Pedestals of Ash

by Joe Nobody

  Colonel Marcus looked back at his map and tried to reach a decision. The 4th was spread across a five-kilometer front, halfway between the city of Shreveport and the Texas-Louisiana state line. The northern-most units could see the shores of Lake Cross from their vantage. The brigade had taken defensive positions that spanned Interstate 20 and continued south for another kilometer. The 4/10 was a “light” unit, which meant that their main firepower consisted of thinly armored Stryker fighting vehicles. A “heavy” unit would rely on tanks. The Strykers were one of the latest additions to the U.S. arsenal and had exceeded expectations in Iraq. Faster and quieter than both M1 Abrams main battle tanks and the older Bradley fighting vehicles, the Stryker was an eight-wheeled troop carrier with some very advanced capabilities.

  The 4/10 had caught some good luck however. When everything had gone to hell, two platoons of the Louisiana National Guard were engaged in exercises at Fort Polk, training with their eight M1A1 tanks. This augmentation was the brigade’s ace in the hole, and right now Marcus was trying to figure out where to position this additional combat power.

  The Independents had informed him that the 4/10 was about to receive visitors. Just as had occurred thousands of times throughout history, two significant military forces both wanted the same strategic ground at the same time. A collision was inevitable. The Ironhorse brigade of the 1st Calvary Division was known to be moving east from Dallas and headed right at him. A heavy unit, thick with tanks, the Ironhorse was loyal to the president. Worse yet, Colonel Marcus knew they were highly trained, well led, and very capable. An experienced military man, he recognized that leadership and motivation were often as important as equipment, and the unit heading toward him had plenty of both. If this confrontation turned into a fight, he was outgunned. While his wheeled Strykers were faster, the M1 tanks used by the Ironhorse were about as close to unstoppable as any machine on the modern battlefield. They didn’t call the M1 tanks “whispering death” for nothing.

  Were it not for the addition of the tank platoons to his order of battle, Colonel Marcus would never consider a fixed line of defense. He would be relegated to a fighting retreat and hope to wear his opponent down. He knew that pure firepower seldom won battles. Maneuver was the key to victory – at least that’s what every officer who was outgunned told himself. It would be shortsighted to even consider that his opposing commander didn’t know this, and besides, those tanks could move almost as fast as his equipment.

  There were a host of other issues plaguing him as well. Both sides were equipped with the latest electronic networking systems. A commander sitting inside of a Stryker could see both friend and foe on a computer screen, and this functionality provided the American Army a huge advantage in recent Middle Eastern conflicts. Marcus’s problem was that both sides owned the same technology. To make things worse, no one could be sure that the Ironhorse’s computer screens wouldn’t show the 4/10’s data. The decision had been made to disable the systems. The colonel hoped the Cav would reach the same conclusion.

  Air support was another big concern. American doctrine dictated that U.S. troops did not take the field unless air superiority was clearly established. If the United States Air Force were supporting the president, the 4/10 was in trouble. Because of that mandate, his brigade had practically zero anti-air defensive capability. While he had been assured that the USAF was sitting this one out, a good officer never took these things for granted. If fighter-bombers attacked his ground forces, the 4/10 wouldn’t last long. Worse yet, if the Cav brought out Longbow Apache attack helicopters, his brigade probably wouldn’t even get off a single shot at the approaching force. Normally, he would be counting on his own air capabilities, but their fuel supply had been exhausted while the brigade was occupying Baton Rouge. The Independents promised him a re-supply, but so far, none had arrived. His platoon of flying tank killers was grounded.

  While most of the 4/10’s commanders were battle-proven and well trained, their CO still had concerns. Over the last 10 years, all U.S. ground commanders had come to depend heavily on either fixed-wing or rotary air support. In the last two wars, his forces had had the capability to stand back and call in either artillery or air support against a well-defended position. If there were going to be a fight today, it would be a fluidic, fast-moving war of maneuver. His troopers were experienced, but with a different type of action. Not since the first Gulf War had the American military fought a force on force battle, and that had been so one-sided it had only lasted a few hours. While most of their equipment and tactics had been originally designed to fight the hordes of Warsaw Pact divisions crossing into West Germany, they had never actually been used against anything close to a technological equal.

