Several fights had broken out while the MOBIC soldiers loitered about, waiting for their vehicles to be topped off. The MOBIC troops mocked Maxwell’s tankers for their lack of progress while they themselves had swept into Jerusalem, on to Jericho, then up the Jordan. The language used by both sides fell short of the Christian ideal.
Maxwell had to sort through complex emotions himself. On one hand, any Armor officer had to admire the power and depth of the MOBIC advance, which seemed to have been one long cavalry charge. On the other hand, nothing Maxwell had heard about MOBIC behavior charmed him. And he had yet to see one thing in this godforsaken landscape worth fighting for.
He also had mixed feelings when he looked at the MOBIC war machines queuing to take on fuel, then ammunition. The unit sucking tanker-tit just then had been reduced to half strength, with its remaining vehicles battered and crusted with dust. From the apparent casualty count and the visible damage, it was clear that the NexGen tanks and infantry fighting vehicles had been a huge disappointment, their electronic armor next to worthless. Maxwell realized full well that his battalion had been lucky by default when it had been condemned to go to war with its ancient M-1 tanks instead of the “wonder weapons” that had devoured the Army budget and enriched defense contractors for the past two decades. Yet, for all that, a part of him couldn’t help feeling spiteful at the way the Military Order of the Brothers in Christ had been able to commandeer all of the latest and, in theory, best equipment the Army had held in its inventory.
The MOBIC soldiers were unbearably arrogant, with their black crosses and their taunts. Maxwell had no difficulty understanding why more than a few of his tankers felt compelled to land a punch as the afternoon heat thickened toward evening.
But it wasn’t an acceptable situation. Maxwell pulled half his staff from the TOC to troop the line and help keep his Dreadnaughts in order. The MOBIC officers made little effort on their side. Maxwell got splashed by a half- full can of chili that struck his body armor from behind. The MOBIC officers lolling nearby claimed to have seen nothing.
“We’re preparing to fight the infidel,” a captain told him, “and you’re worried about table manners.” Without adding “sir.”
For Maxwell, the series of confrontations culminated in an exchange with a MOBIC battalion commander, a young-looking lieutenant colonel with a thick black beard and bloodshot eyes.
“I’m trying to keep my men under control, for Christ’s sake,” Maxwell told the officer after tracking him down. “I need you to get your guys to knock off the bullshit. We’re supposed to be fighting the J’s, not each other.”
The MOBIC officer looked at him dismissively. From head to foot, then back up again. As if a down-market first wife had walked into a society wedding. “When you address me, you will not blaspheme. And as near as I can tell, you and your men haven’t been fighting much of anybody.”
Maxwell wanted to deck him. Instead, he said, “I’m not looking for love, brother. I just want your soldiers to stop the heckling.”
“They want to fight. That’s all it is. And soon they will. Again. We’re going to finish the job you couldn’t do. Perhaps you should humble yourself and learn.” He touched the side of his face, where his beard began. “God has been with us. The evidence is before men’s eyes. Who’s been with you, Colonel?”
Maxwell walked away. Wondering if there was any difference left between the fanatics on either side.
But there
When he and his adjutant broke up another incipient brawl, Maxwell ignored the MOBIC troops involved, turning his back to tell his men, “Knock it off. We’re better than that. We’re soldiers. Now get back to your own vehicles.”
As they walked away, a MOBIC soldier transgressed against his faith long enough to shout after them, “Cunts!”
Now the sounds of war had resumed. The MOBIC forces had, indeed, plunged back into battle. They certainly weren’t cowards. Maxwell was willing to credit them with that much. The Muslim fanatics had finally conjured men who were their equal in their distaste for mercy.
As the dust faded and the light turned gold between the olive trees, a great roar of battle rose in the east. As much as Maxwell disdained the MOBIC forces, he couldn’t help feeling left behind. And wronged.
TWENTY-ONE
As the twilight darkened, so did the mood in the headquarters. No end of tasks remained to be carried out: Units had to be resupplied, convoy routes deconflicted, communications shortfalls remedied, plans written, and orders issued. Yet, as the MOBIC forces passed through the corps’ lines to take over the offensive, the air went out of the balloon. And as the reports of impossibly swift progress by the MOBIC lead elements mounted, officers responsible for directing the actions of divisions sank into their chairs, newly aware of their accumulated weariness. The NCOs who made things happen found they had nothing more pressing to do than make a fresh pot of coffee or take an extended trip to the latrine. Radios still crackled, and field phones rang. Printers sawed, and screens glowed. But the network of commandeered buildings and camouflaged tents breathed in the sourness of mourning, as if an unexpected death had occurred and could not be explained. Taking down another report from the front, a captain summed up the collective mood when he put down his headset and demanded of the universe, “What the fuck is going on?”
Flintlock Harris wanted to know, too. As soon as the briefing room door shut on his inner circle — G-2, G-3, and his aide — he said, “Talk to me. Explain how Montfort’s doing this. And let’s go reverse order: Blue situation first, then Val can brief what little the J’s seem to be doing.”
Colonel Mike Andretti swept his pointer up over the wall map, settling the tip just north of the Sea of Galilee, then tracing a jagged line down over the western ridge that protected the body of water.
“Sir, the MOBIC forces are advancing all across the front. It’s as if they’re just out for a Sunday drive. We’ve got unconfirmed reports that their advance-guard elements have already seized several points along the crest of the ridge — they’re already looking down into the Sea of Galilee.”
“And ready to walk on water,” Harris grunted. “Mike, the Jihadis were giving it all they had to hold the line against us. Now they’re just folding their tents and running at the first sight of the MOBIC. Which is the opposite of what you’d expect — they should be fighting to the death against Sim Montfort’s crowd after Jerusalem.” He looked at each of the three other men, then asked, half rhetorically, “Are they that scared of the black-cross boys, or what?”
“Sir,” the operations officer continued, “all I can tell you is that the MOBIC nets we’re monitoring report light resistance. At most. They’re practically road-marching into Upper Galilee. Our own forward elements report MOBIC vehicles lined up nose-to-asshole as far as they can see. No tactical intervals, no march discipline. Just piling on.”
Harris shook his head. Vehemently. “This just makes no sense. It stinks. But I don’t know what the hell I’m smelling.”
“Maybe we just wore them out,” the Three said. “Maybe Montfort just got lucky on the timing. Could be they were ready to crack just when the lead MOBIC units hit them.” The Colonel’s stance remained aggressive from sheer habit, but his eyes were unsteady and frazzled.
“I don’t believe that,” Harris said. “Even Sim Montfort isn’t that lucky. The J’s are up to something. And I wish I knew what it was. Val?” He turned to the G-2. “You’re up. Give us the enemy situation. If there still is one.”
“Sir, as I briefed earlier, it appears they’ve transitioned into an operational retreat. If not a strategic one. The intel’s far from perfect, but we’ve got indicators that units that were slugging it out with us at dawn are already on the highway to Damascus. With some elite elements possibly located
