So, like a true professional, Jessica ignored her better judgment and accepted his invitation to ride along with him to “the front.”
A mile short, Representative Eliot hollered at his driver and flashed Jessica a thumbs up. “Slow down; let me pump up these guys.”
Eliot lowered his window and waved at the federal troops waiting on the side of the road. “Onward to Miami! Give ‘em hell, boys!” The cheering was all in his head.
The congressman sped away from the silent soldiers as soon as Jessica’s cameraman snapped a short video. Jessica forced a polite smile. He wasn’t the only camp follower around, but out of the thousands of politicians, celebrities, activists of every stripe and ambulance-chasing lawyers tagging along with the Army, the congressman stood unrivaled in idiocy.
Annoying or not, Eliot did possess an uncanny sixth sense for where the action would come from. With all the major fighting farther south, he seemed to be the only person, in or out of uniform, worried about the mixed Florida Guard and paramilitary force coming from the coast.
The staff at the federal command post, far more interested in the surprisingly stiff resistance encountered by the main body, gently kicked him out. They were all so confident that the Georgia Guard, backed up by US airpower and the bulk of the division’s artillery stationed in town, could deal with this rag-tag flank attack.
Congressman Eliot was no military genius, but he did have a politician’s uncanny ability to sense weakness and opportunity. Historic weaknesses and photogenic opportunities.
Eliot fiddled in his seat like a kid on the way to Disney World. He poked his assistant wedged next to Jessica.
“Hey, do you think we can get one of the soldiers to give me a gun? Maybe get some photos of me from the top of a tank?”
His staffer pleaded with his eyes. “Hmm… yeah, I guess not. A gun might offend some of my constituents. Do we at least have an American flag somewhere?”
While Eliot and staff debated the most photogenic way to hold a flag, Jessica buried herself in making notes on her IPad. This whole damn operation was ridiculous. Borderline insane, even. Sending 50,000 troops to capture a handful of hotheads was the most wasteful and dangerous folly she’d ever seen… and she’d been covering Wall Street scandals and repeated taxpayer-funded bailouts for years. Didn’t the Brits try something similar way back when? It didn’t turn out so well for them.
From the few prisoners and locals she’d gotten a chance to talk to, not one called themselves a “rebel.” They all whined about having their backs against the wall. How they had no choice but to defend themselves. They were under attack by the mad president and power hungry Washington elites. How many of these combatants would just go home if the Army did? Half, for sure. Maybe most.
Of course, that’s not what her editor wanted to hear. She wrote several variations on that same story, only to have each one kicked back. An hour of raw interview footage with dejected militia detainees and confused federal soldiers was edited down to 60 seconds of defiant sound bites.
Jessica bit her lip, trying to find some way of wedging context into the 140 character Tweets her editor wanted sent every fifteen minutes. Why even bother? The battlefield was crawling with reporters like a tornado had struck a celebrity murder trial across from the Super Bowl while the Pope was visiting. All those journalists rushing about, but all throwing out the same click-bait reports. With so much money at stake in corporate news, the truth was often the first thing to be downsized.
Even with the gravity of the situation, she couldn’t help but smile when they arrived at a Wal-Mart, or the forward operating base of the Georgia National Guard Task Force as they called it at the moment. Far from getting an occupied territory vibe, the soldiers were the ones surrounded. A horde of protestors and camera wielding gawkers besieged their mini-encampment in the parking lot.
Eliot jumped out before the car even came to a complete stop. Jessica and her cameraman did their best to keep up. It was just dandy that the congressman had a stressed out security detail to keep the crowd at bay while searching for a way into the perimeter. Jessica didn’t have such support.
During their short hike to the gate, someone spilled a beer on her, another thoroughly lost reporter tried to interview her and someone else shoved a religious pamphlet in her hand while screaming about the Lord’s wrath. The cameraman on her hip bought a burrito, hit someone trying to pick his pocket and got flashed by a drunk girl who thought the camera was running. Except for the armored vehicles, a pretty typical Saturday night at Wal-Mart.
When they finally made it inside, the atmosphere in the National Guard camp was quieter. Quiet, but far from calm. Four camouflaged men and a skinny, shirtless man knelt zip-cuffed in front of the headquarters tent. A steaming Georgia National Guard colonel finished some little speech just as the congressman approached. Jessica’s cameraman had his own quick instincts. He started filming with a wide lens but left it dangling at his side.
Without a sideways glance, the colonel drew his sidearm and shot the cuffed and half-naked civilian through his right temple.
Representative Eliot’s gut wrenched and he skidded to a stop. Not from the sight of the gore, but from the realization he personally might have been caught in any camera shot. He relaxed a little when it was clear that the only camera around wasn’t recording. He waved for his security team to holster their weapons and began browbeating the colonel without introductions.
“Who the hell do you think you are? Your orders are clear that no one will be executed under any circumstances! This is still the land of the free!”
Eliot lost his righteous indignation when he remembered no one was filming. “Shit, Major or Colonel, whatever. Do you know how bad it looks if we start killing these hillbillies out of hand?” Jessica’s cameraman raced off to find a Wi-Fi spot to upload his soon-to-be Pulitzer Prize winning “rebel execution” clip.
The colonel finally stopped glaring at the body and holstered his weapon. He spoke as much to the soldiers crowding around as to the politician. “That was no rebel. We caught this meth head trying to pilferage our medical supplies. He scammed his way into the triage tent and stabbed one of my men in the neck when they surprised him stealing morphine. No, folks, this wasn’t an execution. That was justice.”
He crossed his arms and stared down at the uniformed prisoners. “I wish I could do the same to you. I never expected that my own men would try to sabotage our mortars and then desert. That’s worse than cowardice in the face of the enemy, in my book. You all are a disgrace to the uniform you wear and I will personally see to it that you spend the rest of your lives in Leavenworth!”
Inside the command tent, fifty yards away, the colonel’s young radioman couldn’t see or hear all the details going on outside. He knew several guys had been caught trying to desert or something. The rumor mill was all over the place. The colonel had stormed off to chew them out while muttering something about mutiny.
The gunshot outside crystallized everything. He wasn’t one of those soldiers that hated this mission and joked they were fighting against the wrong side. It didn’t matter either way. He tried to stay a professional just doing a job. He genuinely believed in the Old Man. His faith in the boss was unshakeable, or so he thought.