“They’re farmers and racist insurance salespersons!”
“No sir, they’re guerrillas fighting on their own ground, to protect their families,” snapped the ops officer, trying to keep it respectful. “Just like the dead white men who wrote the old Constitution envisioned when they wrote the Second Amendment. And we’re outsiders, here in Indian Country only because some woman in the capital told us to be here.”
“Watch yourself, Colonel,” Little hissed.
“Loyalty means telling the truth.”
“No,” said Little. “Loyalty means obedience.”
The TAC-CP rolled into the field north of the White River Bridge on Route 231. Major Little stepped out of the rear hatch in a fury. His operations officer followed.
“Why are they all sitting here? Why aren’t they moving?” the commander fumed, staring southward.
“Sir, we should step behind the 577,” the operation officer said. They were exposed to sniper fire from the opposite bank and the command vehicles were going to be bullet magnets. Sure enough, there was a loud ding off the far side of the vehicle and Little practically leapt behind it.
Captain Cardillo had been given a heads up that Blue Falcon was in the area and came back to meet him, zigging and zagging and remaining low. He was well-aware of the sniper threat – he had lost several soldiers so far.
“Sir,” Cardillo said, saluting as he reported. Little had hated the patriarchal idea of saluting right up until the moment he took command. The ops officer smiled as Little proudly returned the sniper check.
“Why are we stuck here, Captain? I said move fast and take the damn town!”
“We had to clear the bridge. It was wired to blow,” Cardillo replied. “And we had to do it under fire.” As if on cue, another rifle round echoed and then the three overwatch tanks all opened up with their heavy machine guns.
Little frowned. He had just learned that Bravo Company had arrived to find the bridge over the Porterville Road blown. And he had heard the reports from the survivors of A Company. Repeating that disaster on the Route 257 Bridge would not do.
“Is it clear now?” the brigade commander asked.
“Yes, the engineers confirmed it. And they think it will hold the tanks.”
“What?”
“The tanks are 70 tons combat loaded, Sir. You have to make sure the bridge can support the weight.”
“And it will?”
“We think so.”
“Then attack, now.”
“Roger. I’ll alert the infantry company.”
“Just get your tanks into Jasper. The infantry can follow.”
“Sir,” the operations officer said to the commander he outranked. “Sending tanks into an urban area without infantry is risky as hell. The M1s aren’t even equipped with the urban combat package. No remote controlled machine guns, no reactive armor. I strongly suggest—”
“They have old hunting rifles and some AR15s. I’m not going to wait. Captain, move out! Use your big guns and take Jasper!”
Cardillo knew better than to argue. He just hoped the infantry would follow quickly. But the ops officer spoke up.
“Sir, we need at least a company with them. We just do.”
Little grunted. “Fine.” He stomped off, and Cardillo turned to the operations officer.
“Sir, I can’t reach my battalion commander. He was supposed to be here.”
The ops officer sighed. “A sniper put a slug through his head out on the road.”
“Geez.” First the brigade commander, and now his battalion commander. At least his battalion commander had been able to go out like a soldier.
“Yeah. Be careful in town. That could turn into a royal clusterfuck real fast. We haven’t seen any anti-tank systems yet, but you know there’s lots of ways to mess with tanks in an urban area. Hit them hard, but remember who you are. Be careful of civilians. Try and get them to run – those PSF and PV bastards are killing everyone they catch.”
“Oh no, you’re kidding me.”
“I wish I was. We’re professionals. We’re soldiers, not murderers. You remember that. Do it for the boss.”
“Yeah,” said Cardillo, nodding.
“Look, we’re staging the arty now. You’ll have priority of fires. The range fan covers all of Jasper.”
Cardillo nodded. At least he could call for support from the brigade’s three remaining howitzers, and his requests would go to the head of the line. That was something. He moved off to prepare his force to move.
16.
The ten tanks of Caring Company roared over the Route 231 Bridge followed by six truckloads of infantry – the rest would follow – and the TAC-CP. Captain Cardillo’s tank was second in sequence and he kept one hand on the radio switch and one on the machine gun mount.
From his position on a hill, Davey Wohl keyed his radio mic.
“Gandalf, this is Hobbit. They’re coming. Out.”
He turned to his own troops and smiled. “Let’s go. It’s on.” They got up, and began moving toward the road, weapons ready.
“Gandalf, this is Orc, over,” Banks said, calling headquarters using the ridiculous name his element had been assigned. He hated those stupid elf operas. Give him a John Wayne movie any day, especially Sands of Iwo Jima.
“Orc, this is Gandalf, over.”
“No contact yet. Continuing mission. Orc out.” Banks waved for his troops to follow him south. The sun was setting, but it might actually be easier to find the artillery in the dark. There were only a few places it could be. And it sure as hell would be impossible to hide once it started shooting.
The PV sedan, a red 2013 Chevy Impala, slammed into the fallen tree just after it made the corner, bringing the vehicle from 40 miles an hour to a dead stop in the space of two feet. The driver and front passenger must not have been wearing seatbelts because they both flew through the windshield and bounced down the road, ending up in two unnatural piles of former people.
The next PV vehicle was a pick-up, and it crashed into the rear, spilling the four Volunteers in the back. Then a couple more PSF cruisers plowed into the crazy daisy chain of demolition.
A fifth sedan managed to skid to a halt without colliding. A farmer named Eli stepped out of his position with a Mossberg 12-guage 590A Tactical shotgun and pumped a load of Remington Express double-aught into the driver’s head through the window. He racked in another shell, pivoted and put three blasts in rapid succession into the occupants of the back seat. The one PSF officer in the passenger seat rolled out of the car and immediately raised his hands.
“Don’t move, boy,” Eli said, taking aim at the prisoner’s face.
There were a flurry of shots as the guerrillas finished off the injured in the other cars.
Eli brought the PSF officer to Cannon, having relieved him of his pistol and body armor, and pushed him to the ground. Cannon looked him over. He seemed like an alien, not a fellow law enforcement officer.
“What’s your mission here?”
“Nothing. We’re just patrolling.”
“Tell me the truth. We saw what you people do to civilians.”
The PSF officer looked panicked. “I didn’t do any of it. I haven’t hurt anyone.”
“So what’s your mission?”
“We’re supposed to follow the soldiers and deal with terrorists,” the PSF prisoner said, and then realized that perhaps his choice of words was suboptimal. “With the locals.”
“Deal with?”
“Look, they shot some, but not me! I didn’t shoot anyone! The PBI guy made us. He ordered us to.”