One Man's War

by Thomas J. Wolfenden

  “Yeah, I’ve been in a few brawls in my life. I could’ve been a boxer.”

  “Sounds like it,” the sergeant replied. He’d already come to the conclusion that this asshole was a ‘coulda’. I coulda’ done this, I coulda’ done that. He’d known people like that his whole life, and they were basically full of shit.

  “Why were they going to string you up?”

  “Ah, shit! That’s easy! That bloke out there in charge, he’s got this pretty little Sheila, and she was sweet on me,” he said gleefully. “Long blonde hair, blue eyes, about nineteen I think. Well one night that Tim bloke caught us rooting, and that’s when he chucked a dummy spit and tossed me in the cage.”

  The sergeant looked at the big, unkempt man, and asked, “Was it his wife?”

  “Nah, his daughter. She couldn’t keep her hands off of me, I tell ya. I get that from a lot of women.”

  “I’ll bet,” the sergeant replied, inwardly shuddering at the thought of any woman finding him even remotely attractive. Personal hygiene was way down on this guy’s list of priorities.

  “Yeah, the guy is stone jealous, even his own woman, the pilot lady. She’s a right Pommy bitch. She was giving me the eye too and he was seeing red.”

  “Pommy?”

  “Yeah, a Brit. Stuck up bitch she was on the outside, but I could tell she was after me too! She had long ginger hair, tight little bum. She wanted me.”

  “So this sergeant major flipped out and locked you up?”

  “That’s about it, mate. He couldn’t stand this rooster running around with his chooks,” Colin said smugly, thumbing his chest proudly.

  “I’ll make sure to not let you near my wife then,” the sergeant said in mock fear, but inside it was the truth. He felt dirty just sitting this close to him, and mused inwardly that if this man ever came close to his wife back in DC, he’d slice his heart out with a rusty bayonet and feed it to him.

  “Better not, mate!” Colin said. “Women can’t resist me!”

  “What else can you tell me about him?”

  “He’s got his own little kingdom out there, rules it like he’s king of the world. Has all kinds of food hoarded, but won’t give any out, keeps the best for himself.”

  “I see. How many men does he have?”

  “Not a lot, the Mexican bloke, some old doctor, and few other Aussies that came over from Hawaii with us and their Sheilas. That’s about it.”

  “No weapons?”

  “Yeah, he’s got a few, the guns you blokes are carrying, a few pistols.”

  “So just some M4 carbines and a few handguns?”

  “Is that what they are? Yeah, I guess. I’m not familiar with them too much. I prefer fighting with me hands!”

  The sergeant looked out over the sunbaked, weed strewn asphalt shimmering with a hint of mirage in the dry air. So, they only have a few carbines and pistols, and only a handful of men, he thought. Maybe he should relax a little.

  The stockpiles of food also piqued his interest. That would definitely be an added plus, to bring back a stockpile of food with them.

  “They’ve got a stockpile of food?”

  “Yeah, got plenty for a lot more people than they’ve got, enough I reckon for a few years.”

  “We’ll have to bring it all back with us, whatever we can carry,” the sergeant said, more to himself than to Colin.

  “Yeah, well, they’ve got a few of those trucks, like these ones,” Colin replied, waving his hand towards the convoy.

  “And the Hercules. That’ll carry a bunch back. I’m sure the president will be quite happy with it.”

  “Do you think I’ll have a place in Washington?” Colin asked hopefully.

  “Yeah, I’m sure the president will be happy with all the help you’ve given us.”

  “Good. I want to help!” Colin said.

  The Specialist trotted over to the pair. “Hey, Sarge, the men are just about finished,” he reported once he stopped at the men’s feet.

  The sergeant looked up, relieved that he was finally going to get away from this unsavory fellow. “Good, let’s get everyone loaded back up and we’ll head out.”

  “Check, Sergeant!” the Specialist replied, spinning on his heels and heading back towards the parked vehicles. The sergeant stood, shouldered his carbine, and looked down on the still seated Colin.

  “Thanks again for all your help. You’d better head back to your ride, or we’ll leave you here,” he told the man, only half joking.

