“Have you found the dossier sir?” the sergeant asked.
“I’m sure I must have left it in the Hum-Vee we left in Kansas. No great loss, I have all the information I need about our target,” the major said, stirring the stew with a spoon.
“What if someone finds it, sir?”
“I wouldn’t worry yourself over that, Sergeant. It’s just the personnel file of a middle-aged soldier of no great importance.”
“It’s intelligence, sir. It’d be useful to someone,” the sergeant persisted, leaning against the tailgate. “I think he had a good record, Major. He had an exemplary Army career in Iraq and Afghanistan, and even before that.”
“I disagree. He’s a nobody, and a rogue. We’re tasked with bringing him to justice.”
“I remember some stories about him. I didn’t know him personally, we were never in the same unit, but there were stories about him in Iraq. Even if they’re only half true, he’s still a ballsy bastard.”
“Ah, the old war stories. I wouldn’t believe them too much. He may be a legend in the Army, but he’s still just a man, and one man can be beaten.”
Undeterred, the sergeant went on. “I heard one story; it went through the whole country like wildfire. He had been ambushed on the initial drive into Baghdad. An RPG took out his gunner and driver in his Bradley. He radioed a chopper that was flying by to pick up his wounded, and when the pilot refused to land, he got right on the radio and threatened to shoot the bastard down if he didn’t land. That shows me he’s a man of principle, and willing to go out on a limb for his men.”
“I don’t believe it. Even if it was a true story, it doesn’t tell me that at all. It shows me a picture of a man who has no respect for authority, a soldier who had no business being a private, let alone a sergeant major. He should have been court martialed, not promoted.” The major lifted lifting the pot to his face and breathed in the aroma. He offered some to the sergeant, who held out a canteen cup. While the major was pouring the stew into the cup, he continued, “All the more reason we need to go out there and bring him back. The world has gone mad, and we’re left to rebuild it, Sergeant. This new world of ours needs order and discipline. Something the president knows about. We were sworn to obey those orders, not to set up camp out in the desert somewhere and proclaim yourself as king of the world.”
The sergeant took a plastic spoon out of a pocket in his ACUs and spooned a mouthful of the steaming food. When he swallowed, he said, “I agree, sir. But the point I’m trying to make is that we shouldn’t underestimate him at all. I think that’s why the general gave us his 201file to begin with, to let us know what we’re up against.”
“One man, Sergeant?” the major asked between spoonfuls. “What exactly can one man do against a whole company?”
“He’s well trained, Major, unlike most of our men,” the sergeant informed them. “I’ve just now got them to stop firing their weapons all over the place. Most of the men now only have half of the ammo we issued to them in DC. That’s not good. It’s another reason I think we should head over to Denver tomorrow; we can find a few gun shops and replenish our 5.56mm ammo.”
“You do have a point there, Sergeant,” the major relented. “We’ll send out a patrol into the city to find more ammunition.”
“And some food?”
“Yes, we’ll send them to get food also. Is that’s all that’s bothering you?”
The sergeant hesitated for a moment, then, looking down at his canteen cup, said, “Sir, I know this might sound crazy, but I’ve felt like we’ve been being watched these last few days.”
The major guffawed. “You think we’re being watched? By whom? There’s no one left!”
“Like I said, sir, it sounds nutty, but I feel it. It’s creepy. I’ve felt it before, in the Ghan and Iraq,” the sergeant said. He almost added ‘you wouldn’t know about it,’ but he kept his thoughts in check. He knew the major had never once been overseas; the lack of the combat patch on his right shoulder told him as much, along with the nutty decisions he’d made in the past that would have surely never have been decided on by someone with combat experience.
Yeah, the major was a Pog, for sure, and most probably a Blue Falcon, a ‘buddy fucker,’ someone who’d throw his friend under the bus in a second to gain some advantage.
“Sergeant, I can assure you we’re not being watched,” the major said, smiling in the darkness.
“Sir, have you seen any horses?”
