by Joe Nobody
Agent Powell watched as an army private mopped the floor outside of the conference room. The lights had been turned up, and several men were busy cleaning up the last remnants of the firefight. Normally, the Secret Service would have immediately called in the FBI to process the crime scene, but the El Paso field office had ceased to function months ago. He had considered calling in experts from Washington, but every available government official in the capital was trying to rebuild the White House, Capital Building and other official offices that had been ransacked during the riots. The few FBI agents who did report for work were busy running down a long list of missing government officials, including the majority of the House and Senate. The military had established order two days after the White House had been overrun, and in reality the riot had pretty much burned itself out before the tanks had rolled into town.
While the Pentagon’s location had prevented it from being damaged, the number of soldiers and civilian staffers showing up to work had been next to zero. The riots had made several nearby streets impassable, and most people took the D.C. police’s orders to “stay in your homes” seriously. Agent Powell normally stood behind the boss during status meetings and knew the number of people reporting for duty and work had been trickling higher since the outburst of violence, but still a vast majority of the federal agencies were non-functional. A big part of the problem was the fact that practically every interstate and surface road within 50 miles of a major city was a parking lot of abandoned vehicles. Even if employees wanted to show up for work, there was no way they could drive to the office.
Powell remembered the president being upset after reading one such report at Fort Knox. The man had taken it personally and believed it some sort of measurement of loyalty, directed at him personally. Powell had been listening to that meeting from his normal post at the door. That misinterpretation had been one of the first signs the commander had shown of cracking under stress. The service was trained to watch and observe for such reactions, but there had been few other incidents, and no action had been required. Powell was unsure, given the collapse of the government, what he would have done about it anyway.
The senior agent actually liked this president. Given his 31 years of guarding various heads of state, he had seen it all. While this man wasn’t the brightest person to occupy the oval office, he wasn’t the dumbest either. Truth be told, he was relatively honest and seemed to be truly motivated to do a good job for the country. His analysis ended immediately at that point. It wasn’t the service’s job to decide if any president were effective, a clown, or a genius. Their training and policies were very strict, and Agent Powell believed that narrow view was appropriate, given the job of protecting the chief executive at all costs. An agent was more likely to throw his body into the line of fire for a man he admired, than a man he despised. The agency realized this, and thus structured their training to avoid the personal evaluation of any specific president's job performance from entering the equation.
Now, the man he had sworn to protect was missing. Agent Powell had lead the counterattack against the assassins only to find a pile of bodies, and none of them belonged to the boss. At first, everyone assumed that the Independents had captured the president, but within 15 minutes the bound MP was found, and the facts became clear.
They didn’t even know the stranger’s real or full name. He had shown up at the guardhouse with valid papers and an attitude. Powell didn’t believe the messenger was involved in the assassination attempt. One of the Independents was found wounded and lying on the floor of the hallway. The man was dying and in a lot of pain. The morphine injection not only eased his suffering, but also loosened his tongue, and he claimed that the stranger was to be executed as well. The two dead bodies found in the room where the stranger had last been seen, added credibility to that information.
So this single man had shot his way through a death squad, rescued or taken the president, and escaped a major military base unseen. Agent Powell grunted and shook his head. The guy had been a smart ass according to all reports. He clearly had a large pair and some skills to back them up. Powell didn’t believe the president was dead. If the stranger had wanted to kill the boss, he could have done so a dozen times before leaving the base. If the guy’s story was to be believed, he had traveled across the desert to deliver the Colonel’s report, so he had some level of loyalty to the chief.
They had his fingerprints on the documents delivered to the president. They also had the serial numbers from his weapons and night vision. In normal times, Agent Powell would have known every single detail about the guy within 15 minutes. These were not normal times. The usual fingerprint identification systems were down. The Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms had burned to the ground in Washington, so tracing the serial numbers from the weapons was next to impossible. It was all maddening to the agent – all of his normal tools were unavailable…and just when he needed them most.
Still, he didn’t think the guy wanted to hurt the boss. He probably will show up at the gate with the president soon, thought Powell. I wouldn’t be surprised if he walked through that door with the chief in tow any minute now.
Powell couldn’t count on some guy he didn’t know. That wasn’t part of the job. They were going to be searching from the air with the two Blackhawks soon, but he didn’t hold out much hope for that being a success. Whoever this stranger was, he was smart enough to hide from an aerial search, and it was a mighty big desert out there.
Suddenly, the senior agent remembered the president’s jacket. That was it! The GPS locator sewn into the collar should still function. The service had never used the system as no one had ever lost track of the chief executive. Powell rushed out of the room and down the hall to General Westfield’s office. Rudely barging through the base commander’s door, he blurted out, “General, can you get me in contact with the Air Force’s Space Command up at Peterson?”
The general brushed aside his annoyance at being interrupted and replied, “I’m not sure. Those Air Force boys have had their heads buried in the sand since this all went down. They claim to barely be holding their own bases and protecting those precious flying machines of theirs. I’ll have communications see if they can raise them on the sat system. I’m here to tell you though; they aren’t going to give us any aircraft. They keep fussing and making excuses about having no spare parts or fuel or flying blind without weather reports.”
