by G. R. Carter
He paused, as though the details of his master battle plan were still filling back in. “How did he get around Eric’s force? Eric should have been right there to catch him in the trap. How did Walsh not run right into him?” he asked, pleading to figure out what went wrong.
“Eric made a judgment call on the way there. Our Fortress Farms were getting really beat up. Near collapse in a lot of them. We’ve lost a lot of Land Lords, Tenants and most of the vehicles based in the farms. The Grays really hit them hard,” she answered.
Confusion and anger mixed in the two thirds of Alex’s face left uncovered by medical bandages. “Those were not my orders. The whole idea was to get Walsh and end this war. How could Eric have been so irresponsible? I want to see him immediately.”
“Alex, please remember he’s lost his father. Martin already ripped him a new one in front of everyone after this all happened,” she said, moving closer and holding his hand. “Eric’s a different guy now than he was before the attack. Distant and kind of cold. You guys were like brothers, please remember that.”
Alex felt a cold chill in his soul. A real brother would have trusted me and did what I asked, he thought bitterly. Sam was able to do it, and so was Fredericks. But Eric always has to have his way.
He looked back to Rebekah, stone-faced and wanting to change the subject. He’d deal with Eric when he had a moment to think it through. “When does Doc say I can get up?”
“As soon as you can stand, he wants you to move around a little. He’s pretty sure there are no major internal injuries, so he doesn’t want atrophy or pulmonary problems to set in with you lying in a bed.”
“Alright, tell everyone I want them here tomorrow. I mean everyone, Bek. Both our moms, Fredericks, Sam, and I want the Ten Vets here also. I want a full debrief from every front. And get a message to Eric…I want him here two hours earlier than everyone else. We have some things to hash out before the meeting starts,” Alex said. “Nothing formal, we’ll just meet in the Great Hall.”
Bek nodded and grabbed Alex’s hand with both of hers. “We thought we lost you. I thought I lost you. Don’t fall into a funk because of these injuries, AJ. This is a new world and we all have scars. If not external than certainly internal,” she assured him. “Your plan worked perfectly, and even if Walsh is still alive you’ve destroyed his ability to threaten us. Look, we withstood a huge attack from an adversary we didn’t even know existed. You have to believe that the Creator had a hand in this. Hold true to the plan He has for you.”
Alex allowed himself a slight smirk. “You’re stealing Father Steve’s material, sweetheart,” he said.
“Actually, that line was from Pastor Hart,” she laughed. “Sounds a lot more convincing coming from him, right?”
He smiled at his wife. “I appreciate the thought. But I’ll be fine once I get back in the saddle. In fact, would you mind bringing me my map books? And any other reports you think would be helpful to me before the meeting tomorrow? Oh, and please send a message to ARK, see if Tony or Nicole can meet with us as soon as possible. I want to thank them for saving our bacon. Without their reinforcements…”
“Sure thing,” she cut him off and left unsaid the consequences of his statement. She kissed his forehead and walked towards the door. “I’ll get Phax and Ali back from your mom, too. I know you’re anxious to see them.”
The thought of his two small children made Alex smile for real this time. He lay back down and stared up at the ceiling of his room, trying to focus his eye and his mind.
“Okay, Walsh. You’re mad, embarrassed, and feeling naked with no capital and only half your army. What will you do now?” Alex murmured out loud. “What can you do now?”
New America Temporary Headquarters
Two Weeks after New America/GangStar Invasion
The glare of fire kept Darian Walsh’s eyes transfixed on crackling logs. He was numb. The morphine in his veins left his body like putty to the touch. The wounds of defeat, physical and mental, seemed a little more distant…though even now he knew his agony would return soon. Another dose would be required, pulling him further and further into the grasp of dependency.
A constant draft chilled him to the bone.
Just a little something to kill the pain. Dull but constant throbbing first introduced by wounds in his great victory in Lafayette. That seemed a lifetime ago. So much success in his attempt to reunify and reconstruct America. Yet the one victory that eluded him was the one that should have been the easiest; how could a group of small-town farmers defeat the most highly-trained fighting force in this insane world they lived in? His Legions had been victorious everywhere save for those stupid armor-plated trucks and a ragged collection of farms and tractors.
How could this have happened again? He demanded in his mind. I had the perfect plan. Not only was he denied the chance to hang his hated antagonist from their capital walls, he lost his own capital in the process. New America still had thousands of square miles under Reconstruction, but the heart and soul was Lincoln City, a name he picked out himself when they took over the former Illinois campus.
What can I do? he wondered. He played his trump card with the rateaters out west, promising them all of the Red Hawk territory and old St. Louis as well. At least he wouldn’t have to worry about lying to the fools anymore; hard to tell what vengeance the Red Hawks had in store for them.
New America had its own problems, problems with no immediate solution. Walsh’s plan to take out the Red Hawks for good was spawned more from practicality than animus. The Northern Caliphate forces coming out of the ruins of Detroit had united with the population occupying the former Chicagoland area. Based out of Aurora, a western suburb of the former megacity, someone managed to gain control of the entire Great Lakes area. Black magic or charisma or military genius…Walsh didn’t know how one man could control countless survivors in the wreckage of what was known as “Chiraq” even before the Great Reset.
