by Danny Loomis
“Stable, sir,” General Smith said. “We have two battalions in place, augmented by Confederation forces. I see no reason not to attend the Confederation’s landing.”
The President turned to Captain Sanchez. “I realize you have reservations about our plans of a welcoming ceremony for your Confederation troops, but do you have any concrete reason, military or political to support your views, Captain?”
Sanchez was slow to reply. “No, sir, not really. It just feels wrong to have you and your strongest supporters expose yourselves in an obviously hostile environment. I’m not sure the risks outweigh the benefits.”
President Martinez smiled. “Trust me, Captain, the potential benefits are greater than you think.” He turned to his chief-of-staff. “Richard, could you fill the Captain in on what we expect from this ceremony?”
“Certainly, Mister President.” Richard Dupont was not only the closest advisor to the President, he was also chairman of the board of Dupont Pharmaceuticals, one of the largest business conglomerates on the planet. “The morale of the people who support us out west has dropped sharply since the raid at the Red Diamond mine site. By having heads of government show the flag, we’ll bolster their spirit as well as show support for the military. It will also send a signal to the rebels that we’re not afraid of them, and that we fully endorse the aid we receive from the Confederation.”
Captain Sanchez nodded. “I see the value of what you’re planning, Mr. President, but it would be a disaster of major proportions if you got yourself killed.”
“On a personal note, I agree with you, Captain. If I was killed, my wife would never let me forget it.” Everyone chuckled in the room, even Captain Sanchez.
“Politically, I feel this is a good first step at trying to gain back some of the support we’ve lost in the west over the past several months. God knows, if we want to see an end to this, we have to get the populace in that region actively supporting the government.”
“Besides,” General Smith said, “You’ve done a good job training my troops. My best soldiers are stationed at the airfield, and I feel they can more than adequately protect the President.”
“I bow to your superior logic, sir,” Captain Sanchez said.
President Martinez chuckled. “Spoken like a true diplomat.” He lowered his head a moment in thought. “Now, to business. We should be at the airfield in four days time, just prior to the landing. Have you invited all the regional politicians? I know the Mayor of Richland would be miffed if he didn’t receive a personal one.”
Dupont nodded. “Taken care of, sir. You were very gracious in your invitation. We’ve also made a special point to invite Senator DeVille, this year’s leader for the opposition.”
The President shrugged, a sour look on his face. “Have to take the bad with the good, I suppose. Just don’t put that sonofabitch next to me at any functions like you did last year, Richard. I want my staunchest supporters by me so we present a united front to the Confederation when they land.” He gestured an apology to Sanchez. “Meaning no offense to you, Captain. You’ve done a superb job filling in for the Orion Confederation.”
“None taken, sir,” he said. “I contacted Commodore Givens, the task force commander, when they entered the system. He feels like I do about the chances you’re taking with this public appearance, but he understands why. If this goes off without any disruptions, it’ll definitely lift the spirits of the population.”
“Not if, but when, Captain,” General Smith said.
Captain Sanchez smiled agreement, glad the General couldn’t read his thoughts. He still harbored a bad feeling, one he couldn’t shake. Last time he felt like this was as a platoon leader. Despite misgivings at that time, he’d led his command into an ambush of enemy troops that Intel had sworn were a thousand klicks away. Since then he’d learned to trust his instincts, and it went against the grain to ignore them now. Once this planning session was over, he’d contact Lieutenant Stanton and pass on his fears.
“The last agenda item is probably the most sensitive, gentlemen,” the President said. “We need to notch up our efforts against the rebels. General, you have the floor.”
General Smith stood, and gestured to an aide who dimmed the lights and turned on a holo projector. “With the invaluable help of Captain Sanchez, we identified several objectives we have to achieve. The first is to provide security to vulnerable installations and population centers.” Several bright orange points blinked on the map being projected of the western seaboard.
“We already moved one regiment into the Richland area, and another arrived yesterday. I’ve sent troops to provide security in every village and town. Since they provide their own bivouac, there is a minimum of interface between them and the civilian population, which should keep tensions at a minimum.
