by David Pope
“I never thought the bitch would turn herself in. My guess, the oligarchs threatened her. Doesn’t fucking matter. I want a lot more than just her scalp, and making her a martyr was never the design.” Tower threw off the covers and continued, “Set up calls with the Russians and Chinese. I’m ready to talk whenever they are. I’ll reassure the assholes we won’t upset the apple cart and have no intention of occupying the entire ROAS. I’ll explain that the end game is Nevada, taking control of their advanced ‘green’ technology and manufacturing capabilities. I’ll reiterate our new position. Evidence of global warming is no longer deniable. Fossil fuels are losers. We accept the facts along with the critical need for advanced alternate energy sources. Feigning anger, I’ll explain the US will not be energy dependent on the ROAS state of Nevada. No way will I allow that. Instead, the manufacture of efficient energy technologies, and Nevada, is vital to US interests. Got that?”
“Yes, Mr. President, we’re following the plan. But the fight in Mesquite yesterday, and Ortega’s acquiescence, has China concerned. They suspect we hold a greater motive. Perhaps pushing the Manifest Destiny policy isn’t helping. Either way, I’m uncertain playing the Nevada card will suffice.”
“No shit there’s a greater motive, but one crap at a time. Eventually, the cat will be out of the bag, but by then, it’ll be too late for them to respond. For now, we play it as planned. Hell, we understood going in the Chinese would get twisted once the shooting started. But we can’t show our hand too quick or obvious. Soon as we do, they’ll be up our ass. We’re not ready for that. Need to play it one pretext at a time.” With a grunt, the president swung his legs off the bed and planted his feet on the lush carpet. “Follow the Truth Network recommendation. Tell the State Department to give that bitch forty-eight hours to surrender Nevada, or else. And where’s my fucking breakfast?”
“I’ll check on the way out, sir.”
“Also, did you remind Harrison to sit tight and give us a couple days to show the world we’re still the good guys? Maybe we can avoid more bloodshed now that the stupid bitch knows we mean business.”
Wilson didn’t hesitate, “Yes sir, we’ve spoken with the field marshal several times. Harrison has expressed he isn’t happy with our approach and wants to attack right now, not only Las Vegas but Reno. He’s worried giving two days will give the ROAS a window to enhance their defensive positions.”
The president thought about Wilson’s statement, then waved his hand. “If the ROAS gets tricky, they’ll have us, the Chinese, and the Russians breathing down their ass. No worries at this stage of the game. The ROAS is weak. Soon, I’ll let that gaggle of pussies know the gig is up and to save their own asses, they must accept reunification and turn over their godless AI. I’m not a butcher. Only I can save them. Until then, we must keep the military pressure applied. Although Harrison is a womanizing sack of turds, he’s a hell of a field marshal. Tell him to calm down and relax. Before long, if necessary, he’ll get his chance.”
“Yes, sir,” said Wilson.
The sight of his well-groomed chief of staff sickened the president. If there was one thing he hated about Wilson, it was the way in which he tried to show everyone up. The guy was seeking too much attention, always dressed to the nines, trying to be the top dog. Anger growing, he resented how Wilson stood there, hovering at the end of his bed, waiting. A sudden urge to get the man out of his room was amplified by a rumbling stomach. “Well, for fuck’s sake, get my breakfast,” said the president, rubbing his belly and ending the conversation.
“Yes, sir,” replied Wilson.
After watching Wilson leave, the president picked up the remote and hit play. As he watched the Truth Network, he smiled and knew it wasn’t.
* * *
Inside ROAS Central Command, lying on a spartan cot in his small quarters, exhausted, General Story tried to find the sleep his body craved. Even though awake for more than twenty-four hours, through all that transpired, his mind wouldn’t relax: many good people dead; President Ortega demanding resistance against a far superior foe; a clandestine meeting with an exotic woman held in secret isolation; desperate battle plans developed by an AI to fight back and try to save the Republic. Too much.