  Other than the artillery, Marcus figured this to be a confrontation between mobile ground-based forces. While the 4/10 had a platoon of Paladin self-propelled artillery, the Ironhorse had its own field guns. With modern radar-equipped counterbattery capabilities, the two artillery units would be playing shoot and scoot - a deadly game of chess that would most likely cancel each other out.

  A military strategist, the colonel easily recognized the dilemma. An artillery shell flies through the air for several seconds before impact. Since both sides possessed radar units that could detect the incoming round and backtrack to the parent gun, it wasn’t unusual for return fire to be on the way before the initial salvo landed. An artillery unit’s life must be one of constant movement because remaining stationary meant death. I can’t count on artillery support because they will be playing cat-and-mouse with the Cav’s long-range guns, concluded the colonel.

  Marcus scanned the horizon one last time and made his decision. He hopped down from his perch on the Humvee, pulling the map with him. As with all good sergeants, Mitchel read his commander perfectly and stepped forward ready to receive orders. Marcus pointed to the map and said, “Position the reserves here, and tell those Cajun tank jockeys they had better fight those damn machines well, if they want to see the sun set tonight.”

  Chapter 3 – Alpha-Bet Soup

  Smokey glanced at the hundred or so men gathered on the front steps of the Alpha courthouse. They were a ragtag group at best, more closely resembling a mob than an organized fighting force. About a quarter of the group consisted of former prisoners Hawk and he freed from the local jail. The rest were mostly starving college students and others who long ago developed an insatiable taste for drugs and booze. Like mercenaries whose allegiance always fell to the highest bidder, many of Smokey’s soldiers fought for the contraband that he could provide.

  The smell of body odor, gun oil, and fear filled Smokey’s nostrils. While they had enough food, water supply was always an issue for his people. Bathing was a luxury available to only a few. He ruled the vast majority of Alpha, Texas with the exception of one small corner of the town. That area was the source of the city’s water supply, and it was controlled by Deacon Brown and her congregation at the First Bible Church. Smokey’s crew made several attempts to push the holy rollers off of that small corner of Alpha, but the congregation unified, held its position, and eventually fortified the perimeter.

  For months, the two groups patrolled, scavenged and skirmished all over Alpha. Smokey lost over 80 men to the Bible thumpers in various ambushes, gunfights, and sniping encounters. Hawk had been his mole inside the church, feeding him critical information. Smokey believed the zealots were losing heart, setting the stage for his men to overwhelm the resistance and seize control of the water supply. This Bishop character had ruined all of his water regulating efforts and more. Not only had Bishop discovered Hawk was a spy, he had “eliminated” several of Smokey’s vigilantes, reigniting hope in Deacon Brown’s parishioners. Smokey was wise enough to know morale could mean the difference between victory and defeat. Even beyond that, there was the issue of the water.

  The Old West had a long and bloody history of fighting over water, or least using the life sustaining liquid as the excuse for a brawl here and there. The Pleasan
t Valley War, Mason Country War, and the more commonly known Lincoln Country War had all involved water rights to varying degrees, or at least that’s what most people thought. In reality, water had very little to do with those historic skirmishes. While the standoff in Alpha did involve water, and Smokey’s people truly needed it, there were far more important motivations for this clash.

  Deacon Brown’s presence denied Smokey absolute power, foiling his every attempt to consolidate his rule of Alpha. Smokey wanted the desirable woman in one of his jail cells, and after having his fun, he planned to crucify her on a cross in the town square. She provided an alternative to his rule, and many had joined her flock. It seemed like every time Smokey tried to establish some service in Alpha, the people who knew how to make things work had already joined this woman and her church.

