Pedestals of Ash

by Joe Nobody

  Both vehicles were destroyed, killing all aboard. The Cav lost Major Owens, and his death caused confusion. With their commander dead, the two remaining tanks belonging to the Cav began backing down the hill. The loss of Fitz didn’t immediately impact the counterattack by the 10th. Momentum was on their side, and when the shooting stopped, one Abrams and one Stryker made it to the junkyard. The 4th Brigade Combat Team, 10th Mountain Division, held Scott’s Hill.

  Suddenly, as if a switch had been pulled, everyone stopped shooting. The air was still polluted with an assortment of foreign sounds - the roaring flames of burning vehicles… the suffering of wounded men…. But this was practically silence, when compared to the orchestra of death booming only a short time before.

  While the men of the 10th still held the junkyard, in reality, the Cav had the better day. Colonel Marcus’ Independents suffered 80% losses - the 4-10 was no longer a combat effective unit. The Cav ended the battle with 40% losses, including their commanding officer and a significant number of his junior. Both sides ended the fight thinking they had suffered the worst of it.

  A kind of unofficial truce ensued on the battlefield surrounding Scott’s Hill. Teams of medics searched for injured survivors from both sides, often in plain sight of each other. The carnage was so prolific that neither side had the energy or motivation to start shooting at the other. The counting of causalities and the tending to the wounded became the mission, and that would continue for hours.

  Both the Independents and the Loyalists believed they had lost. Both of their radio networks were filled with desperate requests for reinforcements. In New Orleans and Beaumont, the Independents had organized several brigades. Orders went out for these sizable forces to immediately proceed to Shreveport and relieve the 4/10.

  The Cav was about to receive help as well. Thousands of men and hundreds of armored vehicles had been on the move before the beginning of the battle. Most were on their way to one city or another as part of the president’s Operation Heartland plan. When news of the battle reached the Commander in Chief, many of these units were diverted to Shreveport with orders to bust ass, and save what was left of the Ironhorse.

  For five hundred miles in every direction, units from both sides were converging on Scott’s Hill, now commonly referred to as, “Scott’s Hell.”

  Many Christians believe the battle of Armageddon is to occur on the Plains of Megiddo in the Middle East. Those who understood what was materializing in rural Louisiana wondered if Biblical scholars, interpreting Revelations, had gotten the location wrong.

  Chapter 10 – Unintended Consequences

  Senator Moreland sat with head down, elbows braced on his knees, and face in his hands. The basement of his West Virginia mountain retreat more closely resembled a war room than the 1950’s pool hall it had been decorated to mimic. Two general officers, both formally members of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, had joined the normal administrative staff running the Independents’ daily affairs. Both of the senior officers had brought along several staff members. All of them proudly wore uniforms of the United States armed forces.

  The satellite phones being used by their organization could transfer data as well as voice. Both modes were delivering bad news. All around the basement, laptop computers clicked and flashed as various staff members updated reports, issued orders, and checked on progress. It had been difficult enough for the small group of staffers to handle running their part of the country before conflict. Now that a war was on, it was complete bedlam.

  As the number of dead and wounded from the Mississippi Delta region increased, it became clear to everyone that a civil war had truly begun. The battle at Shreveport was the worst, but skirmishes had occurred all up and down the great river that day. In a few hours, the Independents had lost over 6,000 men, many dead and many more critically wounded. Enemy causalities were estimated to be nearly as high.

  The senator lifted his head and stared off into space, speaking to no one in particular. “How did this happen? How did this escalate so quickly?”

  One of the nearby generals shook his head in disgust. “Senator, it was inevitable. The frustration level of the average soldier on both sides is very high. We have thousands of armed men moving about the country in the same general area. Anyone who thought they wouldn’t fire on each other because they were ‘fellow Americans’ never studied the civil war.”

  The honorable gentleman nodded his head in understanding. He had expected some minor skirmishes, but not pitched battles. He stood and rotated his neck in small circles trying to work some of the stress out of his muscles. Movement in the center of the room drew his attention, and he strode toward the pool table. There, a large map of the central United States had been spread out over the green felt surface. Someone had procured a few bags of green and white plastic toy soldiers and tanks. These were being moved around on the map to indicate the positions of military units. The senator had heard the officers refer to his pool table as the “sand table.” Each plastic toy had been fitted with a toothpick and a small piece of white tape. The unit’s designation had been written in neat text on the tape.

  Even to someone without military training, it was clear that lines were being drawn. Both sides had recovered from the initial clash and were repositioning to fight again. The senator knew he couldn’t stop now, as they were committed. He turned away from the depiction of the looming conflict and shuffled to the stairs leading upward to the main level of the house. As he left the basement, his mind raced with everything he knew about the president and his advisors. Every meeting, political event, speech and even the man’s personal preferences was analyzed for the nth time, trying to guess the opponent’s next move. Senator Moreland knew he couldn’t contribute much to the military side of the equation. His expertise was the political aspect of the situation, and he was desperately trying to predict how the president would react to recent events.