“So far there have been very few incidents, and two instances where we’ve foiled terrorist attempts. Maximum publicity ensures everyone knows what we’re doing to protect the citizens in the west.” Another picture depicted the major transportation routes.
“Next, we have company sized elements patrolling the major roads, and providing roadblocks to routes that lead to the interior. Several tons of foodstuffs have been confiscated which were headed to rebel encampments. At least two dozen military assault rifles, four heavy machine guns, and two trucks loaded with ammunition were also recovered. These were taken from the armory in Richland, which was raided some time ago. We’ve had an increased number of attempts to evade or destroy these roadblocks. Additional troops are moving to reinforce them as I speak.” The next slide clicked up.
“Finally, we’ve identified these locations as possible encampments of rebels, and these trails as their main routes.” Thin snaky lines connected several orange dots on the map.
“Fresh troops from the regiment which just arrived in the area will be sent out in battalion strength to conduct search-and-destroy missions. We partially restricted this effort, since the troops have limited training in this type of warfare. Once the Confederation troops are on the ground we can become more aggressive with this particular objective.”
“This looks good, General,” the President said. “What about reactions of the populace? I know it may be too soon to judge their response, but we need to ensure we keep from using excessive pressure on them.”
“Good point, Mr. President,” General Smith said. “Explicit orders have been given to treat civilians with as much restraint as possible. There’ll be some instances it can’t be avoided, but we hope to keep them to a minimum.”
* * *
Roadblock 22-6, west of Richland:
Sergeant Ralph Hornbeck touched his brand-new sergeant’s stripes again and marched to the barbed-wire gates hung across Route 22, the coastal highway. This was his first shift as Sergeant of the Guard, and he floated rather than walked. Yesterday had been the awards ceremony, and his wife Jennie took lots of pictures while he was promoted. Just two and a half years in Star’s End Army, and already promoted. Another smile ran across his face when he came to a stop near the small tent next to the roadblock. This roadblock had been his idea.
Last week the roadblock had been at the junction of the east-bound road leading to Richland, and major traffic jams became common. In frustration, he’d gone to his platoon leader. He smiled again, remembering the conversation.
“Sir, I have a suggestion to ease the traffic problems we’re having.” Lieutenant Jankowski had been at his desk, lounged back with both feet on it.
“Go ahead, Specialist; I’m listening,” he said.
“Why don’t we make three roadblocks? One a kilometer south on Route 22, one a kilometer north, and one a kilometer east on the highway to Richland.”
“Come off it,” the Lieutenant scoffed. “We don’t have the manpower. We need at least another squad where we are.”
“But that’s because most of us are out directing traffic, sir. If you only checked traffic coming north on the southern roadblock, south on the norther
n roadblock and west on the eastern one, you’d be able to use us for roadblock duty only. No need to have us act as traffic cops.”
After a moment’s thought, Lieutenant Jankowski took his feet off the desk and sat upright. “You know, you might have something there. Get me a map, and let’s draw this out.”
Three days later the company commander himself had shaken his hand, and congratulated him on his initiative. No doubt about it. The Army was his career.
He looked around with a frown. “Private Hillyard, where’re the trucks?”
Private Hillyard scurried from the tent, fastened his helmet strap and tried to sling his rifle at the same time. “Sorry, Sergeant. No blocking trucks for the next four hours. Forgot to tell you. They had to move reinforcements up to all the roadblocks, so they took our trucks to do it.” Hornbeck shrugged in resignation. Oh, well. Been quiet lately. Four soldiers on the roadblock each eight-hour shift had handled the traffic so far today. A large truck, looked like a ten-wheeler, crept down the road toward the roadblock, a couple of wheeled cars some distance behind. His first traffic check as Sergeant of the Guard. He tugged his shirt down and touched his stripes one more time and walked towards the truck, just as it wheezed to a stop.