  The latest source of this frustration was an oversized fuel storage tank, owned by the school district and used to feed the large fleet of yellow buses. Smokey needed that gasoline, but didn’t have anyone who could figure out how to pump the liquid gold out of the tank. One man finally volunteered to show them where the school’s maintenance man lived. A visit to the address revealed the fellow had abandoned his home and taken his family to the church compound. And that was just one example of how Deacon Brown’s influence had thwarted Smokey’s plans. Practically every step to restore some level of civilization resulted in a dead end, mostly due to a lack of knowledge within Smokey’s ranks. Engineers, electricians, and even construction workers had been killed, slipped out of town, or joined the church. Time after time, Smokey’s followers automatically blamed Deacon Brown’s little band of holdouts for every failure or shortcoming – whether they deserved it or not.

  In reality, there were three groups of people remaining in Alpha. In addition to Smokey’s army of criminals and Deacon Brown’s congregation, there were hundreds of what Smokey’s men referred to as “the rats.” These were college students and citizens of Alpha who were still trying to survive on their own and not aligned with either side. Smokey realized that as time went on, these people would have to associate with one side or the other. If the church were eliminated as an option, his way would be the only choice.

  Smokey’s army was divided into two groups. For the past hour, his lieutenants had been gathering the troops and laying out the simple plan he had communicated in the chief’s office a short time ago. The first group of about 40 men would function as a decoy, acting as if they were the main assault against the church’s fortified perimeter. The second group would envelop, and 10 minutes after the shooting started, hit the church from the west side where Hawk reported the defenses were the weakest. Smokey remembered reading a quote by the American General George Patton, “Hold them by the nose, and kick them in the ass.” He planned on doing just as the famous general advised.

  Smokey thought about giving a pre-combat speech to the gathered men, but decided against it. The groups scattered around him were not real soldiers, and he didn’t like speaking in public anyway. He held up the AK47 rifle, taken from the police station armory, and simply yelled out, “Let’s go kick some ass!”

  The small town of Alpha, Texas had never witnessed a full-on battle. Populated after the Indian Wars in this part of the world had long been over, the presence of dozens of armed men moving through the deserted streets was something new. The two columns of fighters moved slowly down the sidewalks and unused avenues that were already sprouting weeds here and there. The men avoided large piles of glass from broken storefronts and maneuvered around the rusted, burned out automobiles that littered the streets.

  It was only 15 city blocks from the courthouse to the perimeter of the church. As the diversion group approached its jump off point, the leader motioned for the men to spread out and stay behind cover where possible.

  Deacon Brown was in her office when the lookout’s whistle blew. She scampered down the stairs, grabbing her rifle on the way. She sensed, more than saw, Atlas behind her. Her adopted son was a giant of a man, and it always boosted her confidence knowing he was with her. As she descended the stairs, she found the main sanctuary was already bustling with activity. Men who were not already engaged in sentry duty were scrambling to find weapons, ammunition and kiss family members goodbye. The women who were not assigned to help the fighters herded the children and elderly toward the basement steps. While a stranger might have viewed the scene as absolute chaos, everyone’s actions were actually well rehearsed after weeks of what amounted to open warfare.

  The First Bible Church’s extensive parking lot was ringed with a barrier of automobiles, church buses, and anything else the congregation could throw together to defend the property. All along the makeshift wall, men were running with weapons and bags of ammo. Deacon Brown rushed to the roof of the church’s two-story annex building attached to the main sanctuary. A few dozen plastic trash bags had been filled with sand, dirt, and gravel in order to create a command post overlooking most of the defensive positions. Atlas, as usual, stayed beside his mother. In addition to the church’s leader and her son, two of the best marksmen in the group took up positions with deer rifles. As suddenly as the mad scramble to man the wall had begun, it was over. All along the line, men with rifles at their shoulders took deep breaths and scanned the area in front of them, wondering if today would be their last. An eerie calm fell over the resistance as they waited for the attack. They wouldn’t have to wait long.

