by Kyle Pratt
“Hooah,” the squad leaders replied and then left to prepare for battle.
* * *
Despite inspecting every position and reviewing the battle plan with each squad, Franklin remained unsettled. His mouth felt dry and his stomach churned so loud he thought the soldiers might hear it. If the militia arrived before dawn, then Franklin and his soldiers would have the tactical advantage. However, the chance of shooting Davis would be higher. As he crossed the bridge back to the east bank, static erupted from his radio.
“This is lookout one.” Franklin recognized the voice of Private Joe Rankin, a red-haired kid who might have been nineteen. “A group of … ah … twenty, no twenty-five individuals approaching my position on the road below.”
“Roger. Advise when they have passed.” Franklin’s stomach twisted. This must be the militia. He looked into a sky still filled with stars.
Moments later, the radio crackled again. “This is lookout one. The group has passed. Too dark to see Davis.”
“Roger. Proceed to your next position.”
Franklin raced up the knoll. Even before he had reached the spot where his soldiers watched and waited, he could hear the people coming. Images from his dream raced through his mind. He didn’t want gunfire raining down on innocent civilians.
Thumps of boots on pavement warned of their arrival.
Franklin hunkered down with his soldiers and struggled to get the night-vision gear on. He needed to make sure this was the militia group and not just a bunch of refugees returning home. As the night morphed into a green monochrome view, he scanned for Davis.
The group converged to cross the bridge.
Franklin whispered into the radio. “Hold your fire until I can ident—”
A gunshot boomed, followed by a moment of silence. Then the night filled with the sound of gunfire. Men screamed and fell to the ground and into the water.
“Cease-fire!” Franklin shouted to those nearby and over the radio. “Cease-fire!” Had his dream come true? Had they fired on a bunch of civilian refugees? He didn’t know.
The Humvees raced into position, blocking retreat, but didn’t open fire.
As the gunfire waned, two people jumped to their feet on the bridge. They struggled for a moment then, with hands close together, the smaller hit the larger person in the groin.
Davis?
A flash of shoulder-length hair confirmed his thought. He couldn’t tell the color of her hair, but the length seemed right for the woman he had spotted earlier in the day.
Davis hit the man in the chest, spun around, and jumped into the water with a loud splash.
Franklin pressed transmit. “Open fire; that’s Davis in the water.”
A few thugs scattered along the west bank and fell in seconds. A dozen more hunkered low on the bridge while most scurried back the way they had come.
“Fire!” Franklin pointed at the retreating militia. “Humvees advance.”
Guns thundered and engines roared.
Within a minute, everyone on or near the bridge was dead or wounded. A lone figure ran across the battlefield and dove into the water. Moments later, two struggled up the riverbank.
Four thugs held up their hands near the bridge. “Stop! Don’t shoot,” one of them shouted.
Franklin stood. “Cease-fire.”
Moans and cries of pain greeted the dawn.
* * *
After the battle, as Franklin walked among the soldiers, he noticed Corporal Hansen and Private Davis sitting nearby with blankets wrapped about them. The two talked to each other and smiled as they shivered. One of the soldiers brought them coffee. Where did they get coffee?
As the battle had waned, Hansen had left his position, and his squad, run to Davis, and pulled her from the water. That action, and the looks and smiles they now shared, told Franklin all he needed to know. He walked over and the two jumped to their feet.
“How are you doing, Private Davis?”
“Well, sir ….” A slight grin formed. “I’m just glad to be free.”
“Did the medic check you over?”
“Not yet, sir. She’s been busy with the wounded. I’m okay. They were in such a hurry to get back to their compound, they didn’t have time to do much more than knock me about a bit.”
“I’m glad you weren’t seriously hurt.” He turned and walked away. The issue of their romance and Hansen’s actions during the battle could wait for another day.
Franklin climbed the hillside and sat near where he had led the battle. He should have felt pleased; none of his men had died. Three were wounded, but they would live, show off their scars, and tell stories about the day. He swallowed a long slow drink of water. Below, on the dry grass near the bridge, Bickel, the medic, struggled to save one wounded militia member. Nearby Private Michael Kohen held an IV bag over another wounded thug.
The battle hadn’t gone as planned. Did they ever? But at least it had been lopsided in their favor. Franklin pulled a notepad from his pocket. General Sattler would want a report. Of the twenty-two militiamen who had reached this point, fourteen were dead. The two receiving medical attention might soon boost that number.
Keller jogged up the hill and saluted. “Sir, the recon team returned. It looks like Dick told the truth. The team watched the compound for several hours and spotted only a handful of women.”
Franklin nodded. “We’ll leave them be and head for home.”
“What about the dead?” Keller looked down by the river where bodies had been laid in two side-by-side rows. “We don’t have many shovels, but it seems wrong to just leave them there.”
“Have the men gather dry wood.”
“Huh, ah, sir?”
“Do you know what a funeral pyre is?”
Hours later, the fire roared and the smell of burnt flesh mixed with smoke as the convoy rumbled away, leaving the dead behind.