  He was met at the top of the stairs by his long trusted aide and friend. “Wayne, I’m afraid our worst fears have been realized in northern Louisiana. A battle has been fought, and thousands of young men are dead.”

  Wayne looked at the senator long enough to judge how his friend was handling the news. After assuring himself the senator was okay, he looked down and said, “God rest their souls. God be with their loved ones.”

  The two men walked silently to the mansion’s parlor. The room was actually small for a home of this size, and rarely were guests allowed to enter. It had become the senator’s private retreat since the fall of the government, and his home becoming a substitute capital.

  Wayne immediately knew where his boss was headed and accelerated the last few steps to get the door. After his boss entered, he quickly closed it behind him and threw the lock. Without hesitation, Wayne crossed to a small serving cart and quickly poured two glasses of brandy.

  The head of the Independents nodded his gratitude and sipped the warming liquid. Wayne lifted the small glass to his lips, sampled the contents, and then exhaled a sigh of refreshment. “Sir, you knew this was a possibility. I know that doesn’t help much right now, but we all knew. Tell me, where do we stand?”

  Senator Moreland didn’t answer immediately. He took another sip from his glass and stared at the rows of leather-bound books lining one wall of the room. He had always enjoyed their smell more than the contents. Many of his colleagues on Capitol Hill were surprised to find out that he preferred an e-reader electron table to the traditional bound volumes. “Just because I’m old doesn’t mean I’m old-fashioned,” he had told them.

  After a short pause, he returned Wayne’s gaze and answered the question. “We still hold the ground around Shreveport, but I don’t know for how long. Only twenty percent of the military has joined us, and we seem badly outnumbered.”

  Wayne nodded his understanding. While the number of officers and men joining the Independents had been gradually increasing since they had started recruiting from the military, the overall percentage was still small.
It took time to convince men to do something as drastic as switch allegiances, especially during troubled times. This topic had been thoroughly discussed by the leadership during the past few weeks. The consensus had been that the intelligence gathered from their network of spies would offset their overall lack of numbers. The Independents knew what the president and his staff were doing before most of his military commanders did. Almost every remaining government organization had people inside who were loyal to the Independents. Radio operators, clerks, managers and even the heads of some agencies had pledged their allegiance some time ago, and provided a constant flow of information. Every military commander knew that information was a very powerful weapon.

  Senator Moreland looked at his old friend and trusted advisor with a scowl on his face. “I never thought this would escalate so quickly. I miscalculated their response. We can’t make the same mistake again. The president is on his way to Fort Bliss, and I have to wonder if there isn’t more to that trip than an effort to boost morale.”

  Wayne pondered the senator’s thought for a bit. “Our sources are not that close to their inner-circle, sir. There’s no way to know that. You’re not considering that other option, are you?”

  Wayne was referring to a proposal that had been floated soon after the president’s trip had been verified. The Independents had a significant number of men stationed at Fort Bliss. Originally assigned to slowly recruit new converts, they were to otherwise conduct themselves as normal and remain quietly embedded in the ranks. One of the military commanders had suggested that the men stationed at Fort Bliss could all but insure the Independents’ success if they were to “chop off the head of the snake,” or in other words, assassinate the President of the United States.

  Senator Moreland and some senior members of the Independents had rejected the plan outright. Moreland’s primary justification was an innate dislike of subterfuge. The senator believed the movement tainted its legitimacy by even considering such activities. To his surprise, several of the senior members disagreed with him. Their position in the debate focused on saving lives and rebuilding the country as soon as possible. If an end to the American people’s suffering could be accelerated by skullduggery, so be it.

  By the end of the meeting, Moreland had to admit the point was valid. A vote was taken, and the coup attempt lost – but just barely.

  Moreland looked at Wayne and retorted, “My vote isn’t the final say of this organization, my old friend. Our direction is determined by majority ballot. I must tell you though, we are going to have another meeting tonight, and after the battle in Louisiana, I’m afraid that plan will be revisited and approved.”

  “Senator, you are too humble. Your voice carries a lot of weight with the council. If you argue against assassination, it won’t happen.”

  Moreland nodded his understanding of Wayne’s point. After smiling at his aide, the senator finished his brandy and stared at the empty glass in his hand. “I’m not sure I want to argue against that plan, Wayne. I’m not so sure at all.”

  Colonel Marcus was running on pure adrenaline. He had moved his field command to the outskirts of Shreveport in order to be close to the makeshift field hospital. The facility had been hastily set up in a middle school gymnasium. Even after 15 years of warfare in the Middle East, the colonel was shocked at the carnage. He remembered being briefed before the First Gulf War on the anticipated causalities. He had been a young shave-tail lieutenant then and had sat wide-eyed when shown slides detailing the tons of medical equipment being stationed behind the Saudi/Iraq border. That war followed a very different track, and those medical supplies had, for the most part, been shipped home. He would give anything for even a small portion of that cache now.

