Standing in the Storm

by William Alan Webb

  Nathan Bedford Forrest

  1453 hours, July 29

  “We’ve got ’em, Norm,” Angriff said. “By God, I think we’ve got ’em.”

  “We’ve still got to finish the job,” Fleming said.

  “We just turned back an entire armored corps. I’ll take that for our first fight.”

  “General,” Sergeant Major Schiller said, tapping Angriff on the shoulder.

  Angriff was watching a live feed over a corporal’s shoulder as mortar rounds impacted near some Americans. The Chinese might have been retreating, but their rear guard was fighting hard. He pulled off the right cup of his headphones and Schiller spoke into his ear.

  “It’s Captain Sully of Task Force Kicker. He asked for you personally, sir.”

  “Tell him I’m busy, dammit.”

  “Sir, he says the safety of the brigade is at stake.”

  Annoyed, Angriff yanked off his headphones and took the radio mike from Schiller. “Angriff here. What is it, Captain? I’m up to my eyeballs in Chinese.”

  “General,” Sully said, his voice affected by a slight tremor that he could not suppress, “we have another army within seven miles of our position.”

  Angriff turned completely away from the video monitor and rubbed his chin. He paused long enough to make sure he had control of his voice. “Slow down and take it from the top, Captain. What are you talking about? What army?”

  “Sir,” Sully said, and now Angriff heard him suppressing his fear, “we were alerted to a major enemy presence closing on our position. We sent out two recon drones. They showed hundreds of military and civilian vehicles before they were shot down. The vehicles are flying Islamic flags, and intel from some local Apaches say they’re from this Caliphate. The Apaches estimate their number north of thirty thousand. I repeat, that’s three zero thousand. I need orders, sir. My company is strung out for miles. I’ve only got Safety on my right flank and they’re spread out like we are.”

  “Captain, are you certain of your information? Can we trust these Indians, whoever they are?”

  “One hundred percent certain, General. I’m not taking their word for it. I’ve sent you the video from our drones for confirmation. I’ve got to tell you, sir, that outside of the Liberty Bowl, I’ve never seen so many people in my life.”

  “What is your estimated time until engagement?”

  “Unknown, sir, but not long. I think they’re deploying to hit the whole line at once.”

  “We don’t have enough men,” Angriff said to himself, then turned his attention back to the call. “What was your name again, Captain?”

  “Sully, sir, Martin S.”

  “That’s right, I remember you now. You brought in that family during the first recon. All right, listen to me, Sully. You have to hold, do you hear me? I have no assets to send you right now, I’ve got to detach some from contact with the enemy and that will take time. All reserves are committed. You are our flank and you have to buy time. If you give way the whole brigade is in danger. Stand your ground. God bless you, Captain.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Sully said. “But instead, would you ask God to pick up an M16 and bring some angels down here with Him?”

  1505 hours

  Bare of trees and flat at the peak, the slopes of Badger Mountain dominated the valley below like some enormous stone toad. The 7th Cavalry Headquarters Company was strewn on the crown. The view from its heights afforded clear observation of old Highway 169, which ran straight into Prescott from the east. It skirted north of the mountain before intersecting Interstate 17 well to the east. West of Badger Mountain, Highway 69 ran south toward Phoenix.

  Dennis Tompkins had felt like the third wheel on a bicycle since the beginning of the attack. In theory he was third in command, and God bless ’em!, Generals Angriff and Fleming tried to keep him in the loop. But the truth was he had nothing to do except stand around and watch.

  He’d given input early that morning, it was true. But his other warning, about the left flank, had gone unheeded and, as it turned out, ignoring him seemed to be the right call. That should not have been a surprise to anybody. His experience was in small unit actions, not major battles or coordinating combined arms attacks.

  He was not asked for his advice again, and in the cramped confines of the command vehicle he was in the way. Nobody said anything, but nobody had to. So as the day wore on, he slipped out, joined his men in the shade of a tent, and speculated about the battle’s progress.

