Standing in the Storm

by William Alan Webb

  Busson flinched at the shots, and again when two more rang out a second later. He knew snipers only needed a moment to find a new target, and he was the only target left. Holding up his left hand in a gesture of peace, he moved the barrel of his rifle away from Sully’s chest, squatted, and laid it on the ground. Straightening up, he held both hands over his head. Sully scowled and crossed his arms.

  “Now, let’s get back to business,” he said. Behind him a LAV-25 crested the hill, following by three more and then the rest of the platoon. Scattered around them, the bodies of Busson’s five men bled into the sand. “Are you in the United States Army or not?”

  The armored reconnaissance company spread out and surrounded the little convoy of homemade wagons. Corporal Meyer got out of his Humvee and approached the lieutenant. “What should we do with the IPs?”

  “Go see what they need. Give them water and any extra rations we have, and I’ll be over there in a minute. There was a shot earlier; check the back of that third truck and see if somebody got hit. Detail two men to watch this prisoner.”

  “Aye, sir,” Meyer said.

  Sully turned his attention back to Busson. “I’m waiting.”

  “Look, Lieutenant, nobody’s seen the fuckin’ U.S. Army in forty years. My mom told me about the Collapse, but that was way before I was born. Then, yeah, I got recruited to join. They told me I’d be in the Army, they gave me somethin’ to eat, a roof over my head, and a gun, so I joined up. I don’t know for sure what I’m in. They told me then it was the U.S. Army but later they said it was the Army of the New Republic, so who the fuck knows what it is? And who cares? When you’re tryin’ to survive in this desert, you do what you gotta do. You can’t hold that against me.”

  Sully considered Busson’s words and nodded. The two privates had moved in behind Busson and aimed their weapons at his back.

  “I see your point, Slick. If you’re not in the U.S. Army, I don’t have to haul you in for court-martial. I can just shoot you right here as a criminal… honestly, that makes my life a lot easier. But if you were in the Army, then you’re a deserter and a traitor, which means I do have to take you back for trial.”

  “You can’t do that!” Busson took half a step forward before he felt a rifle barrel touch his back. With great care, he eased his foot back in place. “I enlisted because they told me America still existed and would support us, but it was all bullshit. All that time is gone, can’t nothin’ bring it back, but if you are the American Army, hell, count me in.”

  “Count you in, huh?” Sully said. “First, I’m not in the Army. I’m a Marine. Second, I’m going over there and talk with these people. You’d better hope they like you more than I do.” He gave the guards their orders. “If he moves, shoot to kill.”

  “Kicker Real, this is Overtime Prime. TacOff in charge is on the air.”

  “TacOff, this is Kicker Real. Five enemy dead, zero friendly casualties. We captured two Humvees and a Bradley, all in bad shape but driveable. Also have prisoner who claims he is U.S. Army, or once was. Request instructions on what to do with these assets, and a family of IPs. Over.”

  “Kicker, were the five KIAs also U.S. military?” asked the tactical officer.

  “Unknown at this point, Overtime. Subjects were threatening harm to members of my platoon. Snipers acted on my command in defense of platoon commander and other personnel. Also, I’ve got an elderly female casualty with extensive blood loss from a gunshot wound. Corpsman says she needs medevac A-sap. Suggest sending full Dustoff team.”

  “Stand by, Kicker Real.” As he waited, Sully watched the woman pant for breath while her grandchildren huddled close and stroked her hair. After a few seconds the radio came to life again. “Kicker Real, Dustoff heading your way, ETA twenty-eight minutes. Activate IFF. Monitor Tac Two. Acknowledge.”

  “Roger that, Prime. Will keep you advised of our position. Company should be Oscar Mike within fifteen minutes after Dustoff is gone. Over.”

  “You’re going to have to hump it to get home before dark, Kicker Real. We’ll leave the light on for you.”