* * *
“There’s the roadblock,” the man who called himself George said. “Just slow ’er down gradual-like, and stop where they want us to. Our papers are okay. We’ll make it through just fine. Don’t look so tense, Andy.”
Andy Hornbeck tried to keep his nervousness from showing. His first convoy for the Sons of Freedom. He was proud he could do something valuable for his comrades-in-arms. He’d driven truck for three years during school, both he and his cousin. His uncle paid pretty good. Too bad they couldn’t see the only way to make things better was to throw off the yoke of those damned easterners. He and Ralph had almost come to blows over their different views. It was a disappointment to have someone like a brother to him not able to see the truth of the matter. The truck eased to a stop, and a soldier came swaggering up. He looked like such an asshole. Wait a minute. That looked like—
“Andy?” the soldier said, looking at him in disbelief. “Is that you?”
“Ralph—What’re you doing here?” My God, he was a soldier. Andy began to shift away from the window.
“I thought you’d joined those damned rebels. What…” Sudden comprehension appeared on his face, and he began to lift his rifle.
There was a loud explosion next to Andy’s head. The man riding with him had fired a shotgun into the face of his cousin. It threw him ten feet backwards, his face a pulped ruin.
“Go, go, go,” shouted George, pumping two more shots out the window. Andy slammed the truck into gear and floored the accelerator, knocking the gates down when he barreled through. Three soldiers appeared to their right and fired into the truck. George grunted in pain, and collapsed against Andy. Blood sprayed across the windshield from a throat torn out by a ricochet. Grimly, he kept the accelerator floored and managed to push George’s body away.
Andy felt intolerable heat on the back of his head. He threw open the truck door and dove out of the vehicle. Being in the same vicinity as a truck load of ammunition and explosives that was on fire wasn’t the safest place to be. He rolled into the ditch and covered himself best he could before the world ended in a terrific blast of sound and flame.
It was full dark when Andy regained consciousness. By some miracle the militia had not found him. The layer of dirt and grass thrown over him from the blast must have been enough of a camouflage. He staggered upright and began his trek back to the city of Richland. Throughout the walk, he saw Ralph’s face being blown away with almost every step. A silent litany resounded with each breath: My fault. My fault.
Thirty years later, Andy would still wake from a nightmare, seeing Ralph’s face, what was left of it, leer at him from his dreams. No matter that he would be a successful businessman and avid supporter of the government. No matter that he would be a loving husband and father of three. Until his death he would carry the guilt of that day with him.
* * *
Village of Mount-Laurier (North of Richland):
Michelle Baie sauntered up to the guard post just outside the village, and waved at the familiar face behind the barricade. “Hello, Private Nesbitt. How are you today?”
“Just fine, Michelle,” the lanky nineteen-year-old said, his face lighting up in a smile. Just the right age, thought Michelle, who had celebrated her fifteenth birthday last month. And so good-looking when he smiled. Even though he tried to look serious while on duty, he always brightened when she visited. “I stopped at Grolier’s Bakery on the way over. He said he hoped you would enjoy the bread. Made fresh this morning.” She passed a large parcel over the barricade. Two other soldiers came over and helped themselves to a loaf from the bag held by Nesbitt. He removed the last loaf, and released a pressure switch on a detonator attached to four ounces of plastic explosives in the bottom of the bag. The resulting explosion tore Nesbitt’s left arm off at the shoulder, and punched a hole through his midsection to his spine. By the time he hit the ground, he was dying.
Michelle was frozen. The horror of what she had just witnessed robbed her of movement. A moan formed deep in her throat, threatened to escape.
Sergeant of the Guard Tibbs had arrived at the barricade just in time to witness Nesbitt’s acceptance of the package from the young woman. By the time Nesbitt’s body hit the ground, Tibbs was already over him, attempting to staunch the flow of blood. “Medic! Get Thompson over here. Now!” As the medic arrived, Nesbitt opened his eyes long enough to look at Sergeant Tibbs. “W-why, Sarge? Why?” The light faded from his eyes even as he struggled for a last breath.
