Free The War After Armageddon by Ralph Peters Page B

plan of invasion, but he knew this much: Even Flintlock Harris wouldn’t have the pull to bypass Nazareth. Whatever else the corps commander’s plan of operations might avoid, the early seizure of Nazareth would be non-negotiable. The vice president, the SecDef, and the MOBIC generals back in the Pentagon would make sure of that.
    And the Jihadis were smart enough to figure that one out. Every Christian site would be an objective. Nazareth would be high on the list.
    Then why dump their brainpower in the path of the infidel?
    Were the Jihadis really so intent on turning back the clock by centuries that they wanted their professors and doctors and scientists exterminated? If so, why not do it themselves? Why go to so much trouble? When they had a war to fight?
    Of course, Hitler had made time for a similar distraction. When he had a war to fight.
    Nasr knew he was on to something big. But he didn’t know what it was.
    There
had
to be more to it.
    He needed to get back to his transmitter. If the damned thing was working. Sometimes the burst transmissions got through, sometimes they didn’t. But he was anxious to send off another report and hand off what he’d seen and heard. Let the brainiacs on the staff figure out what it meant.
    Insh’ Allah.
    Just as Nasr placed his hands on his knees to lever himself to his feet, he saw the old man again. Pointing at him. A half-dozen Arab policemen accompanied him.
    There was no point in running. The only hope was to bluff.
    “I tell you, he is a spy, that one!” the old man cried.
    Nasr felt his guts churn. But he kept his face under control, letting innocent bafflement spread across his features.
    The police surrounded him. Artillery fire landed a valley away, but it wasn’t going to help him.
    Nasr touched his hand to his robe, just above his heart. “How can I help you, my brothers?”
    A policeman wearing a captain’s pips struck him with his fist. Nasr staggered. The next blow put him on the ground.
    “That man is a Christian,” the old bastard said. “He’s of the Gemalia. They’re all gone from Nazareth now, Allah be praised. But this one has returned. I will always recognize a Gemalia pig. I knew him by his nose.”
    “We’ll take care of his nose,” the captain said. And he kicked Nasr in the face.
     
    MT. CARMEL RIDGES
     
    Sergeant Garcia listened to the battle down in the plain. Somebody was serious about busting caps on the Jihadis. Garcia would’ve liked to be in on it.
    Con mucho gusto
.
    He didn’t quite trust the way he felt as he marched down thewinding road that led off the heights. He’d had an hour or so of pretend sleep, and he knew he was wasted. But he felt like Superman. No meth involved. Just a buzz he couldn’t quite figure out.
    Garcia looked behind him to make sure his Marines were maintaining a combat interval as they marched along the shoulders of the road. The Army’s tanks and shit were hogging the blacktop as they rushed into the fight. Well, let them take their turn.
    A Bradley tore into the pavement as it downshifted, throwing off bits of the surface and groaning like a constipated dinosaur. Up from La Brea, Garcia thought. The Dino Gang.
    He replayed the scene in the house again and again: the grenades and the gunfire, the rush, and the dead Jihadis. And he just felt
good
. All that crap about how you were supposed to feel bad after killing people. Who made that shit up? Bigger lies than Maria Escobar told in the confessional. To that priest she was hot for. For the priest and everybody else.
    Maybe he’d feel bad about it all later. Maybe all the guilt would kick in, the way they said it did. But for now, he just felt like the
conquistadores
must’ve felt.
    It was like sex, man. You just wanted to do it again.
    Did that mean he was all dicked up inside? Because all he wanted to do was kill the fuckers who made L.A. glow like a year-round Christmas decoration? And his family so hot with radioactivity you could’ve used them