Day Five
Salem, Oregon, Thursday, September 8th
When convoy headlights illuminated a “Welcome to Salem” sign, anxiousness grew in Franklin. This would be a quick stop. Just brief Governor Adams, turn over the crazy woman, Dick, and the other prisoners, and then head for home. He imagined greeting his wife and sons, eating the customary welcome-home breakfast of eggs, toast, bacon, and coffee, and snatching a few hours of sleep in his own bed. Those were simple pleasures, but they were all he needed.
He sighed. Even if breakfast consisted of only cold cereal or an MRE, he would at least eat it at home.
Hoping to check the time, he pulled his phone from a pocket. The device showed a low battery and shut off. He had a charger with him, but the Humvee had no place to plug it in. Perhaps he could recharge the phone at the Cyber Intel Center, but what if he couldn’t? He had taken dozens of pictures on the recent camping trip with James. Would he ever be able to share them with Carol?
“Capitol building ahead, sir,” Keller radioed from the lead vehicle.
Before Franklin could reply, a bright light swept across the Humvee.
“Two spotlights.” Keller’s terse voice emanated from the radio. “Some sort of barricade ahead.”
“Convoy, stop,” Franklin ordered over the radio. He thought about having the vehicles shut off their headlights and then retreat, but they were on the edge of the capitol campus. This must be a police roadblock. He pressed transmit. “Keller, can you see anything?”
“Just bright lights and black beyond, sir.”
“Roger.” Franklin eased from the Humvee and walked toward Keller’s deuce.
Several lights shifted onto him.
“Identify yourselves,” someone shouted.
The voice sounded familiar. “Major Franklin, with the army convoy from Portland. We were here …uh.” He thought for a second. It seemed so long ago. “We were here on Monday.” More lights focused on him.
“Major Franklin, advance and be identified.”
As Franklin stepped forward, a sandbagged roadblock emerged from the gloom. Several armed men w
ere now visible. “Continue forward,” the familiar voice ordered.
Franklin did, and gradually faces came into better view. One of the men smiled. “Welcome back, Major Franklin.”
“Hello again, Sergeant Benson.”
The police officer smiled and turned to those beside him. “Let the trucks in.”
As the vehicles rolled by, Franklin spoke with Benson. “I need to brief the governor and others. Also, we have seven militia prisoners.”
“Do you need food, fuel, or ammo?”
“Hot food, if you’ve got any.”
“I’ll take care of your soldiers.” Benson turned to another police officer. “Take Major Franklin to the colonel.”
Following the police officer, Franklin crossed the wide plaza. Along the grassy edges, several wooden poles had been erected with lights hanging from them, creating a streetlight glow. But Benson led him into the shadows toward the dark building where he had met with General Gordon and other leaders three days earlier. Inside, they climbed upstairs, past the now-open cafeteria.
“Do the grills work?” Franklin asked. “Do you cook meals?”
“Yes,” the officer responded without slowing his pace. “When we have fresh food.”
The thought of a hot meal made Franklin’s stomach grumble. Still thinking of food Franklin followed the police officer past the uniform shop, around a corner, and into an office.
“Colonel, this is Major Franklin,” the policeman said. “He wants to see you.”
Franklin recognized the room. “This was General Gordon’s office.” Memories of the general bleeding out on the armory floor tore at Franklin’s mind.
“Yes, it was his office. I’m Colonel Thompson.” The man stood and the two shook hands. “Your medical truck arrived on Tuesday with word that General Gordon died. I’ve been filling in.”
“He was a good man.” Franklin nodded. “He died saving other soldiers.”
As the police officer departed, Thompson gestured toward a chair.
“I need to brief command on the situation in the Lebanon area.” Franklin sat. “Also, I have seven militia prisoners.”
“Are they charged with insurrection?” Thompson asked.
Franklin hadn’t thought about formal charges. “Yes, I guess that would fit.”
“I’ll get the JAG officer to draw up papers for you to sign.”
“I’ll do that.” Franklin nodded, hoping it would be done in the next hour. “We also have an insane woman in custody.”
“I’m not sure what can be done for her, but I’ll ask.”
Franklin began his briefing, but Thompson soon held up his hand. “Can you stay until morning? The entire leadership team needs to hear about the militia groups you encountered.”
“I believe this unit of Sovereign Militia is neutralized,” Franklin said, hoping to expedite his departure.
“Yes, but others have reported a vicious militia group, similar to the one that attacked refugees in the meadow you mentioned. The team needs to hear this new information and I’m hoping your Sovereign Militia prisoners can provide even more intel.”
Franklin drew in a deep breath and released it slowly. “We can stay until morning.”
“Great.” Thompson stood and walked toward the door. “I’ll arrange the meeting while you and your soldiers get some needed food and sleep.”
Franklin followed Thompson downstairs to the lobby where a soldier stood.
“Sergeant,” Thompson said. “Pass down to your relief that I want the leadership team advised that Major Franklin has returned with news about militia groups. Also, have the duty JAG officer notified that we have new prisoners.”
“Yes, sir.”
Thompson turned his gaze to Franklin. “I’ll see you in the morning at 0800?”
Franklin nodded agreement.
Thompson turned and strode down the dark hall.