During the drive back from the meeting with SALI, he’d scanned the plans she provided in more detail. He was alarmed at the risk of using them, and the AI, but fascinated by the possibilities. Portions of the plan were already underway, and if he refused to carry them out, the president would find someone else. With little choice, upon returning to Central Command he’d woken up key staff, turned over the printed documents, and given explicit instructions to develop corresponding field orders. Afterwards, he’d got a quick note off to the president letting her know he’d be her general. He’d take a swing at the enemy and try to deliver a bloody nose. Perhaps, if successful, the US would back down and leave them in peace, at least for a while longer—nothing was certain.
But now he needed sleep, just four hours. Refreshed, he could throw his full force behind the upcoming battle. But sleep wouldn’t come.
He thought of his son, the reason the general had defected from the United States. The young man was living with a husband in San Francisco. He loved his boy but didn’t care for his sexual orientation. It didn’t matter. He accepted him. When his son first came out and explained it, the general was saddened. But love is stronger than prejudice. Once he understood, there was no choice but to give his son a life of opportunity. Together, in deep secret, using the general’s contacts, he and his son fled the US and became ROAS citizens. As a traitor, and his son a declared homosexual, if either returned, long prison sentences awaited.
Now, their new country, their sanctuary, stood threatened.
The general, with everything at stake, felt the weight. The defense of the nation rested on his shoulders. If it was feasible, he’d run again and take his son with him to a better place. But that choice wasn’t viable. The number of remaining sanctuaries was dwindling and faced extinction. No, it was time to stand and fight, not just for his son, but for the all the people like him and for all those that stood trembling in the face of authoritarian rule. Yes, he’d use the AI and risk everything to save his son and his adopted nation.
On his back, gazing at the ceiling, visions of flame, violent capture, imprisonment, and death flashed across his mind. At last, he blocked the thoughts and drifted into a troubled sleep.
Chapter Twenty-Two
RUNNING
May 9, 04:31 (PDT)
“Now, I’ll only ask once. Listen well. Did either of you come across or pick up anyone along the highway?” asked Military Police Inspector Major Crawley.
Even in the poor lighting, inside the tent, Flood could detect the ugly acne scars on the US MP officer haranguing the prisoners. Sitting in a chair, looking frightened, Flood guessed the guy name Spanos was about to confess. He noticed how often the man glanced over at his buddy, Corporal Chavez, sitting in the chair beside him, as if seeking reassurance. Chavez seemed to ignore his friend and instead stared straight ahead. Both men were tie-wrapped, their hands bound behind their backs. At last Spanos spoke. “Yes. A man and a woman on the highway stopped our ambulance at gun point close to the main highway checkpoint. They appeared hurt and forced us to give them medical supplies. Then, they made us drop them off farther down the road out of view. We’re just medics …”
“I don’t give a shit what you are,” said Major Crawley. Hands on hips, he asked, “Who were they?”
“Don’t know; never seen them before,” replied Spanos.
Major Crawley shook his head, the dark shadows accentuating his sinister looks. Looking up, he glanced at Flood as if seeking permission.
Flood, standing nearby, wanted revenge and needed information. He shook his head in the affirmative and Crawley grinned.
From a side holster, Crawley pulled out a small pair of pliers and waved the tool in front of the prisoners. “Both of you. Do you know what I’m holding?”
>
“Si,” answered Spanos, nodding with a worried brow. Chavez continued to stare straight ahead.
“Hey, Fuckface!” yelled the major, locking his gaze on Corporal Chavez. “You gotta tongue, or should I use these to find out?” Crawley snapped the plyers, opening and closing them in a quick rhythm, the metallic melody full of menace. “Answer me, shit for brains. What are these?”
Chavez looked up and with defiant gaze answered, “You have a pizza face. Maybe you should trade what you’re holding for sandpaper.”
Spanos blurted, “Plyers, sir! You’re holding plyers. Don’t listen to Chavez. He doesn’t mean it.”
