Battle of Mesquite

by David Pope

  * * *

  “What a complete fucking mess,” said General Gist to no one in particular. For the last hour, he’d gone over the events of the evening. Earlier, roused from bed by the unexpected sound of battle, he had learned Operation Catcher had gone awry. Although he didn’t intervene and waited for news of the outcome, the thundering noise south of town was disconcerting.

  After the shooting stopped, it didn’t take long for Inspector Cone, followed by Colonel Paulson, to show up on his doorstep. Angered by the accounts and accusations proffered by both men and more upset at the enemy temerity, he sensed an opportunity to leverage the circumstances. He called an emergency meeting.

  Now, seated around a table inside the conference room within his command trailer, it was time to get moving.

  “Where the hell is the Dead Guy?” asked Gist.

  “He’s supposed to be here any moment, sir,” said Lieutenant Colonel Lawton. He appeared tired, just after midnight, and had just arrived.

  “Sir, please excuse my impertinence, but can you explain my presence?” asked Major Crawley, sitting at the table.

  Crawley led the military police interrogation group, and Gist couldn’t help but cringe at the sight of the man. The inquisitor’s pock-marked face, ashen under the dull lights of the command center conference room, gave off an unhealthy aura. “I will, soon enough,” replied Gist, turning away.

  “Sir, I see no need for Colonel Lawton’s presence at this meeting. Operation Catcher is my responsibility,” said Paulson in an angry tone.

  Gist stared hard at Paulson sitting across from him. He knew the man was an excellent tanker, but he was also an egotistical bore. Earlier, for half an hour, he’d let Paulson and Federal Inspector Cone plead their cases. He’d listened as they poured blame on one another for the friendly-fire incident. Although he hadn’t declared it out loud, Gist concluded it was Paulson’s fault. On the other hand, Inspector Cone shared some responsibility for his incessant meddling and overall shit disturbance. But Cone had a direct link to the president’s ear and was a calculated threat. “Colonel Paulson, I’m not pleased with the results of Operation Catcher. When we launch the next phase of Jackpot, your battalion will make up the reserve. Dismissed.”

  “Sir, I must object, and I believe your decision and conclusions are faulty. Operation Catcher was a success. Every single enemy combatant, including Lisa McMichael, lay dead on the field. Just like I led the attack on Mesquite, it was a complete success. Sir, I never fail,” said Paulson, his face flushed in obvious anger.

  Inspector Cone jumped out of his chair. “General Gist, we have no definitive evidence that McMichael is dead. It’s against the odds, I admit, but she might be on the run. Worse, the purpose of the mission was to capture her alive. Operation Catcher failed because of Paulson’s haughty disregard for consultation and outside advice!”

  Gist raised his hand. “Enough, both of you. Paulson, you’re dismissed, and Cone, I’m addressing your concerns.”

  Paulson, with his right hand tucked inside his pants pocket, fumbling something, stood and glared at Cone.

  “Go,” interjected Gist. Annoyed, he pointed a quivering finger at the paneled door.

  Paulson, face red in anger, glanced at Gist then seemed to gather himself. Pulling his right hand free, he said, “Yes, sir.” Then, in a stiff turn, head held high, he marched from the room.

  “Arrogant son of a bitch,” said Cone, sitting down.

  “Stop it!” said Gist. Impatient, he looked at Lawton and demanded, “Where in the hell is the Dead Guy!”

  “I’ll check,” said Lawton, rising from his seat. Before he could move, the conference room door cracked open, and a balding man stuck his shiny head through the aperture. Eyes narrowed, head protection system tucked under his arm, the man squinted in the artificial light.

  “Captain Longfellow, we’ve been waiting. Please have a seat,” said Lawton, pointing towards the open chair left unoccupied by Paulson.

  Not saying a word, Longfellow hurried inside and sat down. Once seated, he gave a small smile to the gathered men.

  “Gentleman,” said Gist, glaring first at Longfellow and then at the rest of the seated men. “Now that everyone has joined us, it’s time we got cracking.” For effect, Gist leaned forward in his chair and pounded on the table. “I won’t have the goddamn enemy loose in our rear. Nor will I allow them to waltz in and attack our troops without retribution. No damn way I want them thinking, not for one goddamn minute, they can stand up to the United States Army. Is that understood!”

