Holding Their Own: The Toymaker

by Joe Nobody

  It was a few seconds before a familiar voice boomed across the airwaves. The president was clearly upset. “Miss Brown, I wish I could return your polite greeting, but that is beyond me right now. What the hell is the Alliance doing in New Mexico? Why have you attacked and killed our people?”

  “Mr. President, I promise you, the Alliance had nothing to do with anything in New Mexico. General Owens assures me that there are no authorized operations there, and the council isn’t aware of any activity on the civilian side. Trust me, sir, we’ve got our hands full on our own street.”

  The Alliance leaders were unsure if the pause that followed was due to a communications lag, or because the man on the other end was digesting Diana’s statement.

  “I want to believe you,” a calmer voice sounded through the speaker. “But if not the Alliance, then who? Someone is going to answer for this outrage, believe me.”

  “It would help if we knew what was going on,” Diana answered. “Honestly, sir, I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Of course. My apologies, Miss Brown,” the president responded.

  The U.S. leader then proceeded to provide a full five minutes of debriefing, describing the activity in Los Alamos, the missing nuclear materials, and the massive maze of earthworks.

  “The last contact with our team on the ground has led my people to surmise that someone is indeed planning to turn the desert into a mini Garden of Eden. Whoever is behind all this… they now have over 80 pounds of very potent radioactive material.”

  It was Diana’s turn to get angry. “And you didn’t inform us of this?” she snapped into the microphone. “Someone is attempting to reroute the water that is the lifeblood of the Alliance’s agricultural output, and you didn’t let us know?”

  “We just arrived at that conclusion a few hours ago, Miss Brown. And to be honest, the fact that it doesn’t make any sense for you to cut your own throat is the only reason anyone in Washington is going to believe that the Alliance isn’t involved in the nuclear theft.”

  The general moved closer, looking to Diana for permission to address the president. With her nod of approval, he pressed the button to talk. “Mr. President, this is General Owens. Sir, I can have a crack platoon of troops in Los Alamos in less than two hours, sir. We consider rogue nuclear materials as much of a threat to the Alliance as your people do to the United States.”

  “Normally, General, I would seriously consider your generous offer, but this situation is a bit more complex. Whoever is building those earthworks is organized, capable, and well-equipped. They have demonstrated both the proficiency and the will to execute violence, and shown a level of competence that is troubling. The message their leader gave to our people on the ground at Los Alamos was chilling, and given what little we know, my experts warn that they might just be able to pull off the nuclear threat.”

  Diana moved closer to the microphone, “What do you propose, Mr. President? I’m sure you can understand our concerns. Having what sounds like a terrorist in our neighborhood isn’t acceptable. Cutting off the water that supplies our primary agricultural region isn’t going to fly either. We can’t just sit on our hands out here, sir.”

  A grunt came across the airwaves, but it was impossible for Diana to tell if it was sarcasm or amusement at her diplomatic understatement.

  “Yes… yes, I suppose that would be somewhat of a concern for the Alliance. As far as the next step, we’re analyzing various options at the moment. I would ask that you hold tight and let us handle our own problem.”

  That statement provided Diana the first hint of the president’s position, and she didn’t like it one bit. “I was hoping you would assure us that you were addressing the issue, Mr. President. The activity isn’t taking place in our territory, so technically I have no authority to do anything. On the other hand, this is a direct threat against our national security, and we can’t just stand by and let that happen.”

  “Your territory? Your national security? You speak as though Texas was officially a separate nation. The last time I checked, that status was informal… at best,” came the gruff response.

  Diana inhaled sharply, her temper about to explode. Only Nick’s hand squeezing her shoulder stopped what was sure to have escalated into a diplomatic incident. The president’s voice came back across the radio’s speaker as she gathered herself.

  “Miss Brown, if it were up to me, I would’ve granted Texas its independence years before the collapse. But I’m just the president, not a dictator. And not even an elected Commander in Chief at that. Senators and Congressmen up here think that our countrymen in the Lone Star State have gone too far. They believe strongly that we should shorten your leash and push all of this Alliance nonsense aside. So going back to our little issue in New Mexico, I would advise you not to send in military force. That would appear as though you were trying to expand the Alliance’s territory, and I would be pressured to respond in kind. And if your actions didn’t go as planned… if there was a disbursement of radioactive materials… that would be considered an act of war.”

  Diana didn’t like being threatened or bullied. “I don’t think you or the U.S. military is up for a conflict with us, sir. In the last two years, we’ve twice engaged in what can only be described as preliminary steps to civil war. A lot of men died in those skirmishes, Mr. President. We were lucky cooler heads prevailed. So I don’t think either of us want to let the situation in New Mexico lead to another conflict.”

  “Things are different now, Miss Brown,” came the steady voice from Washington. “Just like the Alliance, we’re slowly recovering. If you move into New Mexico with military force, the optics here in Washington will be extremely unfavorable. Even if you went in and got right back out, it would still appear as though you were trying to squelch American citizens who were simply trying to better themselves. Now, please understand what I am trying to tell you. In a way, I wish our entire nation was addressing its problems like the people in New Mexico. We’d all be much better off. I am just saying we need to be aware of how this action might be perceived and used to further another political agenda.”

