Standing the Final Watch

by William Alan Webb

  “Write down everything you know about them. Oh, one more thing. Since you’ve been on active duty for more than sixty years you’re overdue…” Angriff walked over to the couch and Tompkins stood. Reaching forward, Angriff pinned two stars on each collar of Tompkins’ shirt, stepped back, and saluted. “Major generals don’t sweep floors. But they do get to issue promotions to their own men, so you do whatever you feel is right and let Schiller know so he can take care of the paperwork. Anything you need, you come see me. Welcome to the team, Dennis,” Angriff said. “Now let’s get to work.”

  Tompkins just blinked. “Yes, General.”

  Angriff shook Tompkins’ hand. “Call me Nick.”

  Schiller nodded. “Allow me to offer your first salute, General Tompkins.”

  Still stunned, Tompkins’ return salute resembled a wave.

  Schiller had already processed the paperwork, so Tompkins’ promotion was no surprise. “I’ll find an office for you right away. Would you please follow me, General?”

  When they emerged onto the crowded platform, no one moved to let them through, the crowd of officers oblivious. Schiller tried to be polite, but in the end he had to push their way through the officers and aides assembled for the first staff meetings with the CO. Most ignored Tompkins and none moved out of his way, leaving Schiller to squeeze between them with a lot of Excuse me, sir.

  Tompkins understood their behavior. It wasn’t so much rudeness as it was a cold-blooded calculation. During the years leading up to The Collapse, a well-developed political sense had been necessary for those breathing the rarified air reserved for officers above the rank of lieutenant colonel. In the twenty-first century American military, promotion had depended on political acumen, not battlefield ability, in a Byzantine system of favors and obligations.

  The brigade’s assembled command staff had seen Tompkins’ major’s bars on his way into Angriff’s office. Majors had no political relevance in the command staff world they had all thrived in. Majors existed only when receiving orders or making a report.

  Tompkins and Schiller were at the ramp when a deep voice boomed over the droning chatter.

  “Attention!”

  Everyone turned. Angriff stood in his office doorway, face red and fists clenched. Every man and woman within earshot came erect, including those in the Clam Shell below.

  Angriff moved slowly, taking time to stare into the face of each officer he passed. His smoldering cigar jutted from his jaw. He made his way through the crowd until he stood beside Tompkins. Reaching over, he tugged on Tompkins’ collar, pointing at the two stars.

  “Don’t you people know to salute a superior officer? Well, don’t you?” Immediately, everyone snapped a salute. “I’m buried in work, and I didn’t expect to have to instruct you people on military etiquette!”

  “What should I do?” Tompkins whispered, embarrassed.

  “That’s up to you, General.”

  Trying not to make eye contact with anyone, Tompkins returned the salute. “As you were.”

  Angriff nodded and then glared at his officers in turn. “We will discuss this further in the staff meeting.” His tone was not conciliatory. “But I’ll tell you this much now. You’d damned well better get your noses out of each other’s asses and start paying attention to what’s going on around you. That goes for every last member of this command.”

  Angriff turned and stalked back to his office. More than one officer glared at his back.

  Section 4

  Chapter 25

  Never stop your enemy from making a mistake.

  Napoleon Bonaparte

  June 20th, 0735 hours

  Angriff preferred reading hard copies. Digital readers gave him a headache, whether a desktop, laptop, or tablet. Something in the tactile feel of paper made it easier for him to visualize the subject. The huge viewing window filtered bright morning sunshine onto the staff list he currently read. It would be a long day of meetings, questions, and decisions. The most urgent matter was meeting his command staff in preparation for tomorrow’s conference, followed by writing his address to the brigade.

  On paper, he had a first-rate staff, despite their proclivity for kissing ass and playing politics. He read their qualifications and career achievements twice, jotting down a few questions for clarification, until he came to his S-4. He stopped, saw Sergeant Schiller’s empty desk on the platform surrounding the office, and again studied the attached photograph of his logistics officer.

  “Sergeant Schiller, can you come here, please?” he said into the headphone mike.

  At a light knock, Angriff turned from his notes. Corporal Juan Diaz stood in the doorway. “What is it, Corporal?”

  “Sergeant Major Schiller was called away, sir. Is there anything I can do?”

  “Thank you, Corporal. Where is Sergeant Schiller?”

  “Colonel Walling needed him, sir.”

  “Tell him to see me as soon as he returns.”

  Again Angriff squinted at the roster of his command staff. Dry data could not convey everything he needed to know about the people upon whose competence all their lives would depend. The nature of the brigade dictated he had only been able to go cold with his executive officer, Norman Fleming. Other officers he knew and trusted had families and thus were disqualified. So his brigade staff had been picked by others, making him dependent on their judgment to provide him a competent group of subordinates.

  After re-reading the name and summary resume of his supply officer three times, he leaned back and stroked the bridge of his nose.

  “You wanted to see me, General?” Schiller paused in the doorway.

  “Did you and Colonel Walling get the situation handled?”

  “We did, sir. Would you like a report?”

  “Maybe later.” Angriff motioned him inside. “Sergeant, didn’t you say you had relatives in the army?”