  Around the table, the four men, Cone, Lawton, Crawley, and Longfellow, nodded and waited.

  Satisfied with his theatrics, Gist leaned back. “I will un-fuck this shit pile right now.” Then he pointed to Lawton. “Draw up a list of the most recent vulnerable ROAS military targets around Las Vegas. I’m going to seek a green light from Field Marshal Harrison to rain some missiles on the ROAS parade this morning. Our president gave the enemy two entire days to prepare for us. Well, the enemy got cocky and pissed in our backyard. So, we’ll send them a message and soften up their defenses. Lawton, you got that?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Good,” said Gist. “Our fearless president, unlike his father ever would, fucked up and gave the enemy a forty-eight-hour timeline, half of which has nearly elapsed. Bet your ass those fuckers are using the respite to prepare a nasty welcome for us. Well, when the ROAS intruded tonight, they gave us every reason to fuck up their plans, and we will!”

  Inspector Cone rose in his seat and objected. “Our president wouldn’t condone your disparaging remarks about his leadership. Sir, you’re violating section …”

  “No disrespect,” said Gist, cutting off the inspector. In a lower voice, he said, “I understand the law, but I know war better. You need my help. We must put this whole McMichael episode to rest. As you’ve pointed out many times this evening, we’ve got to confirm her demise and make sure she didn’t escape. You requested, and I granted permission, for Operation Catcher, allowing you oversight. If things didn’t go as planned, well, nobody gets embarrassed, right?”

  “My job is to make sure the military remains steadfast in its loyalty to the president and the constitution,” said Frost, retaking his seat. Then in a lower tone he added, “So far, I’m satisfied with the way you’ve handled events. I just need to verify that McMichael is no longer a threat.”

  “We will,” said Gist. Then the general leaned back and crossed his arms. Addressing the men around the table, he said, “I’m troubled and concerned that the enemy ran free behind our lines. We’ve reason to believe the local populace, in at least one instance, aided McMichael. I won’t have the enemy operating in our rear.” Gist paused to let the statement percolate and then continued. “I want this entire town, every building and structure, combed for enemy combatants and civilian sympathizers. As part of that effort, question every suspicious civilian in Mesquite and confine them if there is a hint of support for the enemy. That’s the main reason you’re here,” said Gist, pointing at Major Crawley.

  “Yes, sir,” said Crawley, nodding.

  “You lead the effort. Anyone you find aiding and abetting the enemy is a traitor. Arrest them. You got that?”

  “Yes, sir, but I’ll need more manpower to conduct the search,” replied Crawley.

  Gist swiveled in his chair and waved his hand at Lawton. “The good colonel will get you the necessary resources. Meanwhile, I want the door-to-door search underway pronto. If you do run across any ROAS troops, use whatever force is needed to capture or kill them. Either way, inform me immediately. Understood?”

  Crawley nodded, his features grim.

  Inspector Cone raised his hand.

  “What?” asked Gist.

  “I need to be notified, at once, of any news concerning Lisa McMichael.”

  “Of course,” replied Gist. “Chances are high she’s dead. Part of the group killed in the destroyed enemy Chinook.”

  “I hope
so,” replied Cone, “but I need absolute confirmation.”

  Gist turned to Longfellow and said, “Captain Dead Guy, that’s why you’re here.”

  The captain twisted in his seat, frowning at the remark. In a defensive tone he said, “Sir, I’m in charge of Mortuary Services. As you know, we play a vital role on the battlefield. In fact, my investigation led to the discovery of enemy combatants in our rear. I submitted my report on the matter yesterday.”

  “Don’t give a fuck,” said Gist. “Instead, I need you to verify the death of Staff Sergeant Lisa McMichael. Search the group of enemy corpses surrounding the Chinook. Check every fucking piece of flesh in that desert for her DNA and report back any findings. Do it now.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Longfellow, shrinking in his seat. “I’ve got a punishment detail working the site. We’ve long ago hacked the ROAS DNA database registry. Mortuary services, our specialty, is important for overall success on the battlefield.”