  They heard distant explosions, small arms fire, the shriek of artillery rounds, and the roar of helicopters diving in to the attack. From their high vantage point, they saw smoke and flames spread over a wide swath, but it was impossible to know who was doing what where.

  “Kinda like watchin’ a football game without knowin’ who’s playin’,” Thibodeaux said. “But somebody down there is gettin’ his ass kicked.”

  Two towering explosions on the far horizon brought all six men to the edge of the crest facing the long western slope. They were still there when a flurry of activity started in the MCC. Aides ran inside, while others left in a hurry. Sergeant Major Schiller sprinted out and headed for General Fleming’s M1130, the eight-wheeled specialized control and command vehicle separate from Angriff’s Mobile Command Center. Tompkins watched as Schiller pointed and gestured with General Fleming, then they both started running back to Angriff’s trailer.

  Tompkins called to him. “Sergeant Schiller, what’s going on?”

  Schiller stopped and took a moment to focus on who’d spoken. “ General Tompkins, there you are. Would you please join Generals Angriff and Fleming in the MCC?”

  “Something wrong?”

  “You might say that, sir.”

  “On my way.”

  The MCC was a modified mobile home pulled by a tractor trailer. The original design had been for use in the Washington, D.C. area during a national security crisis. Tompkins entered through a side door.

  Inside was bedlam.

  The noise overwhelmed him. A dozen radio operators spoke to formations in the field. Officers stared at screens and shouted orders. At the far end, Nick Angriff and Norm Fleming were in a deep discussion. Their faces reflected obvious worry.

  Tompkins noted a tangible scent permeating the narrow trailer, one he knew only too well. He had smelled it when hiding from enemies who’d stalked his command for fifty years. It was the smell of fear, a mixture of sweat and pheromones that hung in the air like an invisible fog. His brain translated the scent into thoughts, and he knew that something had gone disastrously wrong.

  Schiller looked up and noticed him. “Back here, General.”

  Tompkins scooted along the narrow aisle on the right side of the trailer. In the small cleared area in the back stood, shoulder to shoulder, Angriff, Walling, Fleming, and himself, with Schiller at Angriff’s elbow. Tompkins noticed they all wore sidearms, and Angriff wore two massive pistols in shoulder holsters crossed on his chest. The guns looked familiar, but Tompkins had not seen one in half a century and it took him a few seconds to remember it: a fifty-caliber Desert Eagle. Once, long before, a buddy had let him fire off a few rounds during target practice.

  He also remembered they weren’t decorative. Angriff used them in combat. Tompkins wondered how. The gun’s power had hurt his wrist and shoulder for days. It was like firing a small cannon.

  “Gentlemen, we have a dire situation,” Angriff said without preamble. “Dennis, you were right for the second time and we should have listened to you. We stripped the left flank, leaving only a thin screen, and now we have no assets left in reserve. Two companies screening a twenty-mile line was a calculated risk, and it’s backfired. Now they’re facing an army of at least thirty thousand men, hundreds of vehicles of various types, both civilian and military. That’s one hundred to one odds, people. One hundred to one.

  “Task Force Kicker used two of its drones to scout this new force, but both were shot down. But before the video shut off, we got a pretty g
ood look at what we’re facing. It’s that Caliphate we keep hearing about. They appear to be irregulars, but with plenty of RPGs and automatic weapons, like a huge mob. We are reliably informed they came from Tucson, which means they crossed the desert and so are disciplined, motivated, and tough. They fly Islamic flags, but unlike anything in our database. They are within five miles of Kicker and Safety,” he said, pausing to glance at his watch, “and may already be in contact.

  “I have ordered the rest of the Marine battalion back to their old positions, but it will take them at least two hours to disengage and move through Prescott. Redirecting artillery might take longer than that. Air assets should be available sooner.

  “But here’s the biggest problem, gentlemen. Not having ground reserves means that within an hour, either one of those highways below this mountain could be crawling with jimbangs. And they’ll be climbing these slopes like ants, or hitting our rear areas in Prescott, including the evacuation camp. If we don’t do something right now, it’s Remember the Alamo time. And by right now, I mean in the next five minutes.