  As Smokey’s diversionary group spread out along a one-block area, the men naturally started running from position to position, bent at the waist. Most of them had heard the alarm whistle coming from the defenders to their front and understood there would be no surprise today. As soon as the attackers settled into positions, the leader looked at his watch and nodded. The three men with him all raised their rifles and began sending rounds into the church’s defensive positions, signaling the beginning of the attack. A few moments later, dozens of other rifles joined in and began pelting the church’s wall with lead.

  All along the northern border of the church grounds, bullets slammed into the makeshift barrier. Sparks flew, and metal thumped with the impact. The men assigned to defend this section had seen it all before. They stayed low behind proven bullet stops, only occasionally peering over and around cover.

  Many of the attackers were equipped with bolt-action rifles, and their rate of fire was limited. Every sporting goods store, private home, and pawnshop had been looted, with weapons and ammunition being a highly valued prize. Alpha, Texas had been a town of less than 10,000 residents and undergraduates. Hunting was far more popular than any tactical endeavors, so the majority of the weapons found were not military grade by any sense. Still, the number of attackers was significant enough to keep everyone’s head down. While the majority of the church’s barricade showed signs of battle damage, the skinnies had never been able to concentrate enough firepower to overwhelm the defenses. This stalemate had existed since the congregation had built the wall. Both sides knew it, and one defender was overheard saying, “Don’t these guys ever get tired of this silly game?”

  The game was about to change.

  Smokey and Hawk looked at each other and smiled. The diversion had started right on schedule, and their main attack force was almost in place. Everything was going according to plan so far. As they waited for the main attack column to take position, both men listened to the noise generated by the diversion. Along with the sporadic sound of gunfire, they could hear shouted commands coming from both sides of the fight. Smokey glanced over at Hawk and nodded, indicating it was time. Hawk smiled, mouthed the words, “See ya later,” and took off running back toward the courthouse.

  Deacon Brown looked up from her binoculars and met Atlas’ gaze. She shook her head in puzzlement, as something just didn’t seem right about this attack. She had watched over two dozen engagements with the people her men had nicknamed “the skinnies.” Normally, when they attacked the church’s perimeter, the skinnies tried to keep the defenders�
� heads down and probe the wall. Today, there didn’t seem to be any probing. She waited for five minutes, anticipating a small group to sprint out of hiding and charge the wall, but the attempt to breach never occurred. It seemed like the skinnies were happy to just sit back behind cover and waste ammunition. This is just odd, she thought, I bet we are going to see something new today.

  One of Smokey’s ex-cellmates approached and informed him everyone was in position. Smokey nodded and looked at his watch. Hawk should be here any minute. On cue, the attackers heard the sound of a diesel engine, approaching from behind them. Smokey looked around the corner and saw a large garbage truck rolling down the street. The emblem on the door read “City of Alpha – Department of Sanitation,” and Smokey thought it prophetic. He was going to take out that garbage behind that wall. Through the front windshield, he could see the outline of several sandbags that had been stacked to provide some protection for the driver. As the truck came to a stop a few blocks away, 12 of their best men started climbing into the empty garbage area where they would be protected by the thick, steel walls. Hawk jumped out of the passenger door and ran to join his leader.

  As soon as the men were loaded inside of the truck, the driver revved the big diesel engine, signaling he was ready. Hawk, along with another man, carried glass bottles of gasoline toward the perimeter of the church. Each bottle had a four-inch length of cloth stuffed into the opening. Commonly called a Molotov cocktail, the small mo-gas powered bombs were not overly effective as an antipersonnel device, but they could cause people to avoid or abandon an area. Hawk signaled to the men surrounding his position, and they opened fire on the wall directly in front of him. He pulled a cigarette lighter out of his shirt pocket and ignited the rag protruding from the top of the homemade bomb.