  Marcus was visiting the wounded troops from both sides. The gym was lined with row after row of cots filled with burned, wounded, or dying men. Poles with bags of fluid and dangling tube stood like sentries next to dozens of cots. Large plastic bags, overflowing with bloody bandages, scraps of uniforms and medical wrappers were scattered throughout the area. Men and women moved hastily back and forth carrying blankets, syringes, medications, and all too often – body bags. Several nearby classrooms were now makeshift morgues, and they were almost full. Medical personnel, chaplains, and enlisted men hurried from one man to another, trying to do the best possible humanitarian work. Marcus was thankful when two civilian doctors from Shreveport had heard the battle and shown up to help.

  He had already given blood twice and had organized shifts so the 4/10’s remaining men could get a little down time and donate too. The school’s cafeteria had been converted into an operating room. As he walked past, he noticed groups of exhausted doctors and nurses standing in small groups or sitting with head in hands. Many of the operating room personnel wore sky blue masks over their faces, but Marcus could tell from the body language they were wearing thin. Outside the operating room, scores of litters lined both sides of the long hallway – men being triaged and waiting for their turn in surgery. Two nurses moved from man to man, and Marcus watched as they covered one soldier’s face with a sheet. Another one that didn’t make it to surgery.

  As he walked outside, several of his junior officers huddled in a small group waiting on him. He appreciated the show of respect they had afforded by not interrupting his visit to the hospital. Even now, they held their ground and waited for their commander to approach. The 4/10 had been shredded as a unit. Most military experts agreed that any single organization should be considered “combat ineffective” after 30% losses. The 4/10 had suffered 70% killed or wounded. The percentage of vehicles destroyed or unserviceable was even greater. Still, the 4/10 had held against a superior force. That fact gave the colonel little consolation at this point. He had watched his command be torn apart in less than three hours, and holding the field at the end of the battle didn’t seem to mean that much right now.

  Regardless, he considered himself a professional soldier and would carry on. The Independents had been marshaling a significant number of assets in New Orleans over the last few months. Originally comprised of small units that had joined the cause one or two at a time, the officers there had been working hard to organize and integrate these elements into a large, effective fighting force. According to the reports given to the colonel, the interstate between Shreveport and New Orleans was filled with military vehicles heading north to join what was left of the 10th Mountain’s brigade.

  The first convoy of reinforcements had arrived a few hours ago, and every few minutes it seemed like another line of tanks, trucks, or personal carriers pulled up. School busses by the hundreds drove in, each discharging about 50 combat troops and their gear. The ruling council of the Independents had decided to leave Marcus in charge. That vote of confidence wasn’t important to him right now. His immediate priority was to integrate the newly arriving assets and position them as best he could. It was no secret that the other side was regrouping and being reinforced as well.

  As he walked away from the medical facility, his officers gathered around him and politely took turns delivering the latest status reports and asking for orders. Marcus made his decisions quickly and without hesitation. By the time he reached his command post, all but of few of his officers had received their orders and peeled off from the group to execute them.

  The colonel was handed yet another cup of coffee by someone, and without even thinking, held it up to his lips. He strode purposefully over to a makeshift table, constructed from two sawhorses and a piece of plywood. Spread out on the surface was a large map of the immediate area. After carefully glancing at the position of the newly arriving units, he couldn’t help himself and let out a long whistle.

  Laid out before him was a force almost three times the size of the 4/10. He now had over 30 M1 tanks on the line and more arriving every hour. There were at least 100 additional armored vehicles in the area and over 10,000 infantry. That number was expected to double by morning.

  Marcus shook his head and looked ar
ound at the countryside and thought, Why here? If the Cav were receiving even half of the assets he was, the next clash would result in tens of thousands dead. At some level, it didn’t make any sense to the colonel. If this fight was taking place near Washington D.C. or a major city, then it might seem justified. There was nothing of critical strategic value here except the approach to a few nuclear power plants and a big muddy river some miles away. Still, he was a professional and in command. He took another sip of his coffee and turned to find an aide. He wanted to check on the pre-positioning of ammunition.

  Chapter 11 – Feint Accompoli

  Bishop awoke about an hour before sunset. He was both concerned and curious about the noise, lights and booby-trap encountered the night before. After making a quick breakfast, he organized his gear and cleaned up his bivouac. Just as the ambient light was fading in the west, he began to climb up the ridge that had been the scene of the previous night’s encounter. He wanted to scout the area in the natural light as much as possible and be in a secure position as darkness closed in.

  After carefully following the same path as the night before, Bishop found the new trip line. He was tempted to peek over the ridge more than once, but decided it was too risky, and resisted his curious nature until the light completely faded. It would be a while before the moon rose, and that helped his cause even more.

  He was about to move toward the ridge when the sound of an internal combustion engine floated across the rocks, and electric lights began producing an eerie glow over the surrounding area. Whatever was on the other side of that ridge was now in business, and Bishop moved carefully to see what all the fuss was about.

  After eventually finding a good vantage to peep over the crest, he froze for several seconds, taking in the sights below. There was an immense building that would have covered several football fields spread across the desert floor. The entire length of one side consisted of massive, elevated doors - the kind used to unload semi-tractor trailers. Several of the bays were occupied by trailers, still backed up to the warehouse, no doubt to have cargo loaded or unloaded.