  The old man pulled free and planted himself in front of Sully. Dirt and sweat streaked his leathery face, but underneath the grime was concern and anger. “You’re not taking my wife anywhere until I know who you are!”

  “Please calm down, sir.” Sully pointed to the eagle, anchor, and globe pin on his collar. “Do you see this, sir? Don’t you recognize it?”

  That surprised the old man. He bent close to inspect the pin and seemed confused. “It looks familiar… but no, I can’t remember what it means.”

  “It’s been a long time, sir.” Sully felt sympathy. The old man had kept his family alive through trials Sully could not even imagine. He softened his voice. “You’ve been through a lot and I understand why you’re suspicious. But we’re not your enemies. We’re here to help you. We’re United States Marines.”

  The man blinked and looked away, then moved in for another look at the gleaming gold pin. Somewhere his mind made connections and long-forgotten memories came into focus. He smiled. Several teeth had black decay, while others were missing altogether. “Thank you,” he said, tears welling in his eyes. Without another word, he ran to his wife.

  Sully turned to Meyer. “What’s the status of those captured vehicles?”

  “Good to go, Loot. Trasker says the engines look like shit, but for now they’re running and he thinks they’ll make it home.”

  “Trasker’s the best grease-eater in the company. All right, help the family load everything into the Bradley. Use the Humvees, too, if you need them. Find some drivers for the captured stuff—”

  “Already done, Loot.”

  “Blow up anything left behind.”

  “What about the animals?”

  “Saddle them up.”

  “Sir?” Meyer said, using the rare epithet. “Nine horses, five goats, two dogs, I don’t know how many chickens, a mule, and a cow. Loot, I don’t how we’re going to transport a whole zoo.”

  “You’ll figure it out,” Sully said. “That’s why you’re company sergeant.”

  1511 hours

  When the last vehicle disappeared in the west, Govind stood and worked the kinks out of his back. From atop a distant saguaro, a prairie falcon preened itself as it watched him. Accompanied by his brothers, Govind made his way into the depression and inspected the abandoned corpses before the circling vultures landed. The men appeared well fed. Their clothing showed wear, but also repair. Hard-soled boots were a rarity.

  “These look like men from Prescott,” Gopan said. “Soldiers of the Republic.”

  Govind circled the bodies. “They are soldiers of the Republic. But tell me the lessons to be learned from today.”

  “They were all killed with one shot, perfectly aimed,” Gopan said. “Whoever the newcomers are, they have many vehicles of war, they have flying machines…”

  “Helicopters.”

  “Helicopters. And their warriors are killers.”

  “Good, all of that is true. But what else?”

  Gopan thought for a moment. “I don’t know.”

  “Their vehicles and their helicopter bore the white star.”

  “The sign of the Republic.”

  “Yes, but they killed men of the Republic. How would you explain this mystery?”

  “I cannot.”

  “Long before the white star was the mark of the Republic of Arizona, it was the mark of the United States Army. I want those vehicles tracked. Wherever they came from, I want watches placed on them day and night. Gopan, send scouts in all directions. I want to know everything that happens in this desert. After the slaughter of those Sevens we found in the north, I have felt war is coming, and if it is, we must know on which side to fight. Or not fight.”

  “Is there a question? The Sevens are devils.”

  “Yes, they are. But Hell has many devils, and some are worse than others.”

  Chapter 7

  In war, events of
importance are the result of trivial causes.

  Julius Caesar

  1512 hours, June 30

  Central Command Two, a/k/a the Deuce or the Castle, was on the western-facing side of the mountain. Similar in architecture to CentCom, a/k/a the Clam Shell, it was about half the size. It served as headquarters for the brigade’s S-3, the operations officer, who was also the executive officer, Lt. General Norman Colesworth Fleming. There was no Crystal Palace, and instead of five terraced levels there were three. Fleming’s office was off to the right, down a ramp and a short hallway. It did not have a direct view outside. Instead, a tactical station in the main area had external cameras Fleming could use during active operations. A large platform on the same level had desks, work stations, monitors, communications gear, and anything else needed to run a military operation.

