Battle of Mesquite

by David Pope

  Flood sneered. He recognized the captain’s motivation. Longfellow wanted nothing more than a decoration himself, to receive the accolades and maybe a promotion. Sure, the two escaped combatants and an entire squad of enemy were killed, but so were a lot of good US soldiers. Thinking about it, the thought of a medal made him feel dirty. “Look around, sir. Kinney’s dead. Tonight, things didn’t turn out well. The whole thing was a cluster fuck.”

  Longfellow frowned and then pointed to the group of men gathering behind him. “Look, I’ve got a punishment team here to bag these boys up, and you’re no longer needed.”

  Flood stopped leaning against the vehicle and stood straight. “Sir, if you don’t mind, I want to supervise, make sure our fallen troops get treated with respect.”

  “No need, Sergeant, that’s my job,” snapped Longfellow.

  Too tired to argue, Flood looked one more time at the blanketed forms. He pitied them, all lined up in a neat row, but there was nothing else he could offer. Instead, he took a moment and told Longfellow about the wounded civilian in the nearby house and briefed the captain on the many enemy corpses strewn among the destroyed Chinook.

  “I got it, Sergeant,” said Longfellow cutting him off. And without waiting, the captain spun around and barked orders. In response, a bedraggled group of punishment troops shuffled forward.

  Flood spotted two faces he recognized. He raised his hand, stopping the pair in their tracks. “Captain, what are they doing here?”

  Longfellow glanced at both captured medics. “They’re ROAS prisoners caught last night aiding and abetting the guys you were chasing. Until sentenced, they’re assigned to my punishment detail. They’re medics. I’ll have them look at the wounded civilian you mentioned, and then I’ll make damn well sure they work the Chinook and pick up any pieces with their bare fucking hands.”

  Flood looked hard at Chavez and Spanos. Both men wore battered faces and had difficulty standing straight. He felt a tinge of sympathy but then remembered Kinney and felt conflicted. Holding back a sudden urge to strike, he lifted his hand and let them pass.

  Meanwhile, another punishment detail member shuffled forward. Flood watched as the man approached the nearest covered body, knelt, and removed the blanket. Beneath was Private Henry, and Flood recoiled from the fresh memories of the terrible death. All the events from the previous twenty-four hours tumbled through his mind. Realization dawned. It was his own army that fired the first shot at Mesquite. That fateful action triggered all the death that had followed. By their actions, his own people killed Henry, and indirectly Kinney, and everyone else.

  Anger gone, Flood turned away. Torn by guilt and shame, he struggled back to his fighting vehicle.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  A TOUGH CALL

  May 9, 21:10 (PDT)

  McMichael sat with her back against the wall of a darkened auto parts warehouse and felt the sweat dripping down her back. Nervous energy kept her heart pounding. Alive and safe, for the moment, surrounded by a team of Special Forces operators, she tried to relax.

  On an air mattress next to her, Master Sergeant Upton sat with his shirt off while a Special Forces medic worked, wrapping broken ribs. Other SF soldiers lounged nearby whispering in excited low tones, but McMichael couldn’t ascertain the words through her damaged hearing.

  To her surprise, the warehouse sanctuary wasn’t far from her earlier suburban hideout. During their escape, the SF team led the way, working west through the desert before entering a commercial zone and into the parts warehouse she now occupied. All the while, to the south, US vertical-lift aircraft shot up the desert, striking at a phantom mysterious target. The ordeal was taxing and terrifying. If anything, the experience heightened her admiration for the Special Forces. She appreciated how they moved, oozing confidence, consummate professionals, skilled in the art of war and deception.

  Captain Bowen appeared before her and knelt in the low darkness. He whispered at her, but the words were too faint, so she cupped an ear.

  Bowen bent lower, right next to her, and whispered, “You squared away?”

  McMichael understood and nodded. Although her head still hurt and the bandages on her legs itched, she gave a small smile. Then she asked, “How did you do it?”