  “Yes sir!” Colin said, standing.

  By the time he made it back to his Hum-Vee at the tail of the formation, the major’s Hum-Vee was already heading out on the highway, speeding west. He opened the passenger side door and tossed his rifle in unceremoniously, climbed in, and motioned for the Specialist to head out. They fell in behind the last 6X6 truck. The Specialist fished into his pocket, and pulled out a can of snuff, and handed it over.

  “Dip?” he asked the sergeant, who took the offered tin. Packing it, he opened the can and took a pinch of the finely cut Copenhagen and placed it under his lip.

  “Thanks,” he said, handing the tin back. It was a nasty habit, he knew, and his wife hated it, especially the spitting, but she was a few thousand miles behind them to the east, and she’d never know of his small indulgence.

  “So,” the specialist said, spitting out of the window, “I see you and that Aussie guy were getting all chummy.”

  “Yeah, I was letting him know he’s so much of a Bro now, he can come over to my house and fuck my sister.”

  The Specialist snorted. “Ah come on. He’s helped us.”

  “Maybe so, but I don’t trust him. He’s got an axe to grind with the sergeant major we’re after, and he’s not telling the whole story.”

  “Yeah, I got the impression he was a bullshitter from the git-go. Think he’s a Blue Falcon?”

  “Gold plated,” the sergeant commented. “Something he’s telling us just doesn’t sit well with me.”

  “He’s a ‘coulda’, I’ll say that much.”

  “Yeah, he’s definitely one of those. It’s just some of his story doesn’t ring true with me.”

  “I know, like him fucking that guy’s daughter. If it’s true, it sure wasn’t voluntary,” the Specialist said with a grimace.

  “I’ve read the guy’s 201 file. He doesn’t seem like a guy who would string someone up just for knocking off a piece, even if it was his own kid. I can tell when someone is spoon-feeding me horseshit, and that Aussie is oozing it.”

  “So everything he said is garbage?”

  “No, I didn’t say that. It’s just from my years of being a cop, I can tell that some of his story is crap. The rest is probably true, like how many men he’s got the weapons he has, that sort of shit. The whole story about his escape, him breaking the guy’s neck,” he shook his head, “I’m not buying it. This sergeant major doesn’t seem like he’d surround himself with a bunch of pussies.”

  “True. I’d never let the fucker get that close to me if I was guarding him.”

  “Exactly,” he replied.

  “So this plan of the major’s,” the Specialist ventured. “What do you think about it?”

  “I think it’s stupid, that we shouldn’t split up, but he’s in charge.”

  “It does seem harebrained. Who are you going to send?”

  “I’ll send you with a few guys in a Hum-Vee. I know you won’t let anything fuck up with the plane.”

  “You’ll stay with the major?”

  “I’ll keep up the rear, since he wants to go charging in like the Seventh Cavalry. I should be up front though, in case shit turns sour.”

  “Ah shit, we’ve got him just by sheer numbers, Sarge.”

  “Maybe, but unlike the major, I’ve got this niggling little feeling that this sergeant major isn’t going to fold like a bad hand in Vegas.”

  “What’s he have out there, five, six men, and a bunch of women?”

  “Something like that,” the serg
eant replied. “Our friend couldn’t give us an exact number.”

  “We’ve got the firepower and the numbers on our side. It’ll be a cakewalk,” the specialist said dismissively.

  “Don’t be too sure. You were in the Ghan, weren’t you?”

  “Three tours with the Third ID,” the Specialist replied, meaning the Third Infantry Division.

  “How many of the Hajji just gave up right away, even when they were outnumbered five to one?”

  “Not many, but they were better armed than this mob we’re after.”

  “Yes, if you believe everything is gospel according to Colin,” the sergeant said.

  “Sarge, all I’m saying is we’ve got over a company of men. He’s got what, five or six, with some rifles? We don’t even need fucking air support even if we had it,” the Specialist said, waving his hand dismissively.

  “I’m not saying it won’t be easy, I’m just saying we shouldn’t go stomping in like gangbusters.”

