Battle of Mesquite

by David Pope

  One way or another, freedom was at hand.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  STRIKE BACK

  May 10, 14:43 (PDT)

  Captain Raja Singh, on one knee, was perched high above the Las Vegas skyline. In his ear, as it had for the last two minutes, an air raid siren warbled. Via his helmet protection system radio, he knew a US missile strike was inbound and due to hit any second.

  From his position, nestled against a rooftop parapet atop a high-rise casino, he scanned the newly prepared ROAS defensive works east of the city.

  In silence, using high-powered optics, he watched the people who’d been building the trenches and bunkers scramble for their lives. Out in the desert, they were running, and in some cases driving, towards his direction away from the works still under construction. Some rode in bulldozers, brave civilian contractors, and they lumbered their way towards the city. Others were aboard large military transports full of engineers and other contractors. Farther out, he spotted people running and knew these were soldiers. As the troops streamed backward, he cheered when they reached the relative safety of the newly constructed trenches and bunkers.

  Around the clock, the people out there had been desperately working to build the Heavy Metal defensive positions across the valley east of Las Vegas. Everyone knew the enemy armor would be coming through the highway passage, down the center of the valley, from Mesquite. To have any chance of stopping them, the preparations for Heavy Metal had to continue even in the face of an expected enemy preparatory strike. With the attack now underway, there wasn’t anything he could do to respond. For now, his orders were clear, the Heavy Metal weapon systems were not to be used and must remain a secret.

  Just then, on the hills along both sides of the valley, he watched as both ROAS anti-missile batteries opened fire. Swish after swish, he watched the counter missiles rise into the sky. Both countries, he knew, were using technology developed by the ROAS. In the case of the US, their missiles were guided by multiple technologies, and an embedded AI could switch guidance systems on the fly depending on the target and defensive systems encountered. Just as savvy, the ROAS counter missiles also used internal AI to coordinate an array of passive sensors and active onboard radar to track and kill incoming threats. He knew it was a numbers game, however, and the US had more.

  Looking east, above the desert skies, he began to see interceptions. Small explosions erupted in the clear-blue, cloudless horizon as incoming missiles were knocked down. The echoes from the impacts took a few seconds to rumble down the valley and reach his ears. Above it all, still, the air raid siren wailed.

  He glanced at the newly erected Heavy Metal weapon system next to him. It was covered with active camouflage protection netting. More than anything, he wanted to activate the weapon and target the incoming missiles. But he couldn’t. Under no circumstances could they use any of the Heavy Metal weapons until cleared by CENTCOMM. And those orders wouldn’t be forthcoming until the main enemy force attacked.

  Frustrated, he looked back out over the desert horizon and willed the last of the exposed personnel to move faster.

  * * *

  “Dammit! How many knocked down so far,” asked General Gist, upset at what he was seeing on the monitor. Sitting inside his mobile command post just outside of Mesquite, the entire day had been nothing but frustration. It had taken many hours longer than expected to get approval, all the way from the president, to hit the enemy with a preliminary missile strike. Three times he had to explain, starting with Field Marshal Harrison, that he wasn’t jumping the gun. The main offensive was still planned for 07:00 hours the following morning. Instead, this was a softening exercise, not an invasion. It was needed because the enemy was using the forty-eight hours to fortify Las Vegas. Plus, the ROAS warranted the missile strike based on its incursion into Mesquite the previous evening.

  “Of the ninety-two missiles within range, fifty-eight knocked down. The rest are still tracking,” replied Colonel Lawton.

  “Damn! A third of them gone. But you have to be impressed with their anti-missile capabilities.” Gist knew each of his missiles carried a five-hundred-pound warhead, and at last, on his screen, he watched in satisfaction as one detonated on a hillside just east of Las Vegas. Flames shot high in the air and Gist almost cheered.

  “Direct hit on one of their two anti-missile batteries. I expect their interception rate to go down,” said Lawton.