The major stopped clicking and paused. He took a breath as if calming down. In a slow tone he said, “Yes, plyers. I call them truth pullers. This simple instrument and my training are all I need to find the truth. My senses detect when I’m getting it and when I’m not. When I’m not, I use these.” Crawley waved the object and continued, “I use this common household tool to pull out the truth. Sometimes, I pry off a fingernail or an earlobe. Sometimes a few teeth. They’re also good for popping testicles. Truth plyers pull facts and can be deployed in a myriad of ways—more than I can count. Please understand, I’m trained in, and authorized to use, advanced interrogation techniques. And these basic plyers are—advanced. The question is, are you going to give the truth, or do I extract it? Your call.”
“You’ll get the truth from us,” Spanos answered, dropping his head.
Crawley shifted his gaze to Chavez and raised his eyebrows. He waved the plyers back and forth as if waiting for the other man to agree. Chavez shrugged and said, “There’s no need to torture us.”
“I’m not torturing anyone,” replied Crawley sounding defensive. He stood straight and lowered the pliers. “I seek the truth, within the confines of authorized interrogation techniques, nothing more.” Then, in a more menacing voice he asked, “Now, who did you drop off along the side of the highway?”
“My country doesn’t authorize torture,” said Chavez in a defiant tone.
“Your country is weak,” shot back Crawley, moving closer.
Spanos interjected, “Two soldiers, ROAS soldiers. A man and a woman.”
The major stopped. A grin forming, he turned and looked at Flood.
His suspicions confirmed, Flood nodded and flicked his chin at the two prisoners. He wanted more.
Crawley turned back and holstered the plyers. “Excellent step in the right direction. Keep telling the truth, and the pliers won’t come out. Now, give me their names and rank.”
Spanos looked up, tears forming and said, “The man was a master sergeant. His nametag said Upton.”
Crawley beckoned at Spanos, encouraging him to continue.
“The master sergeant called her McMichael.”
“Good, Corporal Spanos. Now, what was her rank?” Crawley asked.
Spanos shook his head as if trying to remember. At last he said, “I believe she was an NCO. Her uniform was covered in blood.”
“Describe her wounds,” said Crawley.
“In the back of the ambulance, she complained of a concussion and deep leg scratches. She wanted bandages, footwear, painkillers, and antibiotics. I think the blood on her combat shirt and pants came from someone else.”
Sergeant Flood bolted forward, “Did she have a knife, weapons?”
Spanos leaned back in his chair and answered, “I didn’t see a knife, but she had a pistol, with a …” he couldn’t think of the term, described it, “… fat barrel at the end.”
Flood recognized the description, a suppressor. Thinking back, he hadn’t seen Kinney’s Glock. He could’ve missed it, but he had his doubts. It made too much sense. Flood shifted to Chavez and asked, “You, did you get a good look at her?”
After a long stern stare, Chavez answered, “she was missing a front tooth.”
“Did Upton have a knife, weapons?” asked Crawley.
“Si,” Spanos answered. “He carried a knife, a pistol, and a few grenades. Complained of a round to his chest. Told me his vest took the impact and broke some ribs.”
“When did you drop them off, and how long ago?” demanded Flood. Moving closer, opening and closing his fists, he needed answers. Crawley stretched out his arm and Flood stopped, but he kept a death stare on the two medics.
Both Chavez and Spanos seemed to sense the intensity of the question and looked at each other. Chavez turned back to his interrogators, “About an hour ago.”
“Which way did they head?” asked Flood.
“We dropped them on the south side of the highway. They mentioned finding a place to hide,” answered Spanos.
“What other help did you give them?” asked Flood.
Still looking down, Spanos said, “Chavez didn’t give them anything, but I did. The woman was barefoot. In the rear of the ambulance, we had clothes from other wounded soldiers. I gave her a pair of boots. They were too big for her, but she had no choice. I also gave them a pack stuffed with painkillers, antibiotics, and tape for the master sergeant’s ribs. The woman put on a field jacket, over her blood-drenched uniform. That’s it, just medicine and clothing.”
Flood had heard enough. He turned to the major and gestured towards the far end of the tent, “A word, sir?”