  “At this moment, I see no choice but to prepare the entire brigade to disengage and retreat, but I’m praying for alternatives. Nothing is off the table. Every man and woman is expendable. Talk to me, boys.”

  Fleming spoke first. “Based on the position of the highway and the deployments, Kicker is in the crosshairs more than Safety. We could pull out a platoon and shift them to Kicker.”

  “It’s already just a picket line. If we spread them out further, the enemy might slip through without us knowing it. We could lose the line and both companies. Then the whole brigade is flanked and we’re caught between the Chinese and the jimbangs. We can’t risk that. What about the battalion screening Flagstaff?”

  “They’re dug in and spread out. With the highway in the condition it’s in, they’re at least six hours away.”

  “And we’ve already been flanked once,” Angriff said. “Leave them in place. Come on people, think.”

  “This is all my fault,” Fleming said.

  “No, it’s not, and there’s no time for that now,” Angriff said. “Everything that happens is my responsibility. And just so you know, I’ve ordered Colonel Coghlan of First Artillery Battalion to prepare for the use of special ordnance.”

  There were six people who knew special ordnance meant tactical nuclear shells — the five men standing there and the S-4, Colonel Schiller. The implications of using nuclear weapons hammered home to Tompkins the desperation of the situation.

  Angriff looked at each man in turn, but nobody said anything. “Surely there’s something we can do.”

  Tompkins spoke up. “The headquarters company isn’t committed. We’ve got seven LAVs, counting mine, including two mortars. That’s a platoon right there. Arm everybody you can spare and let us plug the gap. I’ll bet we can whip up half a company.”

  Angriff snapped his fingers. “Dennis, you’re a damned smart man. I should have thought of that. Schiller, comb out supply, repair, as many bodies as you can find. Get those LAVs cranked up and running. Tell them they’ve got ten minutes to gear up and then they’re on the road. Take all the ammo you can carry.”

  “Yes, sir,” Schiller said. “Preference given to combat veterans?”

  “Of course, but hurry,” Angriff said, then paused, realizing what Schiller had meant. “Wait a minute…” There was a long silence, during which he studied the man he considered the most valuable soldier in the brigade. Then he pointed at the door. “Go.”

  Schiller grinned and headed down the line of radio operators, collecting those he wanted.

  “With your permission, General, I’m gonna get my men and draw weapons and ammo,” Tompkins said.

  “Negative, Dennis. Major generals don’t get into firefights, and your men…” Realizing what he was about to say, Angriff stopped.

  “My men are what, sir? Too old? If that’s what you mean, just say so.”

  “All right, your men are too old. Besides, if we don’t stop them on the flank, you and your men will have all the fighting you want.”

  “With all due respect, General Angriff, my men and I have more combat experience than anybody else in this brigade. Hell, maybe in the whole country, and it’s recent, too.”

  “Doesn’t matter,” Angriff said. “The answer is no.”

  “You just finished saying you should have listened to me in the first place, and that you would do so in the future. And here you are ignoring my advice again just a couple of minutes later,” Tompkins said.

  Norm Fleming glanced at Angriff, his expression shocked. Then Fleming spoke up, deflecting Angriff’s rising anger. “I seem to remember a lieutenant general getting into a firefight against direct orders.”

  Angriff’s glance seemed murderous, but Fleming had seen it many times and grinned. It meant Angriff knew he was right.

  “General,” Tompkins said. “Nick… I’m eighty-one years old. Whatever happens today, I don’t have many years left. I’m third in command of this brigade, but I’ve never commanded anything bigger than a company. The truth is there are plenty of officers more qualified to lead it than I am. We need every man on that line, God knows, and especially men who won’t fold and run. At the end of the day, I’m just a soldier like everybody else. I’ve shot it out with these bastards before, and I think you should let me do it again.”

  “You did say everybody was expendable,” Fleming said.

  Angriff studied Tompkins’ watery blue eyes in their wrinkled sockets. His skin was a leathery brown, with dark spots on his forehead and deep creases in his cheeks, but there was a vitality in Dennis Tompkins that was lacking in others half his age.