  * * *

  A huge explosion erupted, and Singh couldn’t help but duck. He knew what it was. One of the ROAS missile defensive batteries had just swallowed a missile, and even though several miles away, the vibrations from the explosion cascaded down the city streets. Giving it a few seconds, he lifted his head over the building parapet and confirmed a huge mushroom cloud rising from the destruction.

  And then missiles began to land in the desert valley as explosions rippled among the just-built trenches and bunkers. Fascinated by the sight, he watched in amazement.

  Off to his right, another mass explosion, and he bent low beneath the parapet. Damn! He guessed the second missile defense battery was gone. Now, there was no protection from the incoming threats.

  Still bent low, he looked around at the other tall buildings near him and wondered if the city proper would be hit. No, not now, he reasoned. Crushing a major city when the ROAS defensive works were out in the desert served no military purpose. Besides, intelligence reports indicated the US had no desire for the negative optics from destroying a major metropolitan area. So even with missiles crashing down in the desert nearby, he reassured himself. Although frightening, the missiles weren’t targeting him or the city.

  He heard a series of explosions seconds apart and felt the resultant concussions pass like a wind across the top of the parapet. Letting it pass, he lifted his head just enough to once again scan the eastern valley. He couldn’t detect anyone or anything moving. Instead, he spotted a row of trucks on the highway, destroyed and on fire. Elsewhere, pillars of smoke rose across the landscape.

  Off to his left, another sequence of explosions erupted, and he ducked again. Nellis Air Force Base, he determined, just a few miles north of his position, was also a target. Seconds later, secondary explosions cascaded from that area. From the sound of it, he guessed the enemy had hit something big on the base.

  More missiles detonated, closer to the city, and he kept his head down. As the noise settled, he detected the sound of glass striking the street many stories below, breaking into a million pieces from broken windows shattered by concussions. Through it all, car and burglar alarms blared, and the civil defense siren continued to wail.

  Risking it, he looked above the parapet towards the east and ascertained the critical artillery batteries along the valley ridgelines were now a smoking ruin. Shifting his optics in a slow search, he scanned the entire ROAS front and counted almost two dozen pillars of smoke. After a minute, without further impacts, he surmised the missile attack over.

  Shaking with fear and adrenaline, Singh felt sick to his stomach. So much work and effort preparing for Heavy Metal, and now this.

  In a slow fluid motion, he rose and turned towards the west. Back across the city he gazed, facing California, and wondered if the senior brass would consider a retreat. Even with the Heavy Metal weapons, he wasn’t sure they could stop the enemy. Hell, he was ready to go home.

  * * *

  “Okay. Looks like we hit ’em pretty good, maybe not as much as I expected, or wanted, but better than nothing. I need an overall damage assessment, pronto,” said General Gist.

  “Yes, sir” said Lawton. Sitting next to the general, Lawton barked commands into his headset.

  Gist waited for Lawton to finish issuing orders. Yeah, it was a good strike, but much of the day was wasted in seeking permission. Plus, he had other issues to contend with. Lawton paused, and Gist took the opening. “Colonel, on another subject, I’ve got Federal Inspector Cone on my ass. That damn ROAS woman, her DNA wasn’t found, and he’s in a fuc
king tizzy.”

  Lawton nodded.

  “How is the search coming? I expected Crawley to be done with that by now,” said Gist.

  “Sir, it took longer than expected to put together a search team, but they’ve made good progress. A half hour ago Crawley reported he was about two-thirds done. So far, no enemy combatants located, and the civilian population appears tame.”

  “When does he expect the mission to be complete?”

  “By nightfall, sir.”

  “Fuck’s sake. That’s taking a long time. Mesquite isn’t that big,” said Gist, exasperated by the delays. The only good news was the missile strike. Thinking about it, he felt better. “Okay, just have Crawley get ahold of Cone and try to calm him down. Even better, have Longfellow reach out and explain the lack of DNA isn’t proof positive that she’s still alive. For all the fuck we know, she might’ve been vaporized in the Chinook.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Crawley, and once again, he started barking orders into his headset.

