“Luke Skywalker? Never heard of her.” The soldier’s deadpan delivery was so perfect that even the host believed him for a second. The whole studio, even the camera crew, bawled over laughing.
The comic slapped his desk and wagged a finger at the war hero in front of him. “I better watch out before they give you my show! Seriously though, for those folks just tuning in, Staff Sergeant Rick Dixon is the first Medal of Honor recipient from Operation Enduring Unity. Sergeant Dixon, could you tell us more about that terrible fight down in Florida?”
The soldier’s gaze briefly fixed on something a thousand yards away. He shook his head and laughed nervously. “Well, I still don’t think I did anything special. I just had the luck to be at the right place at the right time. Or maybe not exactly the best timing….” he waved his mechanical hand in sync with the host’s giggling.
“That is what I love about this guy. He’s so modest! Sergeant Dixon, you single handily held off a hundred militiamen in Lake City, Florida for half an hour, killing more than a dozen, and bought time for hundreds of people to escape that infamous ambush. Not just soldiers, but celebrities and even politicians that were following along with the invasion. The list of names whose lives you saved reads like a who’s who of Washington and Hollywood! What gave you the strength to stand your ground while everyone else ran for the hills?”
“Uh, to be honest with you, I didn’t even know all those folk were behind me. Those Florida militia hicks had the town surrounded and were running around all over the place. In the chaos, I somehow got separated from the rest of the convoy. Dumb luck that I was passing through that intersection with a supply truck full of anti-tank rockets just as the enemy assaulted the TOC, uh, headquarters. I was trapped and alone, not thinking about the big picture. Just trying to save myself. I used the missiles up one by one against their pickup trucks and then blasted the buildings nearby when they tried to hide there. The militia guys weren’t real soldiers. I don’t think they’d ever seen combat before. Not like those insurgents in Afghanistan. The enemy must have assumed they were outnumbered. It was pretty dark, after all and probably more confusing for them than me.”
“Unbelievable! But what happened to your hand?” The host seemed genuinely impressed.
“Oh, yeah. Eventually they figured out I was alone and flanked me. I took out as many of those untrained fanatics as I could, but there were just too many. One of them shot me in the leg as I tried to throw back a grenade. Well, that always works in the movies! This time the damn thing went off in my hand. I was out for the count- total wipeout man. All I remember was some militia dude standing over me and pointing a rifle at my head. Then a uniformed soldier, I assume Florida National Guard, forced him at gunpoint to get a medic and take me prisoner. To this day I still don’t know his name, but he saved my life.”
The respect in his voice confused the host. “I see. Was it difficult to fight the rebels? I mean, I understand you are from Alabama. Right next door to Florida. We all know the story of the Georgian National Guard unit that mutinied in the same battle. That disaster is what put you in this predicament. Did you personally ever have any doubts about the mission?”
The soldier sighed and made a couple of false starts. “Look, it’s complicated. This is always so difficult to explain to a civilian, but once an op kicks off, once those rounds start flying… well, all that politics and other shi- stuff, I mean, goes right out the window. Your only concerns are the men and women at your side. That’s who you’re fighting for and willing to die for. Not the flippin’ politicians.” Dixon’s voice choked up and he wasn’t able to get out anymore.
The audience sprang to their feet, cheering as hard as they could. The ultra-liberal host had always assumed these soldier folk were just brain washed tools. Even he felt slightly touched.
With every wet eye locked on the blushing hero, the one audience member not clapping went unnoticed. At least until she sprang from the bleachers and dashed towards the stage. An unarmed security guard almost tackled her, but drew up short when she waved a revolver in his face. On stage, the host was so brightly lit up that he could only barely make out some shadow rushing closer.
Since the woman fired at a right angle to the sound mikes, the gunshot was barely audible to viewers at home. Instead of a bang, the comedian’s shrill scream blasting out of a million TV sets throughout both Americas announced the terror.
Sergeant Dixon fell out of his chair. He sat up on the stage floor clutching his chest. It was hard to breathe, but no blood anywhere. A flattened little .38 caliber hollow point round lay in his lap, along with the shattered pieces of his Medal of Honor. “I’m ok. It’s all right!”
The young woman climbed the stage and entered the spotlight. She coolly leveled the pistol and fired five more well placed shots straight through Dixon’s shocked face.
“That’s for my husband, you fascist piece of shit!” The fight drained out of the woman and confusion set in. Whatever she was expecting to feel apparently didn’t come. All that came instead were tears. She noticed all three cameras zooming in on her face, but words escaped her. That clever speech she’d so carefully prepared…just wouldn’t come out. What to say? The words felt lame. Some emotions could only be expressed through action.
A pair of armed police officers rushed through the back doors. No one in the audience moved in any direction. Somehow, they all just knew this was no mass shooting. They were awestruck by the attractive young woman with the blood-splattered pink blouse and smoking pistol sobbing like a child. Shock warred with sympathy in the audience’s heart.
She suddenly pulled herself together when an officer barked, “Gun down and hands up!” She found a camera and spoke to the nation. “My husband and thousands of good people like him in Florida died defending their homes from your dictator and his mercenaries. Don’t let their sacrifice be in vain!”
The cops edged closer. One drew a Taser while the other kept his sidearm on her. A line she vaguely recalled from school, or maybe a movie, flashed into her mind. A hand of peace reached through the black fog of rage, pain and fear and massaged her soul’s shoulders. Yes, she would see him again soon. Maybe there was a point to this after all.
She whipped her empty gun up. The nearest officer reacted instinctively and popped two holes in her chest. The cameras caught the whole affair from several different angles. While the shooting drowned out her last words in the live broadcast, thanks to some expert audio tweaking, tens of millions who viewed the online replay found her final scream chilling. “Sic semper tyrannis!”
A dozen suits lounged around some mahogany table older than their homeland. The nation on their blue passports, that is. Not the homes of their various chateau’s and villas around the world. This was their first face-to-face meeting since America came unglued.
One of the older media moguls surprised the rest by shucking his regular hawkish, conservative attitude. “Ladies and gentlemen, I can’t say I’m really comfortable with this plan. I’m not above a little public opinion engineering,” everyone laughed at the understatement, “but this is direct and dangerous interference. We’re not talking about spinning perceptions here; this is a radical plan to alter the course of history! I fear we are biting off more than we can chew.”
A former J.P Morgan vice president loaded her board-swaying smile. She was now CEO of a wholly independent subsidiary, called J.P. Stanley, based out of Los Angeles. Washington’s embargo of rebel states made for great rhetoric, but was only a minor inconvenience for companies not selling physical goods. With her new, rapidly growing financial empire at risk, she was fully aware of the risks inherent in a negotiated peace settlement between the East and the West.