Powell shook his head, “The air assets I want are already up there, general. Let’s hope they answer.”
Smokey pointed to the large map of Alpha, spread out on the courthouse’s marble floor. The map had been found in the Visitor’s Bureau lobby and moved to its current location. Gathered around the detailed representation of the small town were several of the head criminal’s lieutenants.
“We were too slow to enter the gap created by the garbage truck,” he began. “The holy rollers had too much time to react, and that’s what cost us.” Smokey looked around at everyone’s eyes, making sure his words were being taken seriously. “This evening, when we punch through their wall, we have to pour in like crazy. Once inside, don’t allow your men to bunch up or stop to close to the entrance. Spread out, and keep moving everyone forward.”
Again, his gaze was met with nods of understanding.
Smokey knew they had hurt the defenders badly. Had it not been for the last second heroics of that giant Russian, they would have overrun the church, and he would be having his fun with that Deacon Brown woman about now. He chuckled at the thought, “If she lasts that long.”
It had taken his men some time to recover as well. Despite his better instincts, Smokey had discovered that even the most hardcore of men would fight better if they believed medical attention was available to the wounded. In the first few skirmishes with the church, he had ordered the wounded left in the field to die. The reaction from his followers had proven this to be a mistake. Smokey ‘adjusted’ his thinking on the subject, and since then the wounded had be
en treated as humanely as possible. Some had healed and gone on to fight another day. Now, the majority of his lieutenants boasted of gunshot wounds, showing off the scars to the men with less experience.
While they had killed several of their foes, they had suffered as well. A head count revealed 28 fewer men than had started the attack. It was the worst single day death toll so far, but Smokey knew he had to press his advantage and do so quickly.
Over the next 20 minutes, Smokey made every man repeat the plan back to him. He wanted to verify each of his group leaders knew his role and where everyone else was going to be. He had watched too many attacks peter out because of confusion or lack of communication. He wanted to get this over with while he still had enough manpower to control the town.
One thing that puzzled him was the report of a single truck sneaking out of the church compound early this morning. The observer couldn’t tell who was driving, but the vehicle sped southeast toward Meraton. Smokey’s people had raided the tiny town a few times, but had returned with little loot. At least the ranch a few miles north had cattle and other livestock to steal and butcher. After he had mopped up that little chapel and secured their water supply, he would focus his attentions on that ranch next, and then the little town if it suited him. For right now, he had to motivate his men to fight even harder and take apart those people at the church.
Colonel Marcus slowly bent over and began unlacing his boots. He hadn’t slept in 48 hours, and he was feeling the pain in his lower back. His aide set up a cot next to the receptionist’s work area, outside of the principal’s office. He could close the door and have some privacy. A pair of windows had been opened, letting in the light breeze from the southwest. As he slowly pulled off a boot, the odor from his socks drifted up and caused a grimace. A shower would be the first thing on his agenda when he woke up. The second boot didn’t produce any rosier results. He started to smell his armpits, but decided he’d had enough torture for one day. He managed to stand for a moment and took a knee next to the folding cot. Bracing his elbows on the edge, he lowered his head and whispered a prayer:
Father in heaven, forgive me my transgressions against others this day. Forgive me if I have not done your will. My father please be with the families of the men who perished on the field of battle today. Please welcome every single soldier’s soul into your kingdom as those men and women have already suffered through hell. Please God, give those who command us here on earth the wisdom to stop this madness. Show them the way, Lord. Amen
The colonel laid back on the stiff cotton surface. All of the pillows were being used for the wounded, but he didn’t care. It was a relief to stretch out and remove the pressure from his lower vertebra.
Marcus stared up at the block panel ceiling, the grids reminding him of the maps he had been working with all day. The reinforcements arriving from all over the region had to be logged, briefed, and assigned sectors of operation. The flow of units reporting to his command had finally slowed to a trickle a few hours ago, and his officers had insisted he catch a few Zzzzzzs. The fact that he couldn’t remember the command frequencies probably worried his juniors.
The colonel sighed and rubbed his eyes. He had done everything possible to get his command ready. After the last battle, he doubted it would be enough. He wondered if every commander felt the same hollowness in his gut after watching the destruction of an entire brigade. His beloved 4/10 was gone, the faces of his men still flashing before his eyes.
When the Independents had informed him that he was still in command, his initial thought had been to protest. Hadn’t he done enough? Now that he was winding down, he realized their decision had been a blessing. The work had kept his mind from the previous day’s slaughter.
Visions of exploding tanks, screaming men and flames kept cycling through his head. Ordering two Strykers full of infantry directly into an ambush… watching the burning men trying to crawl across the ground through his binoculars…. Talking with a young lieutenant on the radio to be suddenly interrupted by screams and chaos as his tank was hit…. Marcus wondered if the memories would ever fade.