“Horses? You know there are no horses, Sergeant. They were all killed that night in The Cull.”
He hated when the major used that term. The first time he’d heard it, he thought the major was joking. He called it ‘The Great Cull,’ as if what had happened was God’s cull of all that was bad with humanity, leaving only the righteous to lead, and the rest, sheep to follow. It sickened him, but again, he kept his mouth shut out of self-preservation.
“Major, I know that, but the last few days, along with my feeling, I swear a few times I could smell horse manure when the wind was just right.”
“Sergeant,” the major said with a condescending laugh, “we just came through Kansas. The entire state is filled with horse and cow shit.”
The sergeant decided not to risk saying anything further. He’d at least gotten the major to allow a patrol to find some food and ammo for the men, and considered that a small victory.
“Sergeant, go wake up my driver, there’s a little of this stew left, see if he wants it,” the major ordered, setting down the pot on the tailgate, and pulling out another one of his nasty cigars.
“Yes sir,” the sergeant replied. It made his blood boil, knowing that he was no leader. Definitely a Blue Falcon, he thought. Any leader worth his weight would have made sure his men were fed before they had a single morsel to eat. Then he felt a little ashamed at himself, also, because he had imbibed in the food himself, knowing full well the young kid was right there, snoring away. He should have offered to feed the man first.
Was he turning into a carbon copy of the major now? He reached into the open window and gently tapped on the kid’s shoulder. “Hey, Nuggets. Wake up. Food’s on if you want.”
The man stirred and looked over at the man waking him. “Yeah, Sarge, I am kinda’ hungry, y’know?”
“Grab your canteen cup. The major’s got some stew on the burner.”
“Thanks, Sarge. I was dreamin’a some nice peach cobbler my ma useta make,” the younger man said, getting out of the Hum-Vee stiffly. “I can smell somthin’ Sarge.”
“The major had some beef stew in the back.”
“Thanks,” the boy said.
“I’ve been meaning to ask, Nuggets. Why do they call you that?” the sergeant asked, truly curious.
“Ma’ real name be Jamal, but when I was a baby, the only thing my ma could get me to eat was chicken nuggets from Mickey-D’s. So everybody just started to call me ‘Nuggets’ an it jeskinda’ stuck, y’know?”
“It’s not the fine cuisine of MacDonald’s, but it’ll fill your belly, Nug,” the sergeant said, patting the young ersatz soldier on the back. When they reached the tailgate again, the sergeant said, “Sir, I’m going to head back to the rear of the convoy and make sure everyone’s settled. I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Okay, Sergeant. Me and the private here will settle in for the night, wake me if you need anything,” the major said in a tone that said ‘don’t you dare wake me up.’
The sergeant started to make his way back towards the rear of the line of vehicles, and halfway back, he stopped and looked out over the darkness. Everything was black, no lights or signs of anyone watching them from a distance, the only smells were of campfires, tobacco, and another substance burning, that in earlier times he would have exploded in a rage. However, those days were long past, and the major didn’t seem to care, so why should he?
It was one thing to have them all liquored up; to have them smoking dope was another thing altogether. But there was nothing he could d
o about it since the major didn’t care. When he got back to his vehicle, he saw a man standing by the guardrail relieving himself. It was his driver, another what he called ‘real soldier,’ a Specialist 4 who had once served as an infantryman in the 101st Airmobile division. When he heard the sergeant approach, he zipped up his fly and turned to face him.
“Hey, Sarge, any news?”
“No, just the same old shit.”
“Just a different day, eh?”
“That’s about the long and the short of it. I did convince him to let us put together a patrol tomorrow to run into Denver to scare up some ammo and food.”
“Thank fuck for small favors,” the specialist said, rummaging around in his Alice pack. “I squirreled away some MREs, do you want one?”
“I ate some stew with the major, but yeah, I could eat some more.”
“I’ve got Mediterranean Chicken, or Spicy Penne Pasta. Take your pick,” he told the sergeant, holding up two of the brown plastic packages.