  As the lurps had patrolled their assigned vectors, Fleming had sat beside Captain Netrice Thompson, the day’s TacOff. He’d focused on every word from the field. As usual, he’d listened with eyes closed, visualizing the reports.

  Tension and worry had varied throughout the day. More than six hundred of the brigade’s ground strike forces were on long-range patrols, with a lot of irreplaceable hardware. It was not the potential danger that worried Fleming, but the incomplete unit training. In the days since deployment, there hadn’t been time to shake hands with everybody in your platoon, much less your company. Unit cohesion could not develop in such minimal time. The only thing the lurps had going for them was world-class training and esprit de corps. But Fleming could at least run the show without interference. Angriff had left after an hour of breathing down his neck and gone back to the Crystal Palace.

  “Overtime Prime, this is Piledriver Real.”

  Fleming perked up.

  “Piledriver Real, go to you,” Thompson said.

  “Prime, we’re at the site of last week’s air strike and IP rescue, and we have fresh tire tracks leading toward the highway. No survivors on site.”

  “Understood, Piledriver. Get video for S-2. Overtime out.”

  1516 hours

  “General, Private Dupree would like a word with you,” Sergeant Schiller said. “He says you asked him about some sort of trap?”

  Angriff had been staring out the picture window, lost in thought, and it took a moment to focus.

  “Yeah, I did. Send him in.”

  Dupree snapped a sharp salute once in front of Angriff’s desk.

  “As you were, Private. So what have you got for me?”

  “General, I think we can find out who tapped our mainframes. It would involve taking that tapline we found—”

  “You found,” Angriff said.

  “Yes sir, I found. We take that line and connect it to a mainframe of our choosing. Then we load it with as much useless data as we can think of… movies, books, the Congressional Record, whatever we have that has no military value…”

  “…or any other value…”

  “…a lot of data. Computers don’t know the difference between important data and junk. And within that junk, we load a trojan to infect their computers and send us all their data. Even if they discover it, they won’t be able to hurt our system because it will be just that one mainframe.”

  “How hard would this be to carry out?”

  “It might take a little time, but it won’t be hard, sir. If they’re looking for the trojan they can stop it, but I doubt they’ll be expecting it. If this doesn’t work, we’re not harmed.”

  “Fine work, Dupree. Do it. Oh, and I forgot to do this before. You’re a corporal now. Tell Sergeant Schiller on the way out. He’s used to it by now.”

  “Thank you, sir!”

  1526 hours

  Once Dupree left, there was nothing to do but wait. All four lurps were on their way home. All OPs were out and in contact. Colonel Schiller had located the communication wire and laying it would begin in the next few days. For a brief period the day’s schedule was clear. Schiller hadn’t even come in with a new crisis. A cup of coffee steamed at his left elbow, a fresh cigar burned in the ashtray, and he was full from a lunch of PSB meat loaf. For the first time since he woke up, Angriff had time to lean back and reflect on everything that had happened.

  He was proud of himself. Confronting Bettison had been sheer reflex. In his own mind, he’d had no choice. But even before he’d been completely awake, he had approved the strike mission that saved Tompkins, his men, and all those women and girls. Walling had ordered it, but instead of countermanding it, he’d made a snap judgment and approved. His instincts about Walling had proved good. And by that first afternoon, when the birds had returned, he’d sounded like his old self, even if it had been an act. That was the high point so far, saving those people, and he would never forget a single moment of it. The smell of hot oil and unwashed bodies, the shocked faces of the women and children, the shiny sides of Randall’s Comanche… it had all happened so fast he hadn’t had time to appreciate the moment. He chuckled at the memory of patting the girl’s ass on the side of Tank Girl.

  Then he realized something, and his laugh died. He had not connected it before because there had been no time to think about it. Now it rendered him speechless with anger, and just like that, Joe Randall was on Nick the A’s shit list.

