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 falsehoods. 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.”