“Pasta,” the sergeant said, and the Specialist tossed him the package. He caught it deftly, and sat down in the open door of the Hum-Vee. He cut open the bag, and pulled out the contents, pocketing the toaster pastry, the wheat snack bread, pudding, and peanut butter, saving them for later. Slicing open the main meal packet, he eschewed the heater and decided to eat it cold, using up the entire bottle of Tabasco sauce. The two soldiers talked while they ate, mostly small talk, about life before, but not too much of that, it was too painful for them.
The specialist had finished his main meal, and was slathering cheese spread on his vegetable crackers when he stopped suddenly, looked at the sergeant. “What do you really think of all of this?”
The sergeant chose his words carefully before replying. He picked his teeth absently, looked out the windshield at a growing thunderhead far off in the south, lit up like a Chinese lantern by lightning, too far away to hear any thunder yet.
“To be honest?”
“Yeah, give it to me, warts and all.”
“I think it’s a waste of time and effort, not to mention resources, we could use back in DC.”
“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing, Sarge.”
“Just don’t go around talking like this in front of the troops, okay?” the sergeant said, looking at the specialist gravely.
“Shit, I mean, so what if this guy is out here saying he’s president? I sure as shit don’t give a fuck. It’s a big goddamn country, and we got a slice of it back east. I say let’s turn this dog and pony show around, head back home, and leave this guy to his cactus and shit.”
“Because we have orders, that’s why. I don’t want to be here anymore than you do. Let’s just go out there, arrest this guy like the president wants, and bring him back. Then we can go about our lives again.”
“That’s what’s bugging me, Sarge. You were the cop in Civvie Street. Can we really do that?”
“Arrest him, you mean?” the sergeant asked.
“Yeah. I mean, isn’t there some such shit like the Posse Comitatus rule somewhere?”
“The Posse Comitatus Act was set up during the Reconstruction after the Civil War. It’s to limit the US government’s use of the active military to enforce state laws. It doesn’t count the National Guard. It doesn’t concern us, because we’re acting under the authority of the president to arrest a member of the US Army for violation of the UCMJ,” he told the specialist, “the Uniform Code of Military Justice, which governs the US Military, basically the Army’s own Criminal Code.”
“I understand,” the specialist replied, not understanding at all. “So we’re not locking up some civilian, he’s still in the Army, and we’re going to toss him in the stockade.”
“Basically.”
“Alright, I think I’m going to hit the fartsack, Sarge. That is unless you have anything for me to do?”
“Nah, I think I’m going to turn in myself,” he said, ditching his garbage from the MRE.
The specialist grabbed his sleeping bag and tossed it on the roof of the Hum-Vee, took his M4 and set it up on the roof next to his bed for the night, climbed up, curled up into a fetal position, and was sound asleep in seconds.
The sergeant shook his head and laughed a little, never ceasing to be amazed at how fast soldiers could fall asleep in the field. He grabbed his own sleeping bag and his rifle, walked over to a tree a few yards off the weedy highway on-ramp and spread out the bag, pulled off his ACU top, and rolled it into a ball to use as a pillow. He then shucked his boots, and crawled into the lightweight bag. He lay there for quite a while, listening to the hoots and hollers from the men in the convoy, but they weren’t getting too rowdy now, not after the lesson in discipline they were taught from the muzzle of a M9 pistol a few days ago.
His mind wandered back to the thunderstorm off in the distance, and he thought, a little too late, that he might get wet sleeping uncovered like this. He studied the clouds, lit up intermittently from the inside by flashes of lightning, and after several moments, determined that it was travelling west, so he relaxed again.
He thought about what the specialist had asked him earlier, and he told himself that orders were orders, especially if they came directly from the White House. He’d do what he needed to do. He’d follow his orders faithfully, and get back to his wife in DC. With that thought, he fell into a deep sleep, his last vision that of the distant thunderhead lighting up the night sky.