  “Schiller,” he yelled into the intercom headset, “get me Captain Randall on the horn, right now!”

  “Aye, General,” Schiller said, wondering what Randall had done now. With the internal network up and running, he got through to the hangar without delay.

  “Ready Bay thirteen,” a female voice said. Schiller did not recognize it.

  “This is Sergeant Schiller, calling for General Angriff. The general wishes to speak with Captain Randall. Who am I talking to?”

  “Sergeant Rossi. I’m Captain Randall’s crew chief. The captain is speaking with Lieutenant Randall; hold on while I get him.”

  Within seconds he came on the line. “Captain Randall speaking.”

  “Hold for General Angriff, please,” Schiller said, not giving Randall time to say anything.

  Within seconds Angriff was on. “Captain Randall?”

  “Yes, General?”

  “I want that obscene filth on the side of your helicopter painted over immediately. Is that clear? I will not have an officer in my command made an object of derision by having a naked likeness of her, or him, displayed like a cartoon. Do you understand me, Captain? I want it gone. I don’t care what you have to do. You have one hour.”

  “Yes, sir!” Randall said, almost shouting.

  The line went dead and Angriff took off his headphones, folding back the microphone.

  “It was the pat on the ass, wasn’t it?” Carlos said. “Didn’t I tell you?”

  Still in his flight gear, Carlos walked in circles beside Tank Girl. Like most pilots, he was superstitious. Tank Girl had been good to them and changing her name and logo was bad juju.

  “So what did you want me to do, Bunny? He’d already done it!” Randall said. “Should I have walked over and said General, you probably shouldn’t do that again. You just patted your daughter’s ass. Before he even knew she was alive?”

  “Do you know how long I worked on that?” Carlos pointed at the three-foot-high image on the Comanche. “Can we at least keep the name? Not that it matters without an image to go with it.”

  “I didn’t ask, okay? When a five-star general is yelling at you, you don’t poke them so they’ll yell louder.”

  Rossi had been listening to one side. When the conversation stopped for more than a few seconds, she spoke up. “Want me to get the airbrush, Captain?

  “I don’t see where we have any choice.”

  “Hold off on that for a minute, Rossi,” Morgan Randall said, holding up one finger. She had been leaning against a bench listening, amused at her freaked-out husband. “First, let me make a call.”

  “Who are you calling?” her husband asked.

  She smiled. “I’m friends with the management.
”

  Angriff drew on his cigar and trickled the smoke from his nostrils. Thinking about Morgan’s picture on the side of that helicopter angered him more the longer he thought about it. But a good cigar helped soothe the savage breast.

  Schiller appeared at the doorway. “General, I have a call for you.”

  “Who is it?”

  “It’s Lieutenant Randall, sir, but she says that she’s not calling for her commanding officer. She’s calling to speak with her father, if he’s available.”

  “Put her through.” After fitting the headset and flipping down the mike, he said, “Morgan? Are you all right?”

  “I’m fine, Daddy. Can we have a father-daughter conversation and not a lieutenant speaking with her CO?”

  “Of course, sweetie. You can call me anytime.”

  “About anything?”

  “Well, sure,” he said, belatedly remembering that was how she’d manipulated him when she was younger. “Within reason.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “I almost lost you for the second time, Morgan. I don’t want to fight. Why did you call me?”

  “Before I tell you, I want you to know that I was standing beside Joe when you called him. I could hear everything, and I want you to rescind your order.”

  “I thought this was a father-daughter call!”

  “It is, Daddy. I would never call my CO like this. That’s why I called my dad.”

  He cursed himself. How many times had he fallen into these traps of hers? He was about to get angry, the way he used to when Morgan weaseled out of being grounded as a teenager, but then he stopped himself. His daughter was alive and he was going to get mad at her?

  “All right, I’m listening.”

  “Calmly?”

  “I’m calm.”

  “Daddy, I want you to rescind that order to paint over Tank Girl.”