  “So what do you propose we do about this, Mr. President? We won’t just stand by and let our people starve.”

  “Miss Brown, I am a man of action more than words. Now, I must ask that you trust me. We simply don’t know enough to propose any action or recommend any solution – at this time. There is a tremendous void of facts, and until we figure out who and what we’re dealing with, I’m not going to order more men into an unknown environment. We’ve already been surprised by these people twice, and I’ve got nothing but a body count and missing fissionable material to show for it.”

  Nick leaned in close, pushing the talk button. “Mr. President, this is Nick. Perhaps we can help with some Intel. I have teams that specialize in performing reconnaissance in just these types of situations.”

  Again, a pause from Camp David. “I’m aware of your SAINT teams, Nick. But the concern here is the warning issued by the people in New Mexico. If your people were discovered, it might result in a full bucket of radioactive hell being dumped on both of our heads.”

  “But the warning was for the U.S., not the Alliance, sir. I know I’m splitting hairs here, but we’ve got a lot at stake in all this. Probably more so than your side of the table.”

  “That’s true,” came the considered response from Camp David. “Let me talk it over with my people here. In the meantime, I ask for your commitment that you’ll sit tight.”

  Diana shook her head, not wanting to make any such promise without more time to think. “Like you, Mr. President, I need to consult with my experts.”

  Something changed in the president’s voice on the next transmission. “I see,” he said in a monotone. “Could I ask for a private word with just Nick and Diana, please?”

  It came across as just plain weird, the Alliance leaders exchanging puzzled looks. Shrugging her shoulders, Diana pushed to talk and responded, �
�I don’t see why not, Mr. President.”

  General Owens mouthed the words, “Good luck,” and then left the room.

  “Okay, sir, it’s just the two of us here at Bliss.”

  “From this point forward, I want you to know this is an unofficial, off the record conversation. Is that acceptable?”

  Diana frowned at Nick, not knowing where in the hell the man on the other end of the microphone was going. Finally, she pushed to talk, and answered, “Of course, sir. Off the record.”

  “I can tell by the sound of your voices that you’re inclined not to stay on the sidelines. I just wanted to assure you that this matter will get our best resources and full attention. You see, my own son may be a hostage. He was with the Special Forces team that got shot up. Furthermore, if you go in there and make things worse, I’m going to take it personally. I ask that you keep that in mind. We’ll be in touch as soon as we know more.”

  And then the Camp David operator came on and simply said, “Transmission terminated.”

  They left Fort Bliss shortly after ending the call with the president, their mood somber and silent.

  During the ride back to Alpha, Diana remained stoic, watching the arid landscape pass by with few words. Nick knew his passenger well enough to give her time to think it all through.

  Fully understanding the dilemma, and not sure what he would do personally was one of those situations where the big ex-operator was glad he wasn’t in charge.

  On one hand, the Alliance commanded more than enough military capability to waltz right over and kick New Mexico’s ass. Given the low population density, it wouldn’t have taken much before the collapse, let alone after.

  But there were always unintended consequences, even if such an action resulted in an overwhelming military victory. Just ask Presidents Bush and Obama. The words of Colin Powell echoed through the big man’s mind. “If you break it, you own it.”

  The Alliance was stretched as it was, barely hanging on by the thinnest of threads. Restarting the economy was proving more complex than anyone had anticipated. It seemed like there was always some spare part, knowledge or expertise, or basic necessity that was missing or unavailable.

  Yes, they were feeding the people – but just barely.

  One of the most troubling aspects of the recovery was the mental condition of the population. Nick didn’t know the numbers from pre-collapse society, but he’d heard several presentations in the council’s chambers from medical experts who were concerned about the overall health of the people.

  Depression, schizophrenia, bi-polar disorders, and substance abuse were being encountered in epic proportions. Just recently, Sheriff Watts had informed the council that bathtub booze was now one of his department’s single largest issues. The lawman recounted issues of alcohol poisoning and drunken driving, while critical rations of potatoes, corn, and sugar were being hijacked by bootleggers.

  And then there was the physical health of the population at large. Tuberculosis, pneumonia, and a host of other diseases pummeled the citizens of the Alliance. The bill for months of malnutrition, lack of medical care, and living in what essentially amounted to a war zone, was coming due. Lack of sewage treatment and insect control contributed to the problem as they were practically non-existent in many parts of the territory.

  It all added up to frustratingly slow progress, and in some cases, regression.

  Lugging the military away from its already overwhelming responsibilities and transferring soldiers to New Mexico would have so many negative consequences. No matter how well the council handled the public relations of such a campaign, the people would worry. Critics would decry the move, some sure to point out not only the questionable application of limited resources, but also the potential of war with the U.S.

  Which led to a SAINT team… or some other semi-diplomatic outreach. Something small scale and reasonably quiet. The thought prompted Nick to grunt.

  “What’s funny?” Diana asked from the passenger seat. “Tell me. I need some comic relief about now.”

  “I was just thinking about sending Grim into New Mexico. With that guy along, you could hardly call it a diplomatic mission.”