The next morning, the major, true to his word, allowed the sergeant to send out a patrol into Denver to scavenge for more ammunition and food.
He chose five men, all hand-picked real soldiers, ones who weren’t conscripted after the fact and had actually been in the military in some form before the world went to crap.
He had also gotten several of the men remaining to do maintenance on the vehicles, and by the time the patrol returned in the afternoon, most of the vehicles were ready to continue rolling.
The patrol brought back several hundred rounds of civilian .223 ammo, the same as military 5.56mm, and that was issued out to the men as evenly as possible. They had also found a National Guard armory, and were able to procure several cases of MREs, along with cases of canned soups, potted meats, spam, and canned corned beef and vegetables.
Along with all of that, they must have raided a liquor store, because they had brought back, against all suggestions to the contrary, over a hundred bottles of whiskey, rum, and gin.
The major, deciding it was too late to travel, decided to spend an extra night in bivouac along the highway. One intrepid soldier, halfway through the day, suggested that they all head over to the Best Western hotel by the toll-road’s exit, and maybe they could spend a night in a real bed.
The major thought it was a capital idea, and sent the man and two others over to investigate, but was disappointed at their report upon returning. They had found that half of the hotel’s roof had collapsed over the last few years, probably from a heavy snowfall, and was totally uninhabitable, and the rooms that were still weather tight, were filled with the mummified corpses of their previous overnight tenants, who were never checking out.
They camped again along the side of the deteriorating highway, but were forced to sleep in the vehicles, because sometime after sundown, several bands of thunderstorms came through, soaking the entire area.
Rested and fed, they started off mid-morning the following day, heading south now on E470, where they found the exit ramp for I-15 near Centennial, Colorado and headed south again.
Because of the continuing decline in the conditions of the roads they travelled, and having to navigate around several ancient truck and car pileups, they only made seventy-five miles that day, and stopped for the night just south of Pueblo.
The conditions of the roads were only one of their hurdles; several times through their journey now, they’d had to stop because of severe thunderstorms, with hail and rain so heavy it brought the visibility down to zero, so it took them a full two more days to reach the New Mexi
co border, near the tiny town of Raton.
They made camp for the night at a rest area that had covered picnic tables, and the men had a barbeque of a sort, and again, the next day they headed out late, due to refusals of some of the men to rise at sunrise.
The unrest in the group was beginning to unsettle the sergeant, and he was having a difficult time keeping his words in check to some of them, for they were a truly undisciplined mob, and they had him outnumbered. At times, it seemed to him that they were listening only to humor him.
He brought this fact up to the major the next evening after they had set up camp in a truck stop in Santa Fe, not far from Albuquerque.
“Really, Sergeant?” the major asked incredulously.
“Yes, sir, it’s starting to be a strain. The men have no outlet for their frustrations, and they see no end to this. The ones that do see us reaching our objective soon only realize they have the return trek to deal with once we’ve completed the mission.”
“And how do you feel, Sergeant?” the major implored.
“Sir, I’ll follow my orders.”
“How pleasant to hear, Sergeant. I know you’ll follow your orders, because if you don’t, you can kiss goodbye that nice house you and your wife live in.”
“I know that, sir, but that’s not why I’ll follow orders. I took an oath to do so, and I take that oath very seriously,” he replied, hating the fact that that had to be thrown in his face, to be threatened like that. He was a better man than that.
“That’s very nice to hear, Sergeant. Now let us go and have a motivational meeting with the troops, shall we?”
“Anything you say, sir.”
He followed the major over to where most of the troops had gathered, some shirtless in the afternoon summer sun, drinking warm beer and smoking stale cigarettes.
When they were close enough, the sergeant yelled out, “At ease! Listen up, people. The major has something to tell you!”
It took a few moments, and the major stood in the center, puffing away at his stinking cigar. When they were all assembled and settled down to the extent he could talk to them, he said, “I understand there’s been some dissention in the ranks. I’m here to let you all know again how important our mission is to the country, and to the president.”
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