  Bowen, helmet off, ran his fingers through a pile of short brown hair and smiled in return. Still close to her ear, he continued. “A ruse. We created a distraction by sending in an unmanned Chinook under autopilot. It landed near the river. The enemy took the bait and focused their attention on it, allowing us to get away. Since then, our deceit appears complete, as satellite surveillance indicates there are no US patrols hunting for survivors.”

  McMichael cocked her head. “I don’t get it. You said unmanned. The lack of bodies around the Chinook should have been a tip-off.”

  “Got it covered. As I mentioned, no one on board the Chinook was ever alive. Instead, the crew contained a squad of dead men and women hauled from the Las Vegas morgue and dressed in ROAS uniforms. Nasty work. Their families won’t be too happy when the final story becomes public. But we’re at war.”

  McMichael shivered at the thought and considered the risks. “Won’t the enemy conduct DNA analysis on the bodies and determine those poor people weren’t soldiers? Afterward, they’ll figure it out and come after us.”

  “It’s possible. On the other hand, we gave them every reason to believe their victory was total. But even if they do figure it out, it will take time to conduct the DNA analysis. Besides, they’re busy preparing to attack Vegas. Our hope is they won’t realize our scam before it’s too late.”

  “Vegas. My kids are there. I need to go home,” she said.

  “Not to worry. President Ortega has taken a personal interest in you. Your kids are safe.”

  “Do they know about me, that I’m alive?” she asked.

  Bowen gave a light chuckle. “McMichael, the entire country knows about you. You’re a national hero.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Video of you shooting down a Custer went viral. You stood up to impossible odds and that has given us all a lesson in courage and hope.”

  She reached up and felt the gap in her front teeth and remembered the frightening episode. One thing for sure, she didn’t deserve to be honored. She thought of Kinney, what she did to the man. No, she wasn’t heroic, maybe something much worse. “I’m not a hero. I just want to go home. Thank you for the rescue, but please help me get out of here.”

  Bowen frowned and went into a cross-legged position. Facing McMichael, bending close to her ear, in a whisper, he said, “I don’t think you understand.”

  “What?”

  “You’re now a symbol. The country needs you, and the president requested your extraction. We’re up against an enemy determined to destroy our way of life. We can’t let that happen. Our nation, and I’ll venture to guess the few remaining free countries around the world, view you as an example. You know, freedom of the individual over the power of tyranny.”

  “I’m not a political person, nor do I want to be a pawn,” she answered. “And I don’t even know why I shot down the Custer. Everything was chaos, and it all happened so fast. I’m not a hero and in no way deserve that title.”

  “To me, and a lot of folks, you are. You see, I believe in our country and our freedoms. I know we’re vastly outnumbered and on paper appear to have little chance. Yet, when you, all alone, stood up to the vast might of the enemy, you inspired all of us. Our country isn’t perfect, not by any means, but we are free. We have something worth fighting for.”

  “Don’t they, too?” she asked.

  “Not enough. They fight out of fear. Over time, they’ve given up their basic freedoms to be protected. They’ve been told and retold that the world is against them, that everyone not like them is a threat, and that their safety and well-being can only be ensured by their president. Without a free press, firewalled off from the rest of the world, there is no one to challenge the falseho
ods. Instead, they have a single mouthpiece beating a nationalist drum for whatever their president desires. Yes, his followers cheer and support whatever he decrees, but that isn’t the same as fighting in a free-will effort to survive.”

  “I think you’ve drunk too much of the liberal cool aid,” said McMichael, and she glanced at Upton next to her. Seeing the man, it made her feel better. With his shirt off, she noticed the bruising but also the muscles in his stomach. His features, rugged and dirty, seemed more familiar, and she was pleased he was there. Then her attention was diverted as Bowen continued.