Sergeant Tibbs stood upright. He looked at the young woman who turned even whiter than before, and whirled to run. He was on her in one tigerish pounce, and knocked her to the ground.
“You little bitch,” he grated, dragging her by the hair toward the closest building. “Goddamn you. Nesbitt was a good soldier. You and your filthy kind are gonna pay for this.” Two other hard-eyed soldiers joined him. They hustled the girl into a small barn, and closed the door behind them.
“What’s your name?” Tibbs snarled.
“M-Michelle. Michelle Baie.”
“That’s good. Baie, huh?” He tore off her dress, then her undergarments, startling a whimper from her. The other two soldiers held her down. “Now, girlie, we’ll show you what real men do to rebel trash like you.”
Michelle struggled, but the hands gripped like iron. She screamed, and was backhanded, causing her to bite through her tongue. The full weight of the man was pressed down on her, and a rough probing between her legs turned into a mountain of fire and pain. The unending screams began, ripped her throat raw.
“Goddamn it, gimme something to stuff in her mouth,” growled Tibbs.
As the rag was shoved in Michelle’s mouth, the blood from her tongue pooled up and choked her. She couldn’t breathe. Her struggles intensified, and she saw blackness, interspersed with stars. A void of unconsciousness swept over her, the pain disappearing. By the time the third man raped her, Michelle had stopped breathing.
An hour after dark, Franklin Baie heard a vehicle approach. He and his wife wondered about Michelle’s whereabouts when she failed to show for dinner. Now, two hours later they were frantic, and he had just called the police. A van whined to a stop in front of their house. They opened the door, with an upsurge of hope.
Four soldiers thrust their way into his home. Two of them carried something.
“Franklin Baie?” the largest soldier asked, a Lieutenant by the tabs on his shoulders.
“Yes, sir. Have you come about my daughter?” he asked.
“You might say that.” He gestured, and what looked like a bundle of rags was flung at his feet. Only it wasn’t rags. The dead eyes of Michelle stared up at him. He was so stricken with horror he almost missed what the officer said next.
“Your daughter
was involved in a death at the army camp today. If any more of you western scum attempt anything, we’ll raze this town. You understand me?” snarled the Lieutenant. The other three soldiers searched each room, knocked over furniture, searched closets, and emptied drawers onto the floor.
Franklin and his wife fell to their knees and embraced the remains of their daughter. The large officer kicked Franklin, knocked him to the floor.
“I said, do you understand?”
Franklin’s eyes had gone flat and hard. “I understand, all right. Don’t worry, we’ll do our duty.”
“Good, then maybe the rest of you might survive.” The soldiers completed their search, and departed.
When Franklin heard the vehicle start up and pull away, he turned to his wife. “Get Martha from next door to help you. I must go out for awhile.”
* * *
Captain Bell, commander of the troops located near Mt. Laurier, was unhappy. “Damn it, First Sergeant, we were sent here to protect these people, not stir up a hornet’s nest.” The orderly room was too small to pace in, so he remained seated and fidgeted instead.
“I know, sir,” First Sergeant Jelnick said. “That’s why we arrested those dumb sons of bitches. They may’ve acted in the heat of the moment, but that’s no excuse for rape and murder. From what the eyewitnesses said, she was surprised like everybody else at the explosion.”
“Which makes it worse.” Bell sighed and rubbed his face with both hands. “Still no sign of the baker?”
“No, sir. He left soon’s word got around ’bout the explosion.” Jelnick shifted in his chair. “I screwed up when I asked Lieutenant Ness to take the girl’s body back to her folks. He’s almost rabid in his dislike of westerners. Apparently he wasn’t very polite to the family. Tore the house up looking for contraband, too.”
Bell stared at his First Sergeant for a long moment. “I think we both may lose our jobs over this, Top. But until then, let’s salvage what we can. Have Lieutenant Ness report to me. Then you and I are going to have a talk with the Mayor.”