Jessica spit into the phone. “All I’m doing here is recording explosions and speculating on the causes. This isn’t fucking reporting. This is just war porn. What I want to do… Jesus Christ!”
The federal return fire was snappier than usual. Not to mention much heavier. She twisted her head out the side window to get a better look. With the Humvee racing away at close to 80 mph, it took both hands to keep her swirling hair out of the way. She untangled the mess in time to witness a sizeable chunk of Colorado disappear. Thousands of sub munitions blanketed a full grid square, one by one kilometers, in blast and shrapnel. Every living creature in the open, from rabbits to those poor mechanics towing a vehicle away too slowly, was killed.
Jessica’s escort breathed a sigh of relief. “Good. Talk about luck! They only hit us with one Finger of God.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
The young public affairs officer twisted around in the front seat and held up a map. “Each of those MLRS launchers can plaster a grid square in a full launch. One square on paper, representing one square kilometer in real life, is about the width of a fingertip. So… God, or at least someone at the Fed headquarters wanting to play Him, targets the rockets by simply touching the map. Pretty wild, huh?”
What was with these soldiers and their constant need to make light of slaughter? “Cute. Wait… you said each? Didn’t your own artillery just empty four launchers at the Feds? My God….”
“You still there, Jessica?”
She gripped the phone like a pit viper, bravado gone. “Get me the hell out of here, Chris. You have adrenaline junkies that get off on this type of stuff. That’s not me. I’m heading back to California. They can deport me if they want to; I don’t care.”
The producer, turned on by the exclusive explosions in the background, ignored her fear. “Whatever that was, I hope your cameraman got it in hi-def. Sure, sure, you’re nervous and all that. No problem. I’ve got a new assignment anyway. Wait! Hear me out. I’m sending you into Colorado Springs. That’s been a relatively quiet front so far. A little birdy told me the Freedom Brigades are heading down there to take direct part in the fighting. I’ve arranged a new escort for you. You should be able, excuse me, you need to get over there in the next two hours.”
“Are you serious? It’s dangerous enough here already. I’m not chasing after those nuts!”
He turned on the reasonableness. Not a good sign. “Look, I don’t like this any more than you do, but these people are the hottest story around. Liberals call them SS wannabes and conservatives hail them as mythical heroes. No matter their political inclination, no channel surfer could ignore coverage of these militias in action. Even better, no reporter, not even from the state-run networks, is allowed to interview them.”
“Then what chance do I have? Come on out of your office and talk to them yourself!”
He brushed off her bickering. Some of his reporters were far worse. “I’m embedding you in a regular URA unit that the Brigades will be supporting. No other network has such potential access. You’ll get a chance to film them live and up close. That’s career making footage!” He purred with conspiratorial glee.
Despite her fear and annoyance, Jessica was a pro. She couldn’t help but get a little excited. “Again, that’s not reporting. Any idiot with a camera,” she winked at her cameraman flipping her the bird, “can handle that. Why should I get involved?”
She could hear him take a deep breath. “I’ll tell you what. You get me an exclusive interview with someone in the Brigades talking about their real purpose, and I’ll have you back here in the studio within 24 hours. I’ll make you our senior war correspondent or something. Reporting only from your five-star hotel room a thousand miles from the action, like a true media professional!”
Jessica hung up in fury and stared out the window. In an empty Costco parking lot, the rebel MLRS launchers prepared to fire another volley. She answered her phone on the first ring.
Jessica’s producer tried not to laugh at the disgust in her voice. “All right, Chris. I’ll do it. Just get me the hell out of here.”
Six haggard URA soldiers huddled around a map in a Wal-Mart parking lot. A low grumble in the distance cut off their planning session. Their long-promised backup had finally arrived. The first sergeant tossed his helmet on the hood of the Humvee and jerked his thumb at a long column of strange military vehicles approaching.
“Sir, is this some kind of fucking joke? They’re sending the friggin’ militia! I thought Sacramento was taking our situation seriously. These are our damn reinforcements?”
Standing a polite distance away and half-listening to a junior solider jammer on about the technical details of a random weapon, Jessica kept an ear on the command huddle. She itched to butt in, but knew better than that. She’d learned the hard way that these military types tend to clam up when directly questioned. All she could do was hang around and soak up what she could of the action from a distance. With a little luck, maybe these militias were full of young, lonely braggarts like in the regular military.
More and more Freedom Brigade fighters, as the Western patriotic news outlets labeled them, kept pouring in. A bunch of “militia wannabes” according to the regular Army, but either way, there were a lot of them. Someone from battalion headquarters peeled the oncoming vehicles off into little groups and sent them all in different directions. Six of the futuristic-looking armored vehicles crawled up to their position. The newcomer’s leader jumped out the back ramp and jogged towards the Montana National Guard company.
Jessica thanked the private for his tour and edged closer to the commanding officer of her embedded unit. She caught him muttering, “Well, First Sergeant, they look squared away, at least.”
The bone-tired first sergeant took in all the fresh newcomers and their fancy toys. German-made Infantry Fighting Vehicles, sci-fi looking Israeli battle rifles and personal body armor that wasn’t even for sale on the open market. “Oh, no doubt, sir. They sure look tacti-cool, but this isn’t a fucking movie!”
Jessica thought the CO spoke more to his nervous lieutenants than his skeptical senior enlisted advisor. “Hey, any warm bodies are welcome, right? Besides, these people are supposed to be seasoned fighters. Been at odds with the Feds since before the Battle of Florida. Undisciplined or not, I’m sure we can put them to good use.”
A skinny militiaman ran over to their command huddle. No one said a word as the soldier took off his Kevlar helmet and a non-regulation length ponytail spilled out. The first sergeant smiled before the newcomer could say a word. “Ok, sweetie. Where the hell’s your platoon leader….” he had no clue how to read the strange rank on her vest, so just stuck to the nametag, “Kampbell?”
The woman’s, or girl’s face really, held no emotion. “I’m Assault Group Leader Sophie Kampbell, First Sergeant. Equivalent to one of your lieutenants. No need to salute me out here in the field.” Turning away from the wide-eyed enlisted man, she focused on his commanding officer. “Now, Captain, I’m sorry we don’t have time for more formal introductions. Here’s what I need you to do—”
The captain lost his aloof “command mystique.” After defending them, he hated looking like a fool. “Equivalent my ass! Who the hell do you think you are?”
Sophie just smiled indulgently. Jessica, excited by this stroke of luck, surreptitiously flipped on her camera as the captain punched the Humvee’s hood.