Standing the Final Watch

by William Alan Webb

  I cannot trust that a man will control others if he cannot control himself.

  Robert E. Lee

  June 19th, 1921 hours

  The small room did not appear on schematics of Overtime Prime. Air circulation for the past fifty years had been minimal. The cool temperature resulted from being underground, as did the nauseating smell of mold. The condensation of so many people exhaling began warming the room.

  “Hello, boys and girls,” Terry Bettison said. “Welcome to fifty years later.”

  Laughs told him everyone was in a good mood. “Raise your hand if you really thought we could pull this off… nobody? It does seem incredible, doesn’t it? Here we are with a chance to rebuild our country in the way we know is for the best, with a brigade of soldiers that everyone in this room hand-picked for this assignment—”

  “Except for the commander,” someone said.

  Bettison nodded. “I don’t get that one, either, but Steeple was damned certain he was the one. I repeatedly told him it was a bad choice, we argued about it all the time, but he won, simple as that.

  “Look, I know Angriff is a pain in the ass, but at the end of day he wants to rebuild the country, same as we do. He’ll listen to us; he has to. We’re half of his command staff and each one of us is a specialist. We’re good at what we do. He won’t throw that away — whatever his flaws, he knows how to use talent — and if it comes to fighting, which it might, the guy really is the best we’ve got.”

  “How can you be so sure he’ll listen to us?” the same man said. “I served under him once. The man’s a tyrant. It’s his way or the highway. We spent months and years drafting ROEs and regulations, and he ignored all of them.”

  “They don’t call him Nick the A for nothing,” Bettison said. “This is new territory for all of us. You can’t argue with his track record, though. Angriff isn’t stupid. He’ll listen. Plus, Fleming is with him, and Fleming’s a practical man. It’ll be fine.”

  “Fleming is good,” a woman major said. “I’ve known him a while. Very level-headed.”

  “That all sounds great, but what if it isn’t fine?”

  “If it’s not… then we’ll have to take other measures.”

  The shower was what Tompkins would never forget. The MREs, formulated for near-permanent storage and which everybody else hated, to him tasted delicious. The sight of young, healthy, uniformed American military personnel overwhelmed him, as did their shiny new equipment.

  Weeks would pass before he’d stop searching for ambushes at every tunnel junction or behind every object. The pleasure when he first lay on a real bed with clean sheets caused him to spend that first night moaning in pleasure.

  Yet as wonderful as all those things proved, nothing matched the stream of high-pressure hot water firing into the knots in his back, neck, and shoulders, or steam opening his nasal passages.

  Dennis Tompkins did not step out of the shower until his skin turned lobster red and he gasped for breath. Once toweled off, he put on the first clean underwear in years, sat on the side of his bed to finish dressing, and slumped over, sound asleep.

  From the dimmest depths of antiquity to modern battlefields such as Iraq and Syria, armies have depended on non-commissioned officers as their fighting heart. Hannibal would have recognized the modern concept of the strategic corporal, as would the lowliest centurion serving with Scipio Africanus at the Battle of Zama in 202 B.C.

  At Zama, Scipio crushed the previously invincible Hannibal Barca once and for all, but only the unflinching courage of the individual centurions held his hard-pressed army together at the critical moment. Although outnumbered more than two to one, Scipio’s centurions maintained discipline long enough for the Roman cavalry to ride to the rescue after dispersing the Carthaginian cavalry.

  But the influence of non-commissioned officers did not only flow down to those they outranked. The respect wise officers have always shown their veteran non-coms gave them influence far beyond their rank. Kings, queens, and emperors have asked the advice of a grizzled sergeant, and so did five-star generals. So when First Sergeant Schiller insisted Angriff eat something, his subtle approach implied the general would be letting down his command if he didn’t.

  “The men are being fed in shifts, General,” Schiller said. “The mess hall isn’t cooking food yet, so for a while we’ll be living off LSL-MREs. Colonel Friedenthall issued an order mandating no less than 2500 calories per day for men, 2200 for women, no exceptions.”