  “Think about it. So many have fled that the wall the US originally built on their southern border to keep foreigners out has been copied on the northern border to keep people in. To maintain ascendency, the president and his chosen judiciary have revoked many liberties. They’ve moved the US back to a time when the country was supposedly better. In doing so, women, people of color, various religious groups, immigrants, workers, and gays all have fewer protections. Meanwhile, natural resources have dwindled, the environment worsened, and the social safety nets protecting the aged, infirmed, and impoverished are all gone. And of course, there is only one president up for election every ten years. You get the picture.”

  McMichael was only half listening. Nothing Bowen was saying was new to her. Growing up, the political debates seemed endless, and she found them boring. Instead, she focused on absorbing real knowledge: reading, writing, mathematics, computer science, music, physics. There was so much to learn. To her, politics, like religion, were nebulous. Just a bunch of hot air. And the more she became educated concerning the hard sciences, the more she knew how little she truly understood. Someone was always smarter and more deserving. Of all the disciplines, the irrationality of politics and religion held the least excitement for her. At this stage in her life, knowing she wasn’t worthy, she wanted to be left alone without the pain of self-reflection. She raised a hand to stop the lecture. But Bowen kept going.

  “Most alarming, driven by greed from the top, their army has gotten much stronger, the money spent there instead of social programs. They use that vast military power to keep the economy going. Look at Mexico and Central and most of South America. At the point of a gun, those countries now pay tribute through taxes. Lopsided trade and property agreements in favor of the US are forced upon them. Manifest Destiny and reunification, my ass. China and Russia are doing the same in their own agreed-upon spheres of influence.”

  “Enough,” she said. “Our country has our own share of problems.”

  Bowen nodded. He seemed to get the message and said, “Agreed.”

  McMichael turned to Upton and watched as the medic helped him wriggle into a new combat shirt. When he winced, she could almost feel it. She bent over and grabbed his hand. In response, he turned and looked at her, winked, and gave her a big smile.

  “Thank you,” she said.

  “No. You’re the hero. If you hadn’t shot down that Custer, they wouldn’t have sent in the cavalry,” said Upton.

  Even in the semi-darkness, she could see his features and, not for the first time, found herself thinking of him in a different way. His masculine chin, rugged features, and soft brown eyes brimming with compassion made her heart thump. God, she couldn’t go there. But she cared about the man. Without thinking, she let go of us his hand, reached up, and felt her missing tooth. Catching herself, she imagined what she looked like. “I’m a mess. But just so you know, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”

  “Ditto,” said Upton, still smiling. Then he raised his hand to his ribs, and while the medic moved away, he settled his back against the warehouse wall.

  McMichael turned to Bowen and asked, “Now what?”

  “They’ve demanded Nevada and are going for Las Vegas. If we don’t stop them, they’ll keep going,” said Bowen.

  “Seems hard to believe,” said Upton, cutting into the conversation.

  “Not sure what you heard, but yesterday, the US gave us forty-eight hours to surrender Nevada. Now, it’s approaching midnight. That means, in another thirty hours or so, CENTCOM expects the US forces assembled here to attack Las Vegas.”

  “Will we give into their demands?” asked McMichael.

  “Unless there’s a quick political settlement, I doubt it,” said Bowen, shaking his head.

  McMichael felt a rising concern. “Captain, I don’t know where all this is headed or even why. Yet both of us understand our Army of Defense isn’t up to the task. The US has more of everything. Look what happened yesterday. If giving up Nevada makes them stop, we should take the offer. There is no way we can beat those guys.”

  Bowen appeared to reflect on the statement. Then in a slow voice he said, “Lisa, history tells us otherwise. Like I said, we’re fighting for our liberty and democratic freedoms. That gives us great power. Think back to the beginning, to ancient Athens and their allies. They were just a few small city states nurturing an emerging idea of democratic self-determination. An army of a million Persians led by an authoritarian ruler felt threatened by those ideas. Yes, the Persians were a great nation led by a strong leader, but the ideas of the Greeks, where each citizen was considered equal, were anathema to their way of life. Bent on Greek annihilation, with a million idolizing warriors behind him, Xerxes invaded. Who won?”

