute. “Sir, I honestly don’t know—”

“Solve it.”

“Yes, sir.”

Harris turned back to his operations officer. “Mike, what about General Morris’s Marines? When do we get road clearance down to them?”

“Already done, sir. At zero-six. The Marines are road-marching north as we speak, with lead elements putting the pedal down east of Haifa. We’re moving them over the lowest-threat roads, and we’ve got the hot stretches marked to get their attention and keep them moving. Got some potential bottlenecks, though.”

“Vehicle decon? The Marines don’t have much capacity in-theater.”

“Our chem folks have three hasty-decon sites waiting for them up north. Best we can do. Overall, I’d say Marty Rose’s planners did a first-rate job.”

“Just keep ’em moving. Double intervals between the serials, as we discussed. Keep the Mike-Papas on them about maintaining distance. His Marines won’t like it, but Monk Morris will understand. We don’t want units backing up while they’re in the hot zones.”

“Yes, sir.”

A captain slipped into the room and made his way between chairbacks and a parapet of knees to hand a scrap of paper to the G-2.

“Val? Anything hot?” Harris asked his intelligence officer.

Val Danczuk began his answers by saying to himself, in a low but audible tone, “The motherfuckers.”

“That covers a wide array of characters these days,” Harris said. “Exactly which Mike-Foxtrots are we talking about this time?”

“The Jihadis,” Colonel Danczuk said. “They didn’t waste any time. This is an intercept from a radio station in Baghdad, a big regional sender. They’re telling the world that we’re poisoning all of our ‘captives’ in Nazareth.”

Harris whistled. In disgust mixed with admiration. It was the same emotional mix he felt toward Sim Montfort.

REAR HEADQUARTERS, I MOBIC CORPS, COMMANDER’S SANCTUM

General of the Order Simon Montfort focused on the only officer seated at the planning table who didn’t wear the black cross of the Military Order of the Brothers in Christ or the red Jerusalem Cross of his Guardians.

“Forty-eight hours,” Montfort told the Air Force three-star. “You have forty-eight hours. Then you need to be in complete readiness to smite the Jihadi forces with every manned aircraft and drone you have in this theater or capable of flying into this theater. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Lieutenant General Micah said. “You realize, of course, that there are airspace deconfliction issues, and we need to do our weaponeering based upon specific target pa ram e ters to maximize—”

“The targets will be al-Mahdi’s forces. Wherever they are when I give you the order. Stationary and on the move. We believe that a wide array of high-value targets will be strung out along the highways and secondary routes leading east to Damascus and beyond to the old Iraqi border. Focus your planning on the road network. Use your intelligence resources to identify possible assembly and staging areas. We’ll provide whatever intelligence we develop ourselves. Just be ready to fly. When I tell you to.”

“They’ll be in retreat, you mean?”

“They’ll be marching east. They won’t expect you.”

“How can you be sure?”

Montfort, who was fighting twinges of nausea, straightened his back and turned a practiced gaze on the Air Force officer. “The Lord granted me a vision. Is that sufficient? Be prepared to fly. To do the Lord’s work. Be ready to fly at a moment’s notice, forty-eight hours from now.”

“I can’t keep aircrews on alert indefinitely, you realize. We have crew-rest requirements and—”

“If my men can fight for days without sleep, driven only by their commitment to our faith, surely you can do your part, General Micah.” Montfort offered the man a friendly smile that did not quite mask the warning behind it. “After all, I need to return to Washington with strong reasons why the Air Force should maintain its independence. When I testify before God and the United States Congress on the conduct of this war.”

“The Air Force will do its part. Of course.”

“And your part will consist of destroying al-Mahdi’s forces as thoroughly as possible. Your mission is to annihilate them. Their equipment must be destroyed, and no Jihadi should be spared. No target will be off-limits, including their field hospitals — which we believe are being used for military purporses. Read the Book of Joshua, if you have any questions.”

“Yes, sir. The Air Force is here to help you. You can count on us.”

Montfort subdued a grimace before it could weaken his expression. The belly pang faded into queasiness. “And one other thing. My targeting cell will give you the coordinates of a compound a short flight east of the Jordan River. We’ve identified it as the personal property of Emir-General al-Mahdi. It’s a refuge of his, a hide-out. I want the compound destroyed, with not one trace left of it on this Earth. It will be on your initial target list.”

The Air Force officer seemed relieved. “That one’s easy.”

“Good. Go with God, General Micah.”

The Air Force officer rose and saluted. No one returned his salute.

When the outsider had left the room, Montfort hunched over, grimacing. Through much of the meeting, he’d warred against bursting pains that worsened by the minute, unwilling to display any kind of weakness in front of the Air Force general. Now he groaned aloud.

“Get my doctor,” he barked. “Get him. Now.”

* * *

“No, sir. You haven’t been poisoned. Put your mind at rest on that count. I’ll run some stool tests to be one hundred percent certain, but I’ll tell you right now you’ve got viral gastroenteritis.”

“Dates. I ate dates.”

“Local? That was a mistake.”

“The person I was with… I have reason to believe… that he… Lord! Can you give me something for these cramps? And to clear my head?”

“I’ll do what I can. But we’re just going to have to keep you hydrated and let this run its course. Antibiotics can only do so much.”

“Maybe poison… be sure… the person I was with… I don’t think he got sick…”

“From the dates? Sir, all it takes is one bad one. One microscopic speck on one date. And this is a very septic environment.”

“You’ve got to get… I’ve got to be able to think clearly… I keep going dizzy.”

“Sir, you’re going to have to take it easy.”

“I’ve got to go again. Help me up.”

“There’s a bedpan under you.”

“I’ve got to get up.”

The doctor stiffened. “Do you want to get up, or do you want to get better? Now just use the bedpan. I’ve got to get an orderly in here, anyway. I’ve got to start an intravenous bag.”

“I’ve got to get up.” Montfort tried to raise himself but only unsettled the bedpan before collapsing. Stunned. With the world swirling, stopping long enough to tease him, then swirling again. Cramps yanked his knees up toward his belly. He felt as if barbed wire were being dragged through his intestines. His body poured vile liquid.

Had al-Mahdi done this to him? No matter what the doctor had to say? Yes or no, he was going to pay. Al- Mahdi was going to be ground into the dirt, the dust. Into filth. With his face shoved in a bedpan.

“… God…” Montfort said. But he wasn’t praying. When he’d been wounded in Nigeria, the pain had been nothing compared to this. He hated to show weakness, even to his doctor. But his body had betrayed him. And now it refused to follow his commands.

Montfort tried to think clearly. And he spoke, unsure of whether the doctor was there to hear him. “Got to get