  “Good,” Angriff said. “With all the work that needs doing, I don’t want any accidents because somebody wasn’t sharp or their blood sugar got too low.”

  “Aye, sir. Does the general have a preference on what he would like for supper?”

  “Peanut soup.”

  “Peanut soup, sir?”

  “Yes.” Angriff looked up over his glasses. “Love the stuff. My mother served it at least once a week when I was growing up. She had her own recipe and passed it on to my wife. It’s very popular… it was very popular in Virginia.”

  “I don’t think we have peanut soup, General.”

  Angriff waved at him. “I’ll eat something in a little while. Right now I’m busy. Can you believe that I’m supposed to decide what crops to grow in the hydroponics farm? Hell, I’ve never even seen it, and I’m sure as shit not a farmer. What do you think, Sergeant? Do you prefer black beans or chickpeas?”

  “I’ll eat whatever the mess serves, sir.”

  “But if you had a choice, which one would you pick?”

  “General, I’m not qualified to—”

  “Pick one, Sergeant. That’s an order.”

  “Black beans. I’m not much for chickpeas.”

  “It’s the texture, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, General.”

  “I’m with you. Middle Easterners love chickpeas, but I don’t get it. Black beans it is, then. Maybe we’ll get chili.”

  “As you say, General, but speaking of food, maybe just something to tide you over? You look a little tired, sir, if you don’t mind my saying so. All you’ve eaten since you woke up is energy bars. I worry about your blood sugar dropping too low.”

  Angriff gave Schiller a sideways glance. The sergeant had used his own words against him. “Oh, very well.”

  When Schiller returned with a square tray and yet another cup of coffee, the napkin was actual cloth and the silverware made of stainless steel.

  The smell caused Angriff to turn his nose. “What is that?”

  “Steak and potatoes, General, with green beans and a roll.”

  “It smells like rancid motor oil.” With considerable effort, Angriff sliced off a thin strip of grayish meat and tried to chew it. “A rifle sling tastes better. What animal is this supposed to be?”

  “Presumably a cow, general.”

  “This is awful. And we’ve got to live on this stuff?”

  “For a while, sir. The troops don’t like them much. Perhaps if you pointed out you eat them, too, and said they aren’t so bad, it would make them easier to swallow.”

  “I’m not sure that’s possible. So you suggest that I lie in my first order of the day? Probably for the greater good, but between you and me, this is virtually inedible.”

  “The men call them PSBs, General. Petrified stomach bombs. The breakfast with link sausage they call FTDs, fossilized dinosaur turds. Except the Marines. Apparently they call them the four dicks of death.”

  Angriff laughed and almost spilled his coffee. “Oh, I’m promoting somebody. I need it done A-sap so I can sign off on it. This is a priority.”

  Schiller nodded; there had already been a rash of promotions and he knew the paperwork by heart. “Of course, General. Who is being promoted and what is their new rank?”

  “New rank is sergeant major of the Army. Congratulations.”

  Dupree rested his head on his right hand and stared at the computer screen. The hologram generators were not up and running yet, but he did not need them. Data did not lie, exag
gerate, or have an agenda. Data reflected reality. The art came in knowing what story the data told, but Dupree knew damned good and well what his data said. The only question was, would anybody who mattered care?

  Again he found Sergeant Schiller. The sergeant sat at his desk on the outer ring platform of the Crystal Palace. The ancient major they’d saved the day before yesterday stood beside his desk, while dozens of other officers milled about like at a cocktail party. Dupree saluted the closest officer, the major.

  It took the old man a moment to remember the protocols of military life and return the salute.

  “Sergeant Schiller,” Dupreee said, “you told me to come to you right away if I found something, and I did. Something I can’t explain.”

  “You’re sure it’s important, Dupree? This isn’t the best timing in the world.”

  “I think it is.”

  “You’re putting both of our asses on the line. No offense, Major.”

  “What? Oh… none taken, Sergeant,” Tompkins said.

  “Run it by me,” Schiller said.