  Schiller looked confused. “I did, sir. I had two brothers in the army and one in the navy.”

  “The navy doesn’t count,” Angriff said with a small grin. “But the two brothers in the army, what were their names?”

  Confused, Sergeant Schiller answered warily. “Bob and Bill, sir.”

  “One was named William? What was his middle name?”

  Schiller had to think about that. “Emerson, sir. General, did you know my brother?”

  “I don’t believe so. Tell me about him, Sergeant. What was his rank, did he have a specialty, what kind of man was he? And if you don’t mind my asking, what did he die from?”

  “I had four brothers, General. Bill was the youngest. Our mother died when he was only four. He wasn’t as big as me, didn’t talk as much. More brains, less nose. He was born to be an officer and me, I was born to be a non-com. When he was just starting in the Army, the South Vietnamese awarded him several commendations for working logistical wonders during some operation. I know his master’s thesis dealt with Bolivian mining resources, or something like that.”

  “Which college was that?”

  “His undergrad was the University of Arkansas, his masters was from Oklahoma.”

  “Boomer Sooner.”

  “Uh, yes, sir. He died during surgery to have his appendix removed. Apparently he was allergic to the anesthesia. General, may I ask what this is about?”

  “You attended his funeral?”

  “I did, sir. He was a full bird by then. They put him in Arlington ground, back when they still did that. They put me in the mausoleum near my wife.”

  “I didn’t know your wife was buried there, too.”

  “She was a wonderful girl, sir. English, very petite. Her name was Louise. She was from London, Kensington, to be exact. I was lucky to have her as long as I did.”

  Angriff nodded. “I know, Schiller. We’re the ones who signed up to get shot at. Somehow it doesn’t seem right that we outlived our wives.”

  “No, sir. I miss her a lot.”

  “Sergeant, do you remember the other day when I found out my daughter
was still alive?”

  “I do, sir.”

  “Had you known in advance that she was alive and that I would shortly find out, what would you have said to me?”

  “I don’t understand the question, sir.”

  “It’s not a trick question. What would you have said to me?”

  “Uh, just that your life was about to get a whole lot better, in a way you didn’t think was possible?”

  “That’s great, it really is. Perfect. That’s why you’re the sergeant major of the Army, because you are a wise man.”

  “Begging your pardon, General—”

  “Your life is about to get a whole lot better.”

  Chapter 26

  For I have seen the face of Death, in all his many guises,

  I have been his tool of fate, killed men both slow and wise;

  He the hammer, I the nail, a wake of blood I trail,

  For I have seen the face of Death, his shroud’s my Earthly veil.

  Unknown author, found on Guadalcanal, early 1943

  June 20th, 0911 hours

  Colonel Walling pressed the accelerator of his Emvee harder, although it already scraped the floor. He was late for a mandatory meeting with the CO. He hoped Schiller would cover for him, but until the techs had the internal network up and working, the only way to do that was to stop and call Central Command. That would mean running even later. So he pushed the electric vehicle to its limit, weaving in and out of hallway traffic, while heading for the nearest elevators.

  When the doors opened he drove straight in. Two female soldiers were already there, both holding rifles. A medium-sized soldier in non-reg black-and-green camos followed him on and stood in the corner with his head down. Walling turned the Emvee around to face the doors.

  Halfway through backing and filling, Walling noticed the two women glanced at each and nodded. The left one took a step forward and pushed the STOP button. The other stepped back two paces. The elevator jolted to a halt.

  Without warning, the second one lowered the muzzle of her rifle and aimed at the soldier in the corner. Her companion pointed her M-16 at Walling. The maneuver was well choreographed and they moved like trained soldiers should move, quick but not fast, and with confidence. Walling was taken off guard.

  The other soldier was not.

  Even as the rifle leveled out, aimed between his eyes, the soldier crouched in a swift, compact move. His right hand shot upward and grabbed the rifle barrel, while his left drove a long stiletto under the woman’s left ribcage and up into the heart. She opened her mouth in surprise but no sound came out. Her legs buckled and she collapsed.

  Her killer swung the M16 out of her hands, twisted to his right, and brought the rifle into his shoulder in one fluid motion. The second woman turned. He put a bullet into first her left shoulder, and then her right. At point blank range such high-powered rounds should have gone straight through and ricocheted in the metal cage of the elevator, endangering Walling and his savior. Instead, both exit wounds were the size of softballs, the signature of super hollow points.

  The alarm siren began to wail.

  The impact of the rounds slammed the woman backward into the closed doors. She slid to the floor. Blood spurted from both front and back. Her head lolled and more blood trickled from her mouth and nose. Walling froze in place. The last man standing jumped forward and reached for her mouth.

  Too late.

  There was a slight crunching sound. The woman went into spasms and foam mixed with the blood running out of her mouth. With a shudder, she died. The blood pouring from her shoulders into the sticky puddle coating the elevator floor soon stopped.

  Walling sat in the Emvee, stunned. Fear twisted inside him. Would he be next?

  The killer crouched beside the dead woman, rifled her pockets for anything significant, and then pulled up her left pant leg. Near the ankle was a small, ornate tattoo.