“Sure,” replied the major, but before following the sergeant, he turned back to his prisoners, “Sit tight. I’ll be right back.” The two men, shackled, hung their heads.
Crawley and Flood exited and stood outside breathing in the cold morning air. The sun was due up in just over an hour, but adrenaline and revenge fueled the sergeant. He wanted to get going. Too much time had been wasted in finding the Mexicans, rounding up the interrogation officer, and getting answers. The clock was ticking, and each expired second gave the ROAS bastards more time to get away. He wanted action. “Sir, we have enough information to hunt them down. With your permission I want to take the prisoners and have ’em lead me to where they dropped off the enemy. I’ll take my squad from there. Time is wasting.”
“Sergeant, I don’t have the authority to authorize you to conduct a manhunt. No, this entire episode needs to go up the chain of command. Besides, the best way to track down and get the bad guys would be through aerial surveillance—much quicker and would cover a wider area. I’ll call it in and request the resources. Meanwhile, hit the rack. Looks like you’ve been up a long time. Fact is, you look like shit.”
Flood didn’t like the answer or the officer. Like a creature from a childhood nightmare, the way Crawley looked and acted touched something deep inside the sergeant. But he needed the officer on his side. “Sir, these bastards killed my man along with two other US soldiers. This is personal. Allow me to take a prisoner and start the search. If you want to call it in and get additional resources, be my guest. But let me go.”
“Sergeant, I’ll call it in to Command and recommend an immediate aerial search. You’ve done good work to this point; don’t blow it now. You copy that?”
The sergeant stared hard at the MP officer. Without a prisoner, he wouldn’t know where to start. On foot, an hour or more behind, his men already exhausted, he knew Crawley was right. Hell, the only thing keeping him going was adrenaline, and it wouldn’t last. What the scary major suggested was logical. Still, before giving in, he had a final request. “I get the rationale, sir. But, if I may, sir?”
“Yes?”
“Can I have a few moments alone with the two Mexicans? Without them, the two murderous bastards wouldn’t have gotten away.”
“Negative. Those men are under my custody.” In a sympathetic tone he added, “Chavez and Spanos are both fucked. I don’t believe for a moment their story about being forced. Instead, those guys willingly helped their ROAS counterparts. Considering their parole, a traitorous act. Over the next half an hour, I’ll pull the truth from them. Then, we’ll let military justice take its course. And remember, execution is the penalty for treason. I’ll let you know what happens. Now, let me contact Command.”
Exhausted, not knowing what else to do, a frustrated Sergeant Flood replied, “Yes, sir.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
CAUGHT
May 9, 05:22 (PDT)
Inside the Mobile Command Headquarters trailer alongside Highway 15 west of Mesquite, Brigadier General Lee Gist and his senior staff were wrapping up the daily 05:00 intelligence briefing. Afterward, the agenda called for a review of the next phase of Operation Jackpot—the liberation of Las Vegas.
Gathered around a long table covered with monitors and tablets, the senior officers had just finished watching press coverage of the Mesquite battle. The Truth Network, Gist noted, struck a strong chord, and the men around the table applauded the reporting. Not so for the ROAS press propaganda claiming the US attack was an unprovoked wanton slaughter. On the screen, the ROAS showed images of a defiant female soldier, against all odds, shooting down a US vertical-lift aircraft. The ROAS press made her out to be a martyr. For the officers in the room, the ROAS reporting was absolute bullshit. The US Army had negotiated under a flag of truce, in good faith, and offered reasonable terms. When the enemy refused, a fair fight ensued.
The battle officer of the day, Lieutenant Colonel Frederick Lawton, entered the trailer as the senior officers engaged in a lively discussion about the news. Lawton’s shift was ending, and part of his duties included briefing these men on significant Command Post events that had occurred during his watch. Ignored, Lawton paused near the briefing table and waited for the noise to diminish.
General Gist spotted Lawton from across the room and waved for him to take a seat. The lieutenant colonel nodded, grabbed an empty chair at the far end of the table, and connected his smart pad to the primary monitors.