  The two men held each other’s gaze for more than ten seconds, which seemed like an hour.

  “Get your men and go,” Angriff finally said. “But!” He pointed a finger and poked Tompkins in the chest. “Please don’t get killed.”

  1508 hours

  As Tank Girl settled to the hangar floor and Carlos shut down the engine, Joe Randall leaned back in his seat, took off his helmet, and rubbed his eyes.

  “Son of a bitch,” he said over the whine of the slowing engine. Morgan’s dried blood covered his chest and arms. “What a day. Those fuckers aren’t fuckin’ around.”

  “That last triple A, honest to God, Joe, I don’t know how you avoided it. This thing’s not supposed to pull those kinds of Gs.”

  Randall shrugged. “I don’t know, man. I just did it and prayed she wouldn’t fly apart.”

  As the rotor slowed to a stop, Sergeant Rossi opened the pilot-side door and motioned Randall out of the cockpit.

  Exhausted after his third sortie of the day, Randall did not move. “Give me a minute,” he said, feeling sweat running down his back. “Any word on my wife? They oughta know something by now.”

  “Nothing, Captain, but this is turn and burn time. You’ve got fresh orders. We’re to get you back in the air in ten minutes or less. Piss it out and drink it in. Coffee, energy bars, and Go-Juice on the table.” When Randall sat unmoving, stunned, Rossi frowned. “Let’s go, sir. We’ve gotta change the ordnance package, so I need to get the diagnostics check over with.”

  Finally climbing out, Randall wiped his forehead with a towel and headed for the table with the drinks. “Why are we changing the package? There’s plenty of Chinese armor left out there.”

  Carlos handed him a cherry-flavored energy bar and a bottle of lemon Go-Juice. He didn’t know how Randall could stomach the combination, much less like it.

  “Not Chinese this time,” Rossi called from inside the cockpit. “You’re to head southwest, near Phoenix. I’m uploading the intel right now, but the short version is an army of jimbangs showed up out of nowhere. Tens of thousands of them, hundreds of vehicles, probably got Stingers. The Marines are holding the line with two light recon companies.”

  Already chewing, he couldn’t say anything until he swallowed and washed it down with a long pull from the Go-Jui
ce squeezer. In the meantime, he exchanged glances with Carlos.

  “What the hell?” he finally managed to ask. “Is that PNN?”

  “No, sir, that’s confirmed, and right now you’re the only air asset available.”

  “Where the fuck did some new army come from?”

  Rossi put up her hands. “That’s above my pay grade, Captain. Sir, I need to finish in the cockpit.”

  “Shit. Has anybody heard from Plotz?”

  “As far as I know, she’s still out there. I asked her chief right before you landed and he said she’s okay.” Rossi’s tone made it clear that she didn’t have time to answer any more questions. Her fingers moved over the helicopter’s controls like a savant playing a grand piano.

  As she and her team swarmed over the massive helicopter like a NASCAR pit crew, Randall and Carlos peed, zipped down their flight suits to cool off, re-zipped, grabbed some more Go-Juice, and were back in their chairs within five minutes.

  “Flares reloaded,” Rossi said. “Back to max ammo, but watch your engine temp, Captain; there’s a couple of things we didn’t have time to check.”

  Starting the engine, Randall stuck his arm out the side window and gave Rossi a thumbs-up, then lifted off to go fight an entire army. Once outside the mountain, Tank Girl banked south in search of prey.

  Chapter 40

  The enemy fought with savage fury, and met death with all its horrors, without shrinking or complaining. Not one asked to be spared, but fought as long as they could stand or sit.

  Davy Crockett

  1452 hours, July 29

  Captain Sully noted the incongruity of it all. Blasting heat distorted vision and sucked the life out of any man foolish enough to stand for long in direct sunlight. The daytime belonged to snakes, scorpions, and lizards. Tufts of grass sprang from the powdery mustard soil, so much like the moon dust in Afghanistan. Rocks lay in piles of red and brown and black.