  Dupree did.

  When he’d finished, Schiller looked around the platform at General Fleming, the other milling officers, and the CO, reading something in his office.

  “Tell you what, Dupree, go back to your station and run it all again, from the beginning. If you get the same answer, come back right away.”

  “I’ve done it four times, Sergeant.”

  “Then do it five.”

  “Welcome back, Colonel,” Friedenthall said. “Your recovery took longer than expected. We were starting to worry.”

  The colonel raked fingers through thin blonde hair streaked with white. His pallor had worried the medical staff, but when his vitals normalized and his skin remained pale, they’d decided it was his normal state.

  “How long have we been active?” he said.

  Friedenthall glanced at the clock. His own face was drawn from a lack of sleep. “Day three; is that right? Yes, third day, that’s right.”

  “Then I can see why you were concerned. Am I cleared for duty? The CO is probably wondering what happened to me and I have no idea what the status of my department is.”

  “You’re the S-4, right?”

  “That’s what they tell me, so can I go now? I’m way, way behind on my duties.”

  “Of course, Colonel. I’ll have someone take you to the quartermaster so you can get fitted out, then to Central Command. In the meantime, I’ll inform General Angriff’s office that our S-4 is on his way up.”

  “Nick Angriff is our CO?”

  “Yes. Do you know him?”

  “Only by reputation. We’ve never met. This should be interesting.”

  “At the very least,” Friedenthall said. “One more thing, Colonel. Your last name, Schiller — are you related to Sergeant J.C.?”

  “Yes, he was my brother. Did you know him?”

  Chapter 24

  I fear no man and I fear no god, but I do fear myself.

  Disputed quote that legend attributes to Flavius Aetius

  June 19th, 1927 hours

  Dennis Tompkins had trouble processing everything he had seen, heard, and felt the past two days.

  He stood at the threshold of Central Command, trying to understand what he was seeing. Sentries stood at either side of a ramp leading upward to the huge glass dome overlooking the vast space below, a semi-circular amphitheater overflowing with personnel. Work stations covered the length of each hemispherical terrace, each with someone seated before a bank of instruments. Other soldiers seemed in a hurry to get somewhere, but Tompkins had no idea where they could be going. He had not seen so many people in one place since The Collapse. The futuristic design made it more unfathomable. He felt like a gawking hick at a county fair.

  In the space of a few hours, he’d gone from facing death to being thrust into one of the wonders of the world. The surreal experience had left him muddled and feeling out of place, but when the commanding general requests your presence you present yourself, ready or not.

  A sergeant came down the ramp and saluted. “Major Tompkins?”

  “Yes, that’s me.”

  “I’m Sergeant Major Schiller, sir. General Angriff is expecting you, but he’s been delayed for a few minutes. May I get you something while you wait?”

  “No, thank you. I’m fine.”

  As Tompkins topped the ramp, a gaggle of officers milling on the platform turned and stared, as if trying to decide if he might be important. Then they turned away. Tompkins did his best to be invisible.

  Moments after the private left to run his calculations for the fifth time, Schiller’s phone buzzed.

  “The general will see you now,” Schiller said.

  Tompkins nodded and, turning, saw Angriff watching from behind his desk. He hurried after Schiller. Hopefully he had shaved close enough to pass muster.

  Standing before Angriff, he came to attention, ignoring the officers on the platform watching them. The general came to full attention, snapped off a sharp salute, and held it for a second as a sign of respect. Then, after both men relaxed, Angriff walked over to his desk. He pushed a button and the glass became opaque.

  “Thank you for coming so quickly, Major Tompkins. The medical staff says you’re in great shape, but very underweight and in need of a long rest.”

  “I’m all right, General.”

  “Good,” Angriff said. “Because I’m going to put you to work.”

  “General, I… I can’t imagine what I’m good for, sir. I’m an old man now and all this is like some fairy story to me.”