It wasn’t just his men. Perhaps that’s why it seemed so bad. He had watched Americans on the other side suffer just as badly. Marcus wondered if recalling the enemy’s destruction would normally offset the pain he felt at his own losses – if they hadn’t been his countrymen.
There had been two different points in the battle where Marcus had thought to order his command company into the fray. As he looked back, he had wanted so badly to join his men on the field, but a last second maneuver or event had canceled the need. His desire to engage hadn’t been about bravery or honor. The colonel had long ago established he possessed plenty of both. The assortment of ribbons on his dress uniform were impressive, even for a command level officer. No, it wasn’t to prove anything to anyone – it was for his brothers in arms. Marcus had wanted to join the fight because his men were dying and needed his help. That situation peeled back the layers of responsibility, command and common sense like a sharp knife removed the skin of an apple. Men he had sacrificed, suffered, and served with were being killing by the hundreds, but he had pushed down an almost uncontrollable urge to join in their struggle.
In the end, it hadn’t been necessary. Marcus wondered what he would be feeling now if he had “found work,” on the battlefield that day. Would he not have this empty feeling inside? Would he actually feel worse?
“Come on old man, this isn’t your first rodeo. You’ve seen your share of death before,” he whispered aloud to himself. No, he decided, not like yesterday – nothing like that. Not since D-Day had an army suffered so many casualties in such a short amount of time. Even the Israeli routes of their Arab neighbors had seen less death stretched over a longer period of time.
A man doesn’t reach the rank of colonel in the United States Army without possessing an abundant amount of self-control and discipline. Marcus pulled deep from inside and corralled his emotions. He had to rest, and sleep wouldn’t come if he kept on this current mental path. He found the best way to push past events out of his mind was to concentrate on the future. He focused his thoughts on the upcoming engagement.
The Independents had now marshaled over 50,000 men and 300 armored vehicles in the immediate area around Shreveport. That was almost 10 times the number that participated in the Battle of Scott’s Hill. What was even more troubling was the fact that intelligence believed they were still outnumbered. Not since WWII had such a force on force battle been joined, and the capabilities of the modern war machines far outperformed their counterparts of 65 years ago.
Marcus had been waiting on the other side to tear into his forces for several hours, but no attack had been launched. There had been a lot of speculation about why the other side had held its lines, but no one really knew. Were they still gathering assets, hoping for overwhelming force? Was there some logistics problem putting their attack on hold? Rumors ran rampant all up and down the line, but facts were few and far between. One whispered story had it that the Loyalists were just going to nuke the Independents and “get it over with.” Marcus had to admit, if he were commanding the other side, that option might be tempting.
Just over an hour ago, he had received yet another call on his sati-cell. The man who had been issuing his orders since he joined the rebel group informed him that he shouldn’t expect any attack for some time. Furthermore, the Independents were not to initiate any offensive actions. That last part of the message was clarified in an unusual way – “No, I repeat zero offensive actions or tactics. The enemy is not to be provoked, probed, or baited. If they move against you, Colonel, then unleash the dogs of war, but do nothing until then, or until you receive further orders. Is that clear?”
“What an odd little war,” thought Marcus. He went back to thinking about his reserve forces and their deployment using the grids on the school’s ceiling. He didn’t notice when the square panels began to blur. In a few minutes, anyone walking past the principal’
s office would have heard a gentle snoring coming from inside.
Chapter 14 – Alpha Males
Bishop was riding shotgun as the chauffeur-in-chief drove the Humvee across the rugged desert terrain. They had carefully crossed over a road some time ago, and both men had been tempted to use the paved surface, but decided against it.
After a platitude of jokes focused on the rough ride and each other’s driving abilities, both men had become quiet the last few miles. Bishop estimated they were about 20 miles north of Alpha, and he was trying to determine the best way to approach the church’s compound.
An extra hard jolt snapped him back to the situation at hand, and he decided they needed another break. “Mr. President, how about we cook that rabbit? I recall the vegetation gets pretty sparse ahead, and these hills will block most of the cook fire’s smoke. This may be the last chance we get to eat something hot for a while. Besides, I don’t think I have any more fillings for you to jar loose.”
The older man next to him started to voice a comeback, but decided he didn’t want to waste the energy. He simply nodded his head and asked, “Where should we stop?”
Bishop pointed to a flat area underneath a steep hillside not far away. In another few minutes, both men were stretching aching backs and stiff legs. Bishop hobbled to the back of the Humvee and pulled out the dead rabbit. He gave his fellow traveler the option of gathering firewood or skinning the kill. The president decided to hunt for wood, so Bishop pulled his knife and quickly cleaned the hare.
In another 15 minutes, a rather effective, field-expedited rotisserie was cooking the fresh meat over a roaring fire of scrub oak and mesquite. Bishop decided he wanted to scout around a little bit before they began dinner, so he strapped on his rifle and moved a few hundred yards in every direction but up the hill. Nothing of interest was found.