  “Those were different times,” she said, unconvinced.

  “Perhaps,” he said. “But you won’t be in the fight. My orders are strict. I’m to smuggle you out of Mesquite to a nearby pickup point, where you will be whisked away to safety.”

  “What about Sergeant Upton,” she asked.

  Before Bowen could answer, Upton interjected, “Sir, my squad and battalion are gone. I want to stay with your team and fight.”

  Bowen scratched the dark stubble of his beard. “My orders concerning you aren’t clear. You’re not an SF operator. But under the circumstances, we can use every able-bodied soldier. If my medic gives a green light, then yes, we can use you.”

  “Thanks,” said Upton.

  McMichael felt conflicted. On the one hand, she wanted to get back to her children. On the other, her life for the past seven years had been with the Army. Now the choice appeared fuzzy. She felt close to Upton, almost protective in a strange sort of way, but she was a failure, an imposter, and getting back to her children without screwing up any worse made sense. She’d go home.

  “Lisa, my team will do its best to get you out of here. However, after our little charade, the enemy is on high alert. I want to let things cool down. With that said, tomorrow night, as soon as it grows dark, I’ll assign a small team to lead you through town and into the desert. From there, CENTCOM will have a stealth chopper ready to fly you back to California. My guess is you’ll get to meet the president and be reunited with your children. As for the rest of my force, the following morning, assuming the US attacks, we’ll join the fight and make life miserable for them.”

  “I want to be part of that effort, sir,” said Upton.

  “I heard you,” replied Bowen. “Let’s see what the medic says. The bigger picture is that we need a little luck. If the US leaves us alone till tomorrow night, we can get Lisa out, and we’ll be in a good position to join the fight the following morning. Until then, we need to remain vigilant.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  PREPARE TO HIT ’EM

  May 10, 00:10 (PDT)

  “How much longer?” asked Captain Raja Singh.

  In Las Vegas, underneath the canopied active camouflage system, Sergeant Jason Fitch of the ROAS technical services support group struggled with the electronics. Pitch-black outside, a small light illuminated his work space. According to his digital multimeter, the voltage was too low. Without the proper energy, the awesome weapon was useless. He’d seen the problem twice earlier in the evening and knew the part to replace, but getting to the small component was difficult, and now he was struggling with the integrated circuit removal tool. And now, just as he pried the chip loos
e, his company commander wanted answers. Damn! The last thing he needed was the boss looking over his shoulder increasing the pressure.

  Not looking up, laying aside the faulty chip, Fitch replied, “Sir, I’m going to replace the regulator logic and rerun diagnostics. If everything looks good, I’ll put the weapon online and do one final readiness check. Give me another thirty minutes.”

  “Hurry up. We’re behind schedule.”

  “I get that,” said Fitch, “but this technology is brand new, and out of the box we’ve had infant mortality. If not corrected, the weapon won’t work. Don’t blame me.”

  “I’ve already pushed the training schedule back several hours,” said Singh, nervous.

  “Understood,” replied Fitch. “Just realize operating the damn thing is easier than fixing it.”

  “I’ve never seen one fired,” said the captain, more to himself than the sergeant.

  “No one has,” said Fitch, reaching for the replacement chip.

  “It’s supposed to be awesome. I hope it works. Our lives depend on it,” said the captain.

  “It’ll work, sir, if I’m left alone to do my job.”

  “Got it,” replied the captain.

  * * *

  As Singh walked away to check on other installations, he worried. Less than a third of the weapons were operational, and technical glitches abounded. He believed brand-new technology never tried or used before should have no place on the battlefield. Yet, the promise of the weapon was astounding and the odds facing them vast. But they still had time. Assuming the enemy attacked at the expected time, dawn the following day, they still had thirty hours to be ready. But time was dripping away. If no other major problems surfaced, and his team was given enough time to fine tune the weapons, Heavy Metal had a chance. If not, he shuddered at the thought.