More trouble came when the leader converted to the Jihadist religion. Word had it that some of the Caliphate leadership now considered the mystery man to be the Twelfth Imam. That was supposed to be the Muslim version of a savior returned from Heaven to conquer the world. More religious B.S. to trick the brainless, Walsh thought. All he really cared about was that the population now under the Jihadi banner outnumbered his men at least ten to one.
Walsh’s plan had been to take out the Red Hawk threat to his south, freeing up all of his attention and resources to turn towards the increasing threat in the north. As an added benefit, Walsh was sure that the Marines in Vincennes would join him as soon as their other suitor was taken off the board. He knew that General Hopkins was talking with Hamilton and the Red Hawks, but hoped that the similar backgrounds and symbols New America shared with the Marine force would eventually lead to a partnership.
All that was in the wind now. Out of all the legions he sent south, very few managed to escape back to New America’s provisional capital occupying what had once been Lebanon, Indiana. More importantly, he had lost many of his senior officers, meaning that to rebuild the Legions from raw recruits would be twice as difficult. Do I even have the energy for this? I don’t know if I can rebuild again, he wondered.
Dull pain started to return to his body. How did it come to this? Each dose of the painkillers seemed to wear off quicker. Walsh looked over at the bed next to his chair. Half rolling, half stumbling, he dropped onto the mattress, trying to sleep. I’ll make my decision in the morning. Or whenever I wake up. Just can’t be right now. Need to rest, he thought as he closed his eyes to the world.
Fortress Farm Aronia Point
New Home of Alex and Rebekah Hamilton
Alex’s mind drifted as he stared out the window to the wintry landscape outside. Leaves leapt across the snow driven forward by the gusts of wind famous for enforcing their will in this part of the world. He longed for spring and the green renewal the longer days brought. But each year seemed to bring the warming relief a little late
r; a subject being discussed more and more around the farms of the Republic. Growing seasons seemed shorter, meaning less margin for error when it was time to get the harvest in.
The door creaked and opened, followed by the steady footsteps of a military man’s boots. Alex turned toward his right, a habit already formed to give quicker vision via his uncovered eye. A smile unconsciously formed as Martin Fredericks strode across the hardwood floors toward him. Directly behind and moving a little quicker came Sam, with Bek last to enter. She shut the door as each of them approached Alex, surrounding him against the window.
“I guess I should rise to greet you,” Alex said, his mood suddenly dimming a bit. He fought back the gloom to try and lift the spirits of the ones who came to cheer him up. “But this chair is just too comfy. Anyways, it’s good to see you.”
“You too, Alex,” Martin said. Until recently the man wouldn’t break protocol and call a leader by their first name. Different world and different etiquette. Especially amongst those he considered family. “Doc tells me you’re recovering better than he hoped. Too stubborn to know how hurt you really were?”
“Something like that,” Alex agreed. “Just scared of what you goofballs have been doing while I was out of commission. Bek says all she does is put out your fires all the time.”
“I said no such thing, AJ! I told you how great a job they were all doing!” Rebekah replied. Suddenly she recognized the grim irony in Alex's voice. “You men! The more you like each other the worse you treat each other! It makes zero sense.”
Sam finally jumped in, barely able to keep from laughing. “Does that patch mean no flying lessons for you?”
“Now that really does hurt, baby brother. Try to think about going through life looking like a pirate. What’re my kids going to think of their monster of a father?”
“Oh please, Prince,” Sam replied using the title Alex had always hated. “Half the Republic has some sort of scar or injury from the last few years. In fact, it’s like a badge of honor now. Unfortunately, most of my pilots don’t get the chance for that…” Sam’s voice trailed off like he couldn’t find the strength to be humorous.
“I’m sorry for the men we lost, Sam. I know how much you cared for them. You too, Martin. Those were our friends and our countrymen. There’s no replacing people like that,” Alex said. He sighed and looked back out the window. “I just hope we can honor their memory…make a better world they would appreciate.”
The towering oaks outside the second-story building waved their smaller branches back and forth in the wind. They were mesmerizing, swaying with the gust and then forcing themselves back into position. Resist and bend, then back on the attack, Alex thought. Never be too rigid or the storm will break you. He pulled his eyes away from the window and up to the wall above the entrance. Red Hawk logos framed the flag originally presented to his father.
Known as the Greenfield Shield, the symbol was the first one used by his people when they realized their United States no longer existed in the form they grew up with. Now, the Shield reminded Alex of how far they’d come. Beyond just surviving to now growing and some would say thriving. These last battles took a horrible toll on men and equipment, but the truth was that the Red Hawk Republic was strong enough to withstand such losses now and bounce right back. Resist and bend, then back on the attack.
It was a humbling experience to know that life moved on after your soul left the earth. Just as the Hamilton family moved on when Phil Hamilton was killed – as did the Republic itself – so too the families and friends of the recently fallen continued their daily toil.
What could not be replaced was the trust Alex once had in Eric Olsen. Alex could now admit to himself that he was blaming Eric for the empty feeling he felt after their victory. With Walsh still at large, the threat of New America remained.
