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Authors: Ralph Peters
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themselves. And that doesn’t mean that they don’t truly believe in the cause they take up. The human capacity for belief is a very adaptable thing.”
“Sounds almost like you respect him. Despite all his preaching and screeching.”
Harris stopped and flashed a look of utter frankness. “No, Monk. I don’t respect him. I fear him.”
They walked on in silence, approaching the wall of light beyond the trees. The bodyguards on point fanned out more widely. You could feel their hyperalertness notch up yet another degree.
Monk Morris changed the subject. “Your G-2 sent my intel shop some interesting reports this morning. Haven’t seen ’em. Just got a verbal. But I’d like to know what you make of it.”
“About the refugees? The lack of them, I mean?”
“No sign of any heading out of Afula or Nazareth. Or leaving any other Arab towns.”
“The local commanders are probably under orders not to let them leave. Civilians as hostages. The Jihadis have been doing that since you and I were kids playing Army.”
“I played ‘Marines’.”
“Well, at least neither of us played Air Force. They’re probably just trying to complicate our operations. Figuring we’re still jumpy about dead civilians.”
“
Those
days are gone. Good morning, L.A., good night, Las Vegas.”
“It’s like that defensive position at Megiddo. They’re testing us. Seeing how far we’ll go.”
“I can understand that. But what about the reports of civilians being bussed
into
Nazareth? Seems like a lot of trouble to go to, when you’ve got military convoys to move over those roads.”
“The reports might be wrong. Val Danczuk’s relying on one special operator we’ve got in place up there. In Nazareth. The overheads don’t necessarily corroborate his messages about bussing in civilians. Those buses could’ve been full of troops. But we’re watching it.” He smiled. Wryly. “Val’s the most forward-leaning Two I’ve ever known. Problem is restraining him when he starts painting scenarios with invisible colors.”
“Sir?”
“Monk, can’t you call me ‘Gary’? When we’re not onstage?”
“Marine habit. And, to tell you the truth, you never struck me as a ‘Gary’.”
“It’s the only name I’ve got.”
“Except ‘Flintlock’.”
Harris shook his head. “Never cared for that one, myself. Always sounded like a cartoon character to me.”
They marched through the last stretch of shade, and Monk Morris changed the subject: “You didn’t really mean that, did you? About being afraid of Sim Montfort?”
Harris stopped and looked into the other man’s eyes. As deeply as he could.
“I meant it.”
The two generals stepped out of the trees into glaring light. Beyond an empty parking lot, a ruin crowned the mountaintop. Beside the ruin lay a pile of corpses. The bodies were naked. The stench announced that the dead had been rotting for days.
“Welcome to Mukhraka,” Harris said.
Someone had taped out a perimeter around the ruins. Harris’s lead bodyguard was deep in an argument with two men in Army uniforms.
Then Harris spotted the black crosses sewn onto the left breasts of the officers who were giving his point man a hard time.
“What the hell?” Harris said. He looked at Monk Morris.
“I have no idea,” the Marine said. “We didn’t have any MOBIC troops with us. Just the two liaisons at headquarters.”
In the background, other soldiers wearing the MOBIC black cross puttered in the ruins.
Harris strode up to the scene of the argument. A MOBIC major, supported by a captain, waved a finger in the face of the Special Forces sergeant first class who was second-in-command of the general’s personal security detachment.
“What’s going on here?” Harris demanded.
Before his NCO could speak, the major turned on the general. “This is a Christian heritage site. It’s been reclaimed. No one can enter without authorization.”
“Do you know who I am?” Harris asked.
“Sounds almost like you respect him. Despite all his preaching and screeching.”
Harris stopped and flashed a look of utter frankness. “No, Monk. I don’t respect him. I fear him.”
They walked on in silence, approaching the wall of light beyond the trees. The bodyguards on point fanned out more widely. You could feel their hyperalertness notch up yet another degree.
Monk Morris changed the subject. “Your G-2 sent my intel shop some interesting reports this morning. Haven’t seen ’em. Just got a verbal. But I’d like to know what you make of it.”
“About the refugees? The lack of them, I mean?”
“No sign of any heading out of Afula or Nazareth. Or leaving any other Arab towns.”
“The local commanders are probably under orders not to let them leave. Civilians as hostages. The Jihadis have been doing that since you and I were kids playing Army.”
“I played ‘Marines’.”
“Well, at least neither of us played Air Force. They’re probably just trying to complicate our operations. Figuring we’re still jumpy about dead civilians.”
“
Those
days are gone. Good morning, L.A., good night, Las Vegas.”
“It’s like that defensive position at Megiddo. They’re testing us. Seeing how far we’ll go.”
“I can understand that. But what about the reports of civilians being bussed
into
Nazareth? Seems like a lot of trouble to go to, when you’ve got military convoys to move over those roads.”
“The reports might be wrong. Val Danczuk’s relying on one special operator we’ve got in place up there. In Nazareth. The overheads don’t necessarily corroborate his messages about bussing in civilians. Those buses could’ve been full of troops. But we’re watching it.” He smiled. Wryly. “Val’s the most forward-leaning Two I’ve ever known. Problem is restraining him when he starts painting scenarios with invisible colors.”
“Sir?”
“Monk, can’t you call me ‘Gary’? When we’re not onstage?”
“Marine habit. And, to tell you the truth, you never struck me as a ‘Gary’.”
“It’s the only name I’ve got.”
“Except ‘Flintlock’.”
Harris shook his head. “Never cared for that one, myself. Always sounded like a cartoon character to me.”
They marched through the last stretch of shade, and Monk Morris changed the subject: “You didn’t really mean that, did you? About being afraid of Sim Montfort?”
Harris stopped and looked into the other man’s eyes. As deeply as he could.
“I meant it.”
The two generals stepped out of the trees into glaring light. Beyond an empty parking lot, a ruin crowned the mountaintop. Beside the ruin lay a pile of corpses. The bodies were naked. The stench announced that the dead had been rotting for days.
“Welcome to Mukhraka,” Harris said.
Someone had taped out a perimeter around the ruins. Harris’s lead bodyguard was deep in an argument with two men in Army uniforms.
Then Harris spotted the black crosses sewn onto the left breasts of the officers who were giving his point man a hard time.
“What the hell?” Harris said. He looked at Monk Morris.
“I have no idea,” the Marine said. “We didn’t have any MOBIC troops with us. Just the two liaisons at headquarters.”
In the background, other soldiers wearing the MOBIC black cross puttered in the ruins.
Harris strode up to the scene of the argument. A MOBIC major, supported by a captain, waved a finger in the face of the Special Forces sergeant first class who was second-in-command of the general’s personal security detachment.
“What’s going on here?” Harris demanded.
Before his NCO could speak, the major turned on the general. “This is a Christian heritage site. It’s been reclaimed. No one can enter without authorization.”
“Do you know who I am?” Harris asked.
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