  “So you don’t want to help?” Angriff sounded surprised, and maybe a little hurt. His voice carried the perfect inflection for producing guilt. “It’s your call, Major. You’ve been on active duty for more than sixty years and you’ve certainly earned the right to retire. So if that’s what you want…”

  “No, sir, that’s not what I meant,” Tompkins said. “I owe you my life and the lives of my men and all those women and girls. If there’s anything I can do to help this command, then I’m ready and gung ho, sir. I just can’t imagine what I’ve got to offer.”

  “Sit down, Major, and let’s have a talk.”

  Sergeant Major Schiller appeared from nowhere, carrying a tray loaded with coffee and cigars. Angriff’s sudden smile seemed surprised. After pouring coffee for both officers, Schiller left.

  Angriff picked up a cigar. “Do you smoke, Major?”

  “Not for a long time, sir.”

  “But you did?”

  “Sometimes.”

  Angriff smiled, nodded, and trimmed a Cubana Monte Cristo Especiales Number 3. When the cigar was lit, he handed it to Tompkins and started prepping his own. For the next five minutes, the two men savored the rich smoke in silence. On the platform outside, the gathered officers sniffed and looked at one another, as if disgusted by the smell.

  “Good?”

  “I don’t think that’s quite the word, sir. I’m not sure there is a word.”

  “I’m truly glad you’re enjoying it. Nobody deserves it more. Major, you asked me what you could do to help this command. Did you mean that?”

  “Yes, sir.” Tompkins was starting to feel a little sick. The cigar was delicious, but after decades without tobacco, it was too much of a good thing. He held it away from his face, hoping not to be obvious. “If there’s something I can do, I’m all in.”

  “Do you know our mission, Major, why this place exists?”

  “Scuttlebutt is all, sir. Just rumors.”

  “Really? Those activation codes were above top secret, yet you were given a copy. How did that happen?”

  Tompkins rubbed his chin. “One day, a month or two after The Collapse had begun, out of nowhere this messenger shows up with a packet from General Steeple. Inside it were the codes and instructions on how and when to broadcast them. Nothing else. I did as ordered, too. I must’ve broadcast those things every day for ten years and nothing happened, so eventually I
quit. I figured that whatever Overtime was supposed to be, it didn’t work out.”

  “When did you start broadcasting them again?”

  “I didn’t, General. I forgot about them. My sergeant, John Thibodeaux, he asked me to try them one more time. I didn’t put any stock in them, but John had followed me for most of fifty years and if he wanted me to do it, I was going to.”

  “Fair enough,” Angriff said. “But ever since I got involved in this project something has been nagging me, like I missed something, except I don’t know what. This is just one more thing that doesn’t add up.” He set the cigar aside; maybe he’d noticed Tompkins’ nausea. “This base is called Overtime Prime, and it was built to reclaim America from the barbarians who have overrun her. It’s the best equipped self-sustaining military base in the world. We have everything we need for our mission, with one exception. We have no idea what is outside the walls of this mountain.”

  “And I do,” Tompkins said.

  “And you do.” Angriff nodded. “You survived more than fifty years out there. You come across as this aw-shucks good old boy, but you led men in a combat situation for five decades and brought some of them out alive. That’s leadership. I need that on my team… I need you on my team. I want you to be a special adviser reporting directly to me. As such, you’ll have free rein of the base and access to me at any time. This will be a command staff level position, so you’ll be expected to attend all meetings, starting with the one tomorrow. So you’ll take the job?”

  “General Angriff, I’d have been flattered if you’d asked me to sweep the floors. If my men want to, can they help me in this?”

  Angriff reared back as if speechless. “Of course they can. You can pick anybody for your staff you want. I’ll have Schiller find you and your men some office space. And your first duty is to give us everything you have on the people who attacked you on that ledge.”

  “The Sevens?”

  “Right. In your initial debrief you said they came from a caliphate somewhere to the south? Did you mean an Islamic caliphate?”

  “Yes, sir. Sort of. I’m not sure what they are, exactly. I don’t think they’re traditional Muslims. It’s more like a cult. It started in Texas and spread west.”