On the sidewalk outside the building, Keller and Benson were talking. Spotting Franklin, they saluted.
“I’ve posted guards around the convoy,” Keller said. “Most of the other men are finding hot food and warm bunks for the night.”
“Show me where,” Franklin replied. “I could use that, too.”
Together they walked to the intersection.
“They requisitioned a nearby hotel.” Keller pointed to the only lighted building down the street. “They’ll give you a room for the night.”
Inside the building, a restaurant and adjacent conference room now served as a mess hall. Many of his soldiers sat together at long tables, eating a simple stew with buttered bread and drinking water.
Franklin stood in line for his own meal and then sat alone to eat. Days of tension melted away as laughter reached his ears and the smell of meat and broth tickled his nose. Thoughts of home and sleep dominated his mind as he scarfed down the last of his food.
“Good evening, sir.”
Franklin looked up as Hansen walked past. “Corporal, come with me, please.”
Together they walked out of the building into the darkness.
“Under the martial-law order, you and the rest of the armory squad are now in the regular army.” Standing in the empty street, Franklin stopped and faced Hansen. “But what unit you’re attached to is uncertain at the moment.”
Hansen glanced up and down the street. “The other guys from the armory have asked me about that.”
Franklin grinned. “I thought they would. There are two options. We could detach you here or you can return with us to Portland.”
“Most of us have family and friends in the Salem area.”
Franklin nodded. “I’ll inform Colonel Thompson that you’ll be joining his command.”
“Before you go, sir, I want to tell you how much I appreciate what you did at the armory and in getting Jessica … uh, Private Davis back. You saved all of us.”
“That was just part of my job and, while we’re talking, there is another job matter we need to discuss. During the battle, you left your position.”
“Yes, sir.” Hansen nodded. “I was worried about Davis.”
“What you did endangered your squad. They might have followed you and exposed themselves to enemy fire, or you might have been captured and then we would have had two hostages. The bottom line is your romantic interest in Private Davis endangered you, your soldiers, and the mission. When you wear that uniform and those chevrons, you must think like a soldier, not like a boyfriend.”
“Yes, sir.” His head drooped. “I’m sorry, sir.”
“Just do better, Corporal.”
Both men returned to the hotel, Hansen to the mess area and Franklin to the front desk. “I need a room for the night,” he said to the private behind the counter.
“Yes, sir.” The soldier saluted. “Officers are on the second floor. There is no running water. However, there are water dispensers and jugs in the bathroom.”
Franklin thought about the situation for a moment “What about the toilet?”
“Pour water in it and it’ll flush.”
Franklin knew that would work, but the sewer pumps and plants weren’t functioning. Where would all that wastewater go? He decided he didn’t need to know. “What about a key?”
“Your door is unlocked.” The private opened a guest book and pointed to where Franklin should sign. “Also, the power for this building will shut down in less than thirty minutes.”
As promised, the lights in the room turned on, but the clock by the bed was a windup model. He turned on the television only to view a black lifeless screen. Next, he lifted the phone receiver but heard nothing. Like the TV, perhaps the phone was no more than an ornament from a bygone era. He felt for the phone in his pocket. It might also be a remnant of a bygone era, but at least tonight he could charge it. He plugged in the phone and set it on the nightstand.
Satisfied there would be photos waiting in the morning, Franklin stepped toward the bathroom.
The lights died.
He stopped and stared at the
barely visible nightstand. Photos would not be waiting for him in the morning.
Franklin moved to the edge of the bed, took off his uniform, and sniffed it. Though needed, laundry would have to wait. He plopped onto the bed. Certainly he would get home tomorrow, and at least tonight he wouldn’t have to lie on the ground.
He closed his eyes and allowed sleep to take him.
Day Six
Salem, Oregon, Friday, September 9th
“Sir.”
Franklin’s eyes flared as he threw off the covers and rocketed to his feet.
The soldier stumbled backward. “Sorry, sir. Colonel Thompson says they’re ready for you in the emergency command center.”
Light flooded through the nearby window.
Franklin rubbed his eyes. He hadn’t wound up the clock. “Thank you, Private. Tell the colonel I’ll be there shortly.”
The soldier hurried from the room.
Despite what he had said, Franklin took the time to wash his stubble-covered face. After dressing, he hurried down the stairs. Soldiers lined up for what smelled like bacon and eggs. His stomach growled from want, but he had no time for food. Instead, he gulped a cup of coffee and then jogged down the street to the meeting.
In the emergency command center, the huge map of Oregon still dominated one wall, and whiteboards filled another, but the desks and computers had been pushed aside and a large conference table now filled the center of the room.
Colonel Thompson waved him over. “I believe we’ve all met.”
“Yes.” Franklin shook hands with the mayor of Salem, the state police superintendent, and the fire marshal. The head of emergency management strode into the room. “Sorry, I’m late. We’ve been bringing food in from a nearby warehouse. Some has already gone bad, but we think we can salvage most of it.”
“Why don’t we all sit and get started?” Thompson motioned toward the table and chairs.
Franklin took a seat near the middle of the table. The others moved to the opposite side, except Governor Adams, who sat at the head of the table, staring down at papers in front of him.