  Pointing at the tattoo, the killer looked up at Walling. “That says RSVS, for Rabota sdelayet vas svobodnymi. That’s Russian.”

  “Russian?” Walling said, not comprehending. “Are you going to kill me, too?”

  “It means work will set you free. I need to see General Angriff immediately.”

  “General Angriff? I’m not going to let you kill him, too. If you think I am, you might as well shoot me now.”

  The killer stood. Walling studied his face, trying to read what might happen next, but there was nothing, no twitch, no blink, no tell whatsoever.

  “I need to see General Angriff. It’s urgent. Tell him it’s Green Ghost.”

  “You remind me of a human being,” Angriff said.

  “Haven’t I heard that somewhere before?” Norm Fleming’s melodious voice had regained its fluid and commanding resonance after sleep, food, a shave, and a long shower. The barber insisted on taking the brigade’s executive officer before others. Fleming had always endured the grime of his profession with stoic patience, no matter how much it irritated his fastidious nature.

  “Colonel Walling’s giving me an update on the deployment soon. I’m glad you’ll be here for it.”

  “Good. So far I feel like I’m in the middle of somebody else’s movie.”

  The lingering after-effects of Long Sleep reminded him of a virtual reality simulation, like command programs he’d gone through at the School of Advanced Leadership and Tactics. People seemed to be moving in jerky motions, sometimes too fast, sometimes a tad too slow, and the disorientation did not appeal to his logical mind. As he walked up a ramp, leading to the crowded metal platform surrounding what looked like a glass geodesic dome, he half-expected hairy men with AK-47s to drop from the ceiling. Disorientation did not appeal to his logical mind.

  Ten feet from the top of the ramp he stopped and stared. Someone pushed past him but he kept staring at the sergeant who stood at the top of the ramp, arms folded, wearing a deep scowl. The light was at his back but enough features were visible — a fleshy face, large nose. The image could only be another manifestation of Long Sleep Hangover, a hallucination.

  And then the hallucination spoke.

  “I know what you’re thinking,” the apparition said, sounding just like his brother J.C. “You’re thinking that you’re seeing me because of all the chemicals flooding your brain for the past fifty years. They scrambled your synapses and you haven’t come out of it yet. But you’re wrong. Your brain is working just fine.”

  “No,” he said. “I think medical cleared me too soon.”

  “That could be true, but it doesn’t change the fact that I’m really standing here.”

  Chapter 27

  Men tend to worry more about what they cannot see, than what they can.

  Julius Caesar

  June 20th, 1006 hours

  The time had come, Dupree decided. He left his work station on the top level of the Clam Shell and found Sergeant Schiller having an animated conversation with a colonel near the bottom of the ramp leading to the Crystal Palace.

  “What is it, Dupree?” Sergeant Schiller sounded annoyed at the intrusion.

  “You told me to run it again, or come to you if I found anything else, Sergeant. I really think we need to at least run this by security.”

  “S5 isn’t up and running yet, if we’re going to have one at all. What have you got?”

  Dupree moved just his eyes to look at the colonel.

  “This is my brother, Colonel William Schiller. He’s our S4, Dupree. I’ll vouch for him.”

  “No need,” the colonel said. “If General Angriff is busy, I’ll go clean up and get situated. Do you know where my quarters are?”

  Dupree waited, feeling awkward, while Sergeant Schiller gave Colonel Schiller exact directions to Officer’s Country, then grinned as he sloughed off down the hallway. It looked strange, then Dupree realized he hadn’t seen the sergeant grin before.

  “Now, what were you saying, Dupree?”

  “We’ve been breached,” Dupree said.

  “Explain that.”
<
br />   “We have a data leak. Someone else is accessing our data.”

  “That doesn’t make any sense. There isn’t anybody else.”

  “Apparently there is. Added to those power usage stats I showed you, I think we need to get the CO involved.”

  “You ran the power usage again?”

  “Yes. Same result. Sergeant, if you want to show him this without me there, that’s okay by me.”

  Schiller studied him. “Come with me.”

  Dupree walked up the ramp like a man heading for the gallows. For twenty-four hours he’d dithered over whether his evidence was strong enough to show the CO. Now, finally committed… maybe he’d oversold it to himself. Screwing up in front of a five-star general was like a mouse annoying a lion.

  Angriff waved them in and Dupree tried not to hyperventilate. When he saw another general in the room, Fleming, heat rushed to his face.

  “I’m sorry to bother you, General,” Schiller said. “Private First Class Dupree is one of our communications specialists. His duties include auditing performance parameters and making sure everything is operating correctly, and he found something that he thought you might want to know about. He was on watch when the activation code came in.”

  “Were you? That has to be a moment you’ll remember the rest of your life. Does this have anything to do with getting the internal network up and running?”

  Schiller turned to Dupree as if to say It’s all yours now.

  “Ummm… no, sir, General. Not exactly.” He saluted first Angriff, then Fleming. “I’m actually not directly involved in that, although this did come from me trying to help.”

  “Relax, son,” Angriff said. “I don’t know what you’ve heard about me, but I only bite lieutenants and above. Privates are safe. Take a deep breath and then tell me what you’ve got.”