  Leaning back in his chair, Gist didn’t care either way about Lisa McMichael, but Cone was a bigger issue. Get on the wrong side of a federal inspector, and careers could come to a sudden end. No, he’d have to keep up the search and kiss the man’s ass, for now. But he wouldn’t waste too much time. Tomorrow morning, the real battle awaited. Operation Jackpot, and its success, would further cement his legacy and provide more cover than cajoling a pissed-off federal inspector. And he was confident of success. The effective missile strike and the weak ROAS force facing him were proof positive of certain victory. As the battle of Mesquite demonstrated, the damn liberal ROAS government and their military was hollow, decadent, and effeminate. Their people had neither the means nor the gumption to fight. They were, on the whole, like the many women soldiers and gays they allowed in combat, a soft target.

  Looking at his monitor, he glanced at the towers of smoke spiraling above the desert, and he smiled. Tomorrow, before noon at the latest, he relished the thought of riding victorious through the streets of Las Vegas.

  * * *

  May 10, 17:22 (PDT)

  On one knee, clutching an assault rifle, dressed in all new borrowed combat gear, McMichael listened to the exchange over the secure network. Beside her, also kneeling, she appreciated having Sergeant Upton at her side. Across from them, squatting on his haunches, Captain Bowen commanded his group of SF operators.

  “Mason, Sitrep?” whispered Captain Bowen into his headset.

  “One block out, headed our way. One Stuart fighting vehicle with hatch down. Two squads dismounted infantry. Combined force is searching a row of small buildings. ETA to our position, fifteen mikes,” replied Sergeant Mason over the secure network.

  Inside their warehouse hiding place, McMichael admired Bowen’s leadership. Row upon row of tall, dusty metal racks stuffed with auto and truck parts ran throughout the building, making it difficult to see in any direction. But at Bowen’s direction, Special Forces operators manned key points around the entire perimeter and checked in often over the secure radio network. Up on the roof, underneath a hide made of active camouflage, she knew Sergeant Mason provided surveillance overwatch.

  “Mason. Live feed, please,” commanded Bowen.

  “Roger that,” came a quick reply.

  Two seconds later, and video appeared on McMichael’s head protection visor. She guessed all the operators in the warehouse, including Upton next to her, had the same heads-up display. Watching the feed, she observed a Stuart fighting vehicle as it sat in the middle of the street north of their current position. The Stuart had its turret and main gun swiveled west towards a metal roll-up door fronting a large garage in the parking lot of a sanitation firm. Meanwhile, a group of US troops trotted around the property, going into and out of several buildings, covering each other the entire time.

  She knew what the US was doing, and it was disturbing. Bowen, hours earlier, had briefed her and Upton. They were hunting for her.

  “Switch the feed to the overhead drone and execute diversion,” said Bowen into his mic.

  “Copy that,” replied Acquon.

  McMichael glanced at Upton kneeling next to her. He seemed oblivious to her presence and instead appeared focused on his own HUD. Like her, and all the SF operators, he was wearing an active camouflage poncho with the hood not yet deployed. In Upton’s hands, he too gripped a borrowed assault rifle. Seeing him, she felt better, safer. And then another wave of doubt and self-loathing struck. None of them were safe, and it was her fault.

  The video on her HUD flickered, and a new scene emerged. From an altitude she approximated at seventy-five feet, the view from above faced downward upon a large black electric SUV parked on the side of a street. She knew the vehicle was several blocks away on a street running parallel to where the enemy was searching.

  Everything Bowen predicted and planned for appeared to be coming true. Just a few hours earlier, after a long sleep, she’d awoken feeling refreshed. Before racking out, she and Upton were given new soldier protection systems and combat gear, just in case. When they awoke, Bowen brought them up to speed. While they’d been sleeping, in the early dawn, he received a warning from CENTCOM. It was likely the US would be searching for the Hero of Mesquite. To mitigate the threat, he immediately dispatched a two-person team using active camouflage to break into a civilian SUV. Among other tasks, the team was ordered to hack the vehicle’s autonomous driving system.