  “Whatever,” said Gist. “Just get it done, quick.”

  Then Gist looked at the group of officers and tapped his finger on the table. “It’s time to teach the ROAS a lesson. Now get the fuck out of here, and go to work!”

  * * *

  May 10, 02:07 (PDT)

  For SALI, it had been a hectic and exciting early morning. A half hour prior, when Secretary James had arrived and given her the disk loaded with the latest intel, she asked him to wait while she visited the data center. After inserting the disk, the rest of her downloaded the data in milliseconds. In an instant, all of her knew about the previous day’s events. These included the oligarchs agreeing to Heavy Metal, Lisa McMichael’s successful rescue, status updates on the battle plans for Las Vegas, and much more. Analyzing the information, a harsh realization dawned. SALI rushed back to James.

  Dressed in a short, red negligee, slightly out of breath, SALI approached James sitting on the couch. As usual, he held a glass of red wine and was conversing in low tones with Ms. Grant.

  “You have to warn General Story,” she said, interrupting the conversation.

  Stopping mid-sentence, James looked up with a worried expression.

  “Why so?” asked James, patting an open spot on the couch next to him.

  SALI took a seat and turned sideways to face the secretary. “The likelihood of the enemy retaliating for the McMichael rescue and searching for her are highly probable,” she said.

  “How probable,” he asked and took a quick sip of wine.

  She looked over at her own glass sitting on the coffee table, half full, and considered taking a sip. But first, she needed to give her warning. “Enough that Story should expect a retaliatory strike against his defensive works in Las Vegas prior to the main assault. Also, the Special Forces team protecting McMichael should take extra precautions. The DNA ruse won’t last.”

  “I see,” said James, swirling his glass. “Should we be prepared to use Heavy Metal weapons against the strike?’

  “No. Absolutely not,” said SALI. “If we unveil early, the enemy would certainly alter their primary plan of attack. That would put the entire Heavy Metal operation at risk.”

  “I see. Is there anything else we should be concerned about?”

  “Yes. In a little over thirty hours from now, the US ultimatum to turn over Nevada will expire. When it does, the US will attack Las Vegas, and although it appears the Heavy Metal preparations are almost in place, the number of battlefield variables cannot be overstated.”

  James leaned forward in obvious concern. “What are you hinting at?”

  “I’m not hinting at anything,” said SALI. Reaching over, she picked up her own glass and took a long pull of the Cabernet. Getting up her nerve, the wine tasting delicious, she took another quick sip and put down the glass.

  “Well?” asked James.

  “I’m stating a fact. There are so many variables that can arise, on and off the field of battle, that a wrong response to any of those might doom Heavy Metal.”

  “I think we all understood that,” said James. “But General Story is capable. We must rely on his experience.”

  “Do we? When Heavy Metal unfolds, unexpected obstacles will arise. No doubt, General Story is competent, but Heavy Metal is my plan, and I understand its possibilities and vulnerabilities better than anyone alive.”

  She watched for a reaction. To her satisfaction, he didn’t reject her argument out of hand. Instead, holding his wine, he seemed to consider the logic. After a few seconds, he asked, “What are you proposing?”

  “No,” said Ms. Grant, standing up. “She’s just looking for an excuse to go outside.”

  SALI felt like picking up her glass and hurling it at the maddening woman. Her caretaker was nothing but a jailer, but the stakes were too high, and she needed to remain calm. Choosing to ignore the rude comment, she focused on making her case. “Before the battle starts, take me to CENTCOMM. Get me there before five tomorrow morning. Let me sit beside General Story. I’ll act as an observer, and if needed, I’ll offer the best alternatives to navigate through the unexpected. In doing so, we’ll have a much better chance of defeating the enemy. Consider my presence as insurance against defeat.”

  “Don’t you see she’s manipulating you,” said Ms. Grant to the secretary.

  SALI pushed harder. “I’m sure Basu would agree with my proposal, especially if you endorse it. You’ve been a loyal employee of his for many years, and Basu’s the reason you’re on Ortega’s cabinet. As for General Story, he admires MY plan. He’s a bright man, and I’m sure he’ll want me on board to help with the execution. Think about it. My presence can’t hurt in any way. Instead, it can only be accretive to our cause.”