“We need to figure out our plan for dealing with the Grays. Do we know what their Legions look like right now?” Alex asked to no one in particular.
With a quick glance to each side, Martin answered. “At best, 50% operational capability.”
Alex shook his head back and forth. His three compatriots watched as rage began to build in him.
“Alex wait. I know what you’re thinking. But there’s other information we didn’t have before. I’ve been working on a plan to integrate the New America population living in the area now under our control,” Martin interjected.
Bek offered her support to Martin’s point: “We’ve been finding out a lot about the outside world from the Grays. Turns out they haven’t just been fighting us. Walsh was trying to take us out quick so he could focus on what he thought was a bigger threat.”
Alex snorted. “I don’t know whether to be insulted or relieved. I thought he was obsessed with us.”
“If you could see some of the propaganda posters we found in the New America towns, you would certainly think that,” Sam added. “I’m having a bunch collected and brought to you as a present from the Raptor wing. Apparently we are very bad men. You wouldn’t believe how bad.”
Normally jovial Sam turned reflective again. “It’s going to take a generation to deprogram some of their residents. They had us labeled as ‘domestic terrorists’ and used us as the boogey man to keep their citizens scared all the time,” he concluded, almost welling up with tears.
I wonder why that bothers him so much, Alex thought. Usually he would think something like that was funny. I’ll ask Bek if there’s a problem I don’t know about.
“So what could possibly make Walsh lose more sleep than us?” Alex asked, trying to turn the conversation back.
Martin took the briefing back over. “New America troops call them Jijis, which is shortened slang for Jihadists.”
“You mean the Northern Caliphate? We knew about them a long time ago,” Alex said testily.
“We knew they existed. But we didn’t know how powerful they had become. And we didn’t know they converted the survivors in old Chicago to their beliefs,” Martin corrected.
“What happened to the Great Lakes Republic?” Alex asked. At one time, his father spoke briefly to one of their representatives. Their war of attrition wasn’t going well at the time, but they still held hope.
“Gone. They got squeezed from all sides. Refugees are streaming into New America territory…well, I guess it’s our territory now, from the north. And the Blackhawks are getting swamped with survivors coming down the river. The Jijis are in hot pursuit,” the Commander of Red Hawk armed forces informed them.
“What could be so bad about this Caliphate that people leave their homes instead of just giving up?” Bek asked Martin.
“They either convert you or they kill you. There is no in-between. Women are property of the Caliphate and are assigned to whatever male warrior they decide. Zero rights for anyone besides the religious leaders or the military leaders,” he answered.
“So now our northern border is them instead of the Grays. Sounds like we got the fire instead of the frying pan,” Bek grumbled.
“Are the Gray Legions holding the line? Or did they hightail it with Walsh?” Alex asked.
“Both,” Sam replied. We’ve been doing as many overflights with the Raptors as we can spare. We’ve got a couple of smaller airships from Fortress Farms that have been freed up from watching the New America border. Many of Walsh’s northern units were homegrown. So they come from communities that agreed to Reconstruction instead of fighting back against New America.”
“There’s no way they’ll leave the lines unless we can move their families back. Martin, have we made contact with them yet?” Bek asked.
“Indeed. Many of the remaining officers that we captured have signed loyalty pledges to the Republic already. I’ve sent them up to the front lines to spread the word. Amnesty for all who join now, exile or worse for anyone who doesn’t,” Martin said sternly. Colonel Darian Walsh had once been his commanding officer, and the Red Hawk commander held the New America dictator responsible for every death that oc
curred in the conflict.
“We assumed your wishes would be that each American receive a chance. I hope we didn’t overstep on that,” Sam said hopefully.
Alex nodded. “Yeah, that was the right thing. I don’t want to kill any more people. I just want to farm and be left alone.” He suddenly realized how that phrase resonated with the people he led. “I mean I want our people to be able to farm and be left alone.”
He quickly gathered his thoughts, “Ok, let’s sit down this afternoon with a map and figure out what our line is going to be. Sam, come up with some recommendations for good defensive positions that we can hold against larger numbers. Martin, you work on determining how many Americans can be put into the field to fight.”
A headache began to form and he reached up to rub his temples, providing some temporary relief. The light from the window caused him to squint a little, so he rose from his chair to begin to move around the room. Martin and Sam both beat Bek to grab his arms and help. Once steadied by his cane, he took one step, then another, and then another until the some of the stiffness was relieved.
“Tell the Americans I intend to treat them like a fully autonomous province of the Republic. Just like the Okaw, just like Little Egypt and any other group that wants to join us. There will be elections and they will have representatives in the Senate. Anyone who wants to leave and move on can, but they’ll leave their arms and equipment. Anyone who wants to stay will become a citizen of the Republic,” Alex said, staring now at the Greenfield Shield. That’s what you would want, right, Dad? And that’s how the Creator would have us treat others, Alex assured himself. Besides that, those are highly trained and educated warriors that we’re going to need against whatever is coming at us from the north, his practical side agreed.
“That’s very generous of you, Alex. And I think you’ll find the offer well-received,” Martin said, nodding his approval.