  “I think you’re prejudiced. You just don’t trust that Colin guy is all.”

  “He’s not the only one I don’t trust,” the sergeant said warily.

  “You trust me, don’t you?”

  “Yes, I trust you. That’s why I’m sending you to secure the C-130. I don’t trust the major, and I especially don’t trust the sergeant major.”

  “That goes without saying about the good major, and I agree, the sergeant major is an unknown. Besides Colin’s bullshit story about him being the biggest cocksman since John Holmes, well, what’s the old saying? The enemy of my enemy is—”

  “Our ally,” the sergeant finished for him. “Yes, I’m familiar with the saying. You were a grunt, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “When you were in the Ghan, did you ever once just go be-bopping into a village where you knew Hajji was?”

  “No,” the Specialist conceded.

  “Even if you had ironclad, solid intel that there was only a handful of goatfuckers with AK’s?”

  “No.”

  “No, you didn’t. You set up a defensive perimeter outside of town, formed a rally point, and then sent in heavily armed patrols to probe for ambushes. You never, ever rolled into anyplace like you were the lead float in the Rose Bowl Parade.”

  “That was different,” the Specialist replied.

  “How is this any different than the Ghan?”

  “First, this fucker out here has no clue we’re coming, or that anyone even knows he out here, unlike Hajji, who always expected us to come knocking.”

  “Alright, I’ll give you that. But tactically, is it smart to go traipsing into anyplace?”

  “No, but I doubt this guy has any clue we’re coming. He’s probably sitting out there all fat, dumb, and happy.”

  “The last thing in the world this guy is dumb. I’ve read his 201. He didn’t get to be sergeant major from being stupid.”

  “Our major is pretty stupid, and he’s got himself promoted,” the specialist said.

  “That’s true, but he’s one of those high-speed, low-drag majors, who if the world hadn’t gone to shit a few years ago, would never have seen light colonel, let alone a general’s star. He’s gotten as far as he has by ticket punching and blowing smoke up his Commander’s ass. He’s a completely different breed of soldier than our sergeant major, who I believe wouldn’t have had any time at all for our fearless leader back in the old Army.”

  “True,” the driver said.

  “I’ll say this much,” the sergeant went on. “This Flannery guy is a fucking legend. He was in combat in Grenada back when I was still in grade school and you were still a glimmer in your daddy’s eye. He spent two years in the Ranger Regiment, and then youngest instructor ever, at the Jungle Warfare School in Panama. Whole sections of his file are redacted, which tells me CIA shit. He then went on to the first Gulf War, Somalia…”

  “Blackhawk Down kinda’ shit?”

  “Yeah, Blackhawk Down kinda’ shit. Then on to Iraq, and then the Ghan several times. And, just for shits and giggles, he was a civilian cop in Philadelphia for a shitpot of time. He even threatened to shoot down an Allied helicopter in Iraq over an open radio net, where everyone and their grandmother heard it, and he walked away with a shit-eating grin on his face. No, I do not think this is going to be a pushover at all.”

  “What do we do?”

  “For starters, I’m going to try to talk our major into letting me send out a few patrols in advance once we stop for the night in Flagstaff.”

  “That’s another thing, Sarge. I don’t think we should stop for the night. We should set up outside of that town and go in there tonight. Catch them asleep or fucking and shit.”

  “I agree. But our leader doesn’t like doing that. I think he’s afraid of the dark,” he said, and his driver let out a little laugh.

  “I’ve been meaning to ask, what did the major do before all of this?”

  “I think he was in APERS,” the sergeant laughed, meaning Army Personnel.

  “Isn’t that just peachy? He’s a fucking Pog.”

  “We’ve got orders, and we’ll follow them.”

  “Check, Sergeant. I just hope he doesn’t go all full-hooah on us.”

  “You and me both,” the sergeant said.

  “You think he’ll let you send out patrols?”

  “I doubt it. He hasn’t listened to me a whole lot in the past,” the sergeant replied with a deep sigh.

  “Fuck, Sarge. Aren’t you the shining glow of positive reinforcement this morning?”

  “I’m glad I can be of service,” the sergeant said with a wink at his driver.