  During that earlier briefing, she recalled the awful feeling of learning she was a target. Worse, she was the cause for putting everyone at risk. More people could die because of her. She couldn’t shake the guilt, and when Bowen was done explaining his plan, she requested permission to leave. It would be better, she claimed, if she headed out on her own and surrendered. Bowen laughed at her suggestion. Her idea, he explained, was preposterous. Once in US hands, she’d be forced to endure advanced interrogation and, under those circumstances, it wouldn’t take long before the enemy knew everything. By giving herself up, she’d be dooming them all. Reluctantly, she backed down. But she told him, more than once, she wasn’t a hero. From a tactical standpoint, Bowen countered, it didn’t matter. The enemy was after her and so was President Ortega.

  And now the US hunters were getting close, and her very existence was the reason. She felt terrible and blamed herself for their present danger.

  On her HUD, the overhead view jiggled, and McMichael refocused her thoughts. A breeze, she guessed, must be tugging at the insect drone. Shaped like a wasp, Bowen had explained earlier, the two-inch UAV was programmed to follow the hacked SUV at a preset altitude and pass along driving signals sent from a line-of-sight laser optic controller. She imagined Mason on the roof, holding a joystick, controlling the action.

  Just then, the image still bouncing, the civilian SUV began to move. Fascinated, she marveled as the unmanned vehicle with dark-tinted windows drove a few hundred feet before taking a left turn on the street where she now sat. From there, the SUV drove slowly east, towards their warehouse position. As it approached, she envisioned the small drone flying overhead relaying control signals and transmitting video. Before reaching them, the SUV took a left, and the wide-angle lens of the drone picked up a new and dangerous picture. A half a block away, down the street, US soldiers were conducting their search.

  “Everyone be ready,” she heard Bowen say through the secure network.

  The stealth vehicle traveled twenty yards towards the enemy before slamming to a halt. A second passed, then the SUV went into full reverse, burning rubber in an apparent attempt to escape. High above, the hornet drone wide-angle lens continued to capture and relay the video as the big vehicle stormed backward. Reaching the cross street, the SUV slid to a halt, and with tires spinning forward, it began to take off, but not fast enough.

  Although caught off guard, the screeching tires must have caught the soldiers’ attention, as it didn’t take long for the US to respond. Before the SUV could travel ten feet forward, the Stuart machin
e gun opened-up, sending a hail of lead along the entire right side of the big black vehicle. Sparks flying, a trail of burning rubber in its wake, somehow the SUV gained speed when McMichael saw the right front tire explode. A second later, even though the vehicle had traveled far enough to escape the line of fire, she could tell the SUV was in trouble. The big black vehicle, hurtling down the road on a shredded tire, began to rock back and forth. Before it could stabilize, to her disappointment, the stricken vehicle took a hard-right turn. Eight houses down from the intersection where the US troops searched, the big SUV crashed through the front door of a modest suburban home and came to a sudden stop.

  Three seconds later, the Stuart rounded the corner and barreled towards the wreck. As it closed the distance, once again, the fighting vehicle let loose with its machine gun, sending long bursts into the stricken SUV. Coming to a stop in the street opposite the wreck, the Stuart continued its assault, and for long seconds poured hot lead into the exposed rear of the black SUV. At last, with the main barrel of its cannon aimed directly at the wreck, its machine gun sending up a trail of smoke, the Stuart ceased firing. The insect drone stayed on station and transmitted the sight. The SUV was a riddled mess.

  Just then, on her HUD, she spotted a group of US dismounted soldiers jogging around the corner. After hesitating for a few seconds, with assault rifles raised, the soldiers spread out and approached the wreckage.

  “Mason, wait until they’re close. Follow the plan,” she heard Bowen bark into the radio.

  “Copy that. Wished the SUV got farther down the street,” replied Mason.

  “Doesn’t matter. Nothing’s changed,” said Bowen.

  Watching the scene unfold on her HUD, she hoped like hell there weren’t any civilians in the wrecked house. With her mic on mute, she reached over and tugged Bowen’s shoulder. She didn’t want him to go through with the rest of the plan. No one else should die for her.