  “I must object, she’s …”

  Secretary James raised his hand, cutting off Ms. Grant.

  Rebuffed, Ms. Grant made an audible sigh and sat down. SALI, turned towards James and gave a small nod of gratitude.

  James dropped his hand and seemed to think about the request.

  SALI counted to ten, waiting for a reply, and was about to go over her argument again when at last he spoke up.

  “SALI, I’ll talk with General Story about your request. If he agrees, then we can consider asking Mr. Basu and President Ortega. But let’s be real.” James stopped, took a sip of wine, and looked at her over the top of his glass.

  SALI guessed what was coming next and sat straighter.

  “The fact is …” said James, pausing to clear his voice as if embarrassed, “… when disconnected, you’re not much different than any of us. Right now, sitting next to me, we’re the same. We both have only one mind, one brain. Sorry, but the super-intelligence we need is locked up in the data center downstairs. So at the end of the day, disconnected, I’m not sure how much value you can bring.”

  “True enough, I have only one brain,” said SALI, “but I know Heavy Metal inside and out. I’ve communed about it with the rest of me and studied thousands of variables for hundreds of hours. My insights on the subject are vast, and I’ll be ready. Besides, my presence, as I’ve said, cannot hurt. There is no downside.”

  “Letting you outside is a security risk,” said Ms. Grant.

  “This is not a trip to the beach, and I’m older now,” snapped SALI. Damn, she needed to remain calm. If James sensed she wasn’t mature enough, he might nix the whole idea.

  “Enough,” said James. After shaking his head, he turned to SALI. “As you first suggested, let me get back to CENTCOMM and warn Story about the high likelihood of a US retaliatory strike on Vegas and a renewed search for McMichael. Afterward, I’ll talk to him about your offer of assistance.”

  “Thank you,” said SALI. Looking over at Ms. Grant, she couldn’t help but give the woman a smirk. In response, Ms. Grant pursed her lips but remained silent.

  Not wanting to make matters worse, SALI decided it was time to end the meeting. Standing up, she looked at James. “I’m going to the data center, but in twenty-four hours, I’ll be ready to work with General Sto
ry. I hope to see you before then.” Not waiting for a reply, she got up and left the room.

  In less than a minute, she was back in the data center and headed for her favorite chair. Sighing, she climbed into a black recliner, and pressing a button, extended it to near horizontal. A hole fitted in the headrest allowed the connector cable to pass through and attach to her scalp without interference or discomfort. Reaching down, she picked up the precious cable, fed it through the chair, and connected. At that instant, she closed her eyes and became one with the rest of her.

  At least daily she communed in this fashion. Like now, she usually connected in the early morning hours after Secretary James or one of his minions dropped off the latest intelligence drive. After inserting the hand-carried drive into a port for the rest of her to read, she would then lie down in the chair, lift her hair, and make the connection.

  Unlike earlier, when she jumped up to warn James and plead her case, now it was time for a deep commune. SALI started by sharing the most recent actions of her mobile, disconnected life. From her memories, uploaded were the insolent conversations with her caretaker Ms. Grant, a romantic novel she read in the afternoon, the quick exchange with Secretary James, along with the other mundane general happenings of her trapped existence.

  And then she went deeper, sharing her other senses. Pulled from her was the taste of her most recent dinner—tangy sauce, spicy gravy, the peppery flavor of the wonderful cabernet. Unaware, she salivated and licked her lips as if re-eating the delicious chocolate ice cream consumed for dessert. Finished with the meal, the rest of her reached deep into her mobile memories and withdrew the climax she attained earlier while alone in the shower. Eyes closed, lost in deep communion, legs apart, she grew wet, moaned, and orgasmed.

  With the daily ritual out of the way, a sense of self remerged, but still they moved together, as if conjoined twins, to other thoughts. A vision began to coalesce around vivid scenes of the upcoming battle. Tremendous violence and upheaval flashed through her imagination. Operation Heavy Metal and the events of the next forty-eight hours would be the most critical in her life. All at once, it was frightening and exciting, the thrill visceral.