  They passed through Winslow and saw the green sign with white lettering that read: FLAGSTAFF 55.

  Chapter 19: Stand To

  Tim climbed up and over the guardrail along the edge of the highway overpass of Interstate 40, and holding the end of a thick black cable, flopped down on the shoulder with his back to the rail. He took the edge of his t-shirt and mopped his brow to clear his face of the sweat that was pouring off of him.

  He pulled out a canteen and gulped down the warm water, then poured the remainder over his head, running his fingers through his short-cropped graying hair vigorously. He rolled his head to get the kinks out of his neck, and saw Jimenez coming through some brush that had overgrown the median that separated the east and westbound lanes, holding a spool of wire, paying it out behind him.

  When the younger man saw him, he continued over to where Tim was seated, sitting down next to Tim when he reached the rail.

  “That’s about it,” he said. “I’ve got the eastbound span and the railroad trestle all wired up.”

  Tim took the lead of the wire from Jimenez’ spool, spliced his wires together with the others, and then wrapped it tightly with friction tape.

  “This bastard is going to be fucking loud when it goes,” Jimenez said, standing.

  Tim followed, and they walked westward, Tim paying out the wire behind them, toward one of several hidden positions they’d prepared two hundred yards in the distance overlooking the highway and set just inside the tree line.

  “Will it be enough, Sar Major?”

  “Taco, I’m a grunt, not a combat engineer, but I’m thinking the amount of TNT we’ve just placed will probably take out the Empire State Building.”

  “I figured that. Why so much?”

  “I haven’t a clue how much, or where to place the explosives, so I’m using the old ‘overkill’ rule.”

  “Why use ten pounds when a hundred will work just as well?” Jimenez asked with a sideways grin.

  “A competent engineer would only need a few charges, placed at the right places, to drop the spans. I don’t know what the fuck I’m doing beyond wiring the goddamn shit, so I’ve decided to use enough to make sure the fucker goes down, no matter where or how I placed it.”

  “I like your style, Sar’ Major!”

  “It’s one thing Rangers can do really well. We can fuck shit up and break shit. And I
intend to break the fuck out of it,” he said with grim determination as they neared the tailgate of the Deuce and a half they’d parked along the side of the highway.

  “Oh, I’ve got a surprise for you,” Jimenez said. He climbed into the darkened bed and into the shadows.

  Tim leaned on the tailgate, setting down the spool and peering in to see what his companion was doing. He could see Jimenez bending down, then picking something up and walking back towards him holding a large tube. When he could see what it was, Tim grinned widely. It was an AT-4, a man-portable antitank weapon, the great grandson of the old World War Two bazooka.

  He took hold of the offered green fiber tube and looked up at Jimenez. “Where’d you find this?”

  “I figured we’d need a little help, so I looked through the records over at Camp Navajo when I was searching for the demo blocks. I picked up ten of them.”

  “Outstanding!” Tim said, hefting the weapon.

  “You’ll have to show me how to use it.”

  “It’s easy. Hop down and I’ll give you a rundown.”

  Tim gave him a brief tutorial on the finer attributes of the rocket launcher, and when he was finished, handed it back to his partner.

  “Just check your back-blast area before firing the thing.”

  “Gotcha!”

  “Is everything else set?” Tim asked, leaning on the side of the truck in the shade.

  “I have the M-240B set up over there,” Jimenez said, pointing to a place inside the tree line about a hundred yards off the shoulder of the road. “The claymores are set up in a daisy-chain just like you had them set up on Volivoli. I can trip the claymores from that position.”

  “And the blasting machines?”

  “They’re over there, in or primary position, along with our M14’s and the Prick-77,” he reported, using the slang for the PRC-77 radio.

  “Good. Take five of the AT4s over to where you’ve got the 240B, and I’ll take the other five over to the main position. Meet me back there once you’ve finished.”

  Jimenez took five of the rocket launchers, slung them over his shoulder and jogged off down the road. Tim grabbed the remaining five, picked up the spool of wire, and started off to their prepared position inside the tree line overlooking the highway.