“Sergeant! You in charge here?”
Startled, Sergeant Flood spun around, weapon at the ready, and recognized his battalion commander. Blanching at the sight, he averted his assault rifle. Damn, he didn’t want to deal with brass. Too much could go wrong. But he hadn’t a choice. “Yes, sir! Squad Leader Sergeant Flood, sir.”
Lieutenant Colonel Paulson, standing below the trench, gazed up at the sergeant, then turned towards his right and pointed at a nearby burned-out Humvee. “Have you checked that vehicle yet?”
“No sir. Been clearing this trench,” answered Sergeant Flood.
“Well, get your ass down here and help me take a look.” Without waiting for a response, Paulson turned and walked towards the wreckage.
Flood leaped from atop the trench and, keeping his assault rifle at the ready, hurried to take the lead. He came abreast of Paulson just as they approached the still-smoking wreck. The Humvee sat upright on its chassis with most of the frame intact. Everything else—axles, tires, doors, windows, panels, and roof—was blown away. Somehow, still strapped in the back and driver’s seat were two charred torsos. Burned beyond recognition, the corpses lacked any extremities—no limbs or heads. Everything else was black, melted away. A gust of wind emerged, bringing with it the foul odor of burned human flesh. Flood gagged, turned away, coughed up a load of phlegm, and spit.
“Any weapons?” asked Paulson. Peeking into the wreck, he appeared oblivious to the smell.
Flood regained his composure, held back the bile, and shifted a bit to keep the breeze at his back. “Negative, sir. Don’t see how anything survived.”
“Hmm. Well, you know I fired the HEAT round that killed this Humvee. Vaporized the uppity colonel standing in front. I also took out the pillbox behind it.”
Flood knew it. He’d seen the first shots of the battle on the surveillance monitor inside his armored fighting vehicle. Unsure how to respond, Flood decided upon flattery. “Well done, sir. Good shooting.”
“Yes, yes it was,” replied the colonel, still poking around the wreck. Paulson seemed to catch himself, stood upright, and said, “I have a good tanker team.”
After making the comment, the officer resumed circling the wreck, searching for something. Curious, Flood asked, “Anything else you want me to check out, sir?”
Still looking at the Humvee, the colonel replied, “No. No. Carry On.”
“Roger that, sir.” Flood turned and jogged back towards his squad. He didn’t relish being anywhere near the snooping officer. The farther away, the better.
Disappointed, hands on hips, Paulson decided to saunter back to his tank parked not far away. Head down, taking his time, he focused on the ground. He’d only gone a few meters when he spotted something. Excited, he bent to a knee and examined the object. Somehow, he had missed it earlier when he first walked over. He’d been so focused on the Humvee that he had walked right past. But there it was, lying in the sand, a torn piece of cloth. He picked it up and smiled in recognition. A name patch, most of one anyway, torn and ragged. But the name was unmistakable, the letters “ROUR…” He turned it over and examined the material. Excited, he shifted his gaze downward, looked for more but nothing remained.
Standing up, he imagined the not-so-distant future. The patch in his hand under glass, sitting on his desk, a general’s desk. Destiny tapped him once again. His purpose today was to win and to find this trophy. Satisfied, he put the ragged material in his pocket and swaggered towards the waiting command tank.
Chapter Eleven
NOW WHAT?
May 8, 14:10 (PDT)
Lieutenant Colonel Andrea Simpson walked up at a brisk pace and bent over so only the general could hear. “She’s here, waiting for you in the SCIF.”
General Story looked up from his monitor and took a deep breath. “Okay. That was fast. Why the secure room?”
“She didn’t say, but Secretary James is with her.”
The general found the news troubling, but there were bigger problems. “Have you brought her up to speed?”
“She asked how it went. I told her the battalion sustained heavy losses. She raised her hand in response and said you’d brief her. She’s requested your immediate presence, sir.”
The general nodded and got out of his chair. “Send out a broadcast to the US Fifty-Fifth Armored Division declaring Mesquite an open city.”
“Yes, sir.” Worried, she brought up another concern. “Any further orders for the rest of Second Brigade in Las Vegas?”
The general frowned. He knew the Second had monitored the battle and seen their detached infantry battalion wiped out. “Orders haven’t changed. Remind them the enemy could be on their doorstep in two hours. Dig in but stay prepared to bug out on my command. Let me speak with the president. It shouldn’t take long, and I’ll get back to them. If the situation changes, let me know at once. For now, let’s hope and pray the enemy stays put.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Lieutenant Colonel Simpson. She took a chair next to the general and issued orders into her headset.
The general glanced once more at the monitor on his desk. Drone observation from Mesquite no longer existed. Instead, only satellite surveillance remained. The near real-time satellite imagery told the story. Nothing but smoking remnants remained of a once-proud ROAS infantry battalion. The entire battle was a rout. A debacle. Although still angry, it was over, and now he needed to focus on next steps. President Ortega awaited a recap, and the truth was painful. The Republic couldn’t stand against the might of a determined United States. Today, he knew full well, marked the beginning of the end.
The sensitive compartmented information facility, or SCIF, existed below ground within Central Command. A lead-lined vault, its purpose was to keep conversations private and off the record. No electronics of any kind were allowed, and everyone was screened.
Inside, President Julia Ortega, mid-fifties, sat waiting at the head of a lone wooden table. She didn’t take for granted her still youthful attractiveness. Defined by high cheekbones, almond eyes, and long dark hair now piled high on her head, wearing a black skirt, above it she wore her signature bright-red blouse. All her adult and political life she’d worked hard on her presence: femininity combined with strength. She knew it helped with voters.
Ortega believed in the Republic of American States, and she was determined to protect and defend it to the end.
For three decades, since its start, the ROAS had tried to build a new nation with a focus on not only freedom but economic and social equality. To achieve those aims, with limited resources to build a strong military, it was key not to become a threat in hopes the greater nations would leave them alone.
As the ROAS prospered, its economics were founded upon an inherited technological, entrepreneurial model the rest of the world relied upon and envied. The country sold futuristic products across the globe. To fund their socialist programs, the ROAS taxed its citizens at a hefty rate. She was proud of the accomplishments. Universal healthcare, education, and income were now the norm. So far, the model had worked, but now her country was under attack, and the lack of a strong military left it vulnerable.