  Diana laughed, but her levity was short. “I know what you mean, but then again, the president is right. We don’t know what is going on. If we are going to commit military resources over there, they need to be our absolute best.”

  “Too bad Bishop is retired. Terri and he would be the perfect solution.”

  “That’s out of the question. I’m sure Grim and you, or some of the other men, could accomplish the same. They’ve got Hunter and are trying to start a new life. Both of them have done enough already.”

  Chapter 6

  The toymaker hadn’t slept well, dreams of black helicopters and fast-roping assault troops ascending onto his roof keeping him awake.

  As with most mornings, he would gladly trade his best toy for a jar of coffee. Even though it had been well over a year ago since he had used that last spoonful of instant, he still craved java. He fantasized for a moment about life after the project was completed, and the crops were being harvested. Maybe they could barter for some coffee. Perhaps there would be enough that someone would open a coffee shop. That was about the only thing he missed from his previous life in L.A.

  Still, the locals had provided him with a strong tea. He couldn’t pronounce the name but had heard it was one of the few things the Navajo had done better than the traditional American community.

  He opened the microwave and extracted the steaming cup, taking a quick sip. “God bless solar panels and inverters,” he whispered, anticipating the caffeine rush.

  The drink was bitter enough, and obviously contained chicory along with who knew what else. He’d been drinking it for months, and so far it hadn’t killed him.

  He padded barefoot to the front porch, intending to honor tradition and offer his Apache friends something hot to drink. He knew they wouldn’t accept, but it made him feel better to extend the courtesy.

  Opening the door, he was surprised to find his security detail had grown significantly in size. Rather than the typical two or three individuals outside, he counted a least a dozen armed men. He could smell the smoke from their cooking fire.

  “Hey, am I missing the barbecue? What’s the special occasion?” he asked no one in particular.

  Apache Jack strolled over, his only greeting a curt nod.

  “Why so many new faces?” Hack asked, his gaze sweeping the property.

  “The Jicarilla fear the whites will send more soldiers, Grandfather. They always do.”

  Hack grimaced, “Yes, you’re right. I didn’t sleep well last night, worried about the exact same thing. I have to go to White Sands today. There’s something there I need.”

  “There is a big powwow today. The elders were hoping you would attend. Word is already spreading around the reservations. The meeting will be this evening at the Santa Domingo pueblo, and all of the tribes will be present.”

  The toymaker was surprised by the news, such meetings being rare. “What’s going on?”

  “It is a council of war,” the tall warrior continued. “The largest anyone can remember. Even the Ute are sending a chief.”

  Hack was taken aback by the words his friend was using, and the reaction had nothing to do with the Ute. “We can’t go to war against the U.S. military. That would be suicide. We don’t have armor, or aircraft, or even large stockpiles of ammunition. They would crush us in a matter of days.”

  It was obvious the Apache didn’t agree with Hack’s perspective. “From the drifters I’ve spoken to, the U.S. Army isn’t what it used to be. We’ve all heard tales of riots and strife back east. There have been stories of civil war and great battles among brothers. And now you have the radioactive metal from Los Alamos to deter their aggression. Many feel like we can win this time… with your help.”

  “My help?” Hack barked. “How on earth would the tribes expect me to help them in a war? My
toys can improve the hunting and help spot intruders, but they aren’t going to do much against an organized military force. As far as the fission materials, they won’t do much against an army. They’re only a deterrent, not an offensive weapon.”

  “You are a man educated in the world of science. You can generate fuel from wood, Grandfather. You create electricity from steam. You showed us how to make ammunition and explosives. With your knowledge and wisdom, we are confident.”

  Hack could see where all of this was going, and he didn’t like it. But this was neither the time nor the place for a debate. “I appreciate your confidence, my friend. I truly do. Let’s just hope it doesn’t come to that. Right now, my highest priority is to get to White Sands, and I believe it’s important enough to use fuel and the dump truck. We need to take along a few extra men to lift something heavy.”

  Hack proceeded back inside, his mind digesting the Apache’s words and hoping the same sentiment wasn’t widespread.

  Yes, he’d helped with technology and trinkets. Extracting methane gas from wood wasn’t rocket science. Steam turbines had been around for a long, long time. The drones had started off as a hobby – nothing more.

  Hack had designed warplanes for a living and knew enough about military capabilities to understand that his toys weren’t going to win any wars. The sensors on his drones were primitive compared to the pentagon’s models, the explosives he mixed from pool chemicals and other household items were nothing compared to what the military would bring to the battlefield.

  The toymaker had no doubt the local tribesmen were brave. Many were exceptionally skilled hunters and woodsmen. More than a few had served in the Armed Forces.

  But fighting off the occasional rogue band of marauders was an entirely different world than combat with the regular Army and Air Force. It would be asymmetric warfare at an extreme level.

  “The North Vietnamese did it with some success,” he mumbled to himself as he looked for his sandals. “There have been countless guerrilla campaigns throughout history,” he continued, finally finding his shoes. “But if the U.S. isn’t happy about our little irrigation project, they won’t send in an occupational force, they’ll just come in and return the rivers to their original course.”