by Joe Nobody
After the food was consumed and the gardens were cleaned, Pete invited Betty back to the bar for a nightcap. Still excited by the outcome of the gathering, Betty agreed. As the pair strolled down Main Street toward the bar, Betty gazed up at Pete and proclaimed, “I finally feel like I live in a community again, and it’s wonderful. For some reason, I don’t feel so alone anymore.”
Fort Bliss, Texas
December 22, 2015
The major sitting behind the worn, green government desk scowled at Bishop over the pile of paperwork. “Can I help you?”
Bishop waited on the prerequisite “Sir,” but the courtesy wasn’t extended. “I’d like to speak with General Westfield as soon as possible, please.”
Without even a glance at the calendar sitting on the desktop, the man replied curtly. “I’m sorry; the general’s unavailable at the moment.”
Bishop raised his eyebrows and probed, “And when might the general be available, major? I’ll be happy to make an appointment or wait, whichever works best.”
After a moment passed, the officer glanced down at the base commander’s schedule and flipped a few pages. Looking up at Bishop with a sarcastic grin, he announced, “The general will be available at 14:30 next Friday. Would you like for me to pencil you in for that appointment?”
“Seven days? I hadn’t planned on extending my stay here that long, major. I realize the general’s a busy man, but that can’t be the first opening he has on his schedule.”
“That is the first civilian opening available. Were this a military matter, I could arrange an earlier appointment.”
There it is again, thought Bishop. There’s that attitude I keep sensing. This guy has zero reason to be busting my chops.
Bishop’s anger spiked. He inhaled deeply, readying to lambast the officer, but was interrupted by the opening of the door leading to the general’s office.
Agent Powell’s back appeared in the threshold, closing a conversation with someone inside. The Secret Service agent pivoted and noticed Bishop.
Powell smiled broadly and joked, “Bishop, we’ve got to stop meeting like this. The troops are beginning to talk.”
The joking attitude deflated Bishop’s pre-launch tirade, no doubt saving the major from a serious verbal assault. Before he could respond to Powell’s humor, General Westfield’s voice boomed from within the office. “Did I hear someone say that Bishop’s here?” The base commander’s face appeared over the agent’s shoulder.
The general waved Bishop in. “Well don’t just stand out there bullshitting with my staff. They’ve got work to do. Come on in.”
With a clearly satisfied look on his face, Bishop peered down at the major, who obviously wasn’t happy with the situation. Passing by the officer’s desk, Bishop pretended to scratch his face using only his middle finger, indiscreetly flipping the man an obscene gesture.
General Westfield offered his hand and then motioned for Bishop to take a seat. “How’s Terri doing?”
“She’s well, sir. She wanted me to express our gratitude for offering the use of the base’s medical facilities. The staff is excellent, sir, real professionals.”
The general nodded acceptance of the feedback.
Bishop got right to the point. “Sir, I’m here to let you know I’ve reached a decision regarding your offer to reinstate me as an officer in the US Army. While I sincerely appreciate the opportunity, Terri and I have decided to decline the invitation.”
To Bishop’s surprise, the commander’s face looked like a man just given a reprieve. The general clasped his hands on the desk and responded, “Young man, I fully understand your decision. Quite frankly, given how our situation is evolving, I think it’s a wise choice. I won’t mince words here; I’m relieved you didn’t take me up on the offer.”
Bishop tilted his head slightly to the side, experiencing his second surprise of the day. “Sir?”
“I made that offer thinking purely of the country and the hardship we have ahead of us. You must understand, Bishop, it’s my job to order people to sacrifice … sometimes sacrifice their lives. Since I made that offer, I’ve been shocked at the reaction from my command these last few days. My troops aren’t responding to the president’s death, the coup attempt, and the civil war like my officers predicted they would. That’s what Agent Powell and I were just discussing. There needs to be resolution to this situation, and it needs to happen yesterday. The entire thing is teetering on the edge of anarchy.”
Bishop could relate to the problem. I’ve been in a funk myself, and I know what went down. It’s no wonder the average, uniformed soldier is having issues.
Bishop responded, “Sir, I’m no doubt a distraction here. With your leave, General, I’d like to return home as soon as possible and get on with life.”
Westfield smiled, “Of course, son. You’re not a prisoner here. I’ll arrange transport in the next few days. Have you been by to see the colonel yet?”
“Yes, sir. It was uplifting to see him doing so well.”
“I’ve known that man for over 30 years. He’s too stubborn to die because of something as mundane as a plane crash. I believe he’ll be joining my command as soon as his health permits. I’m looking forward to his contribution.”
Bishop had to agree. “I’m sure he’ll make an excellent addition to your staff, sir.”
The general stood and offered Bishop his hand. The grasp was genuine and friendly.
Bishop stopped as he reached for the door. He turned and announced, “Sir, if you ever need me . . . I mean really need me . . . you know I couldn’t deny my country.”
The base commander nodded. “I know that, Bishop. Go and take care of your family. I’ll keep your offer in mind. Hell, if things keep sliding downhill, I might show up at your door asking for shelter.”
“You’re always welcome, sir.”
With that, Bishop opened the office door, only to hear the major say, “He should be leaving here shortly,” to someone on the phone. Before Bishop could make it through the threshold, he heard the phone land in the cradle. That certainly was a noticeably abrupt end to a phone call, Bishop thought.
Without glancing at his nemesis in the reception area, Bishop made a beeline for the door. Behind him, the general’s voice rang out, “Major, a moment please.”
Bishop continued moving toward the door, noticing the junior officer jump up from his desk and rush into the general’s office. Glancing around, Bishop looked at a pegboard on the wall behind the major’s desk. The initials “VOQ,” or visiting officers’ quarters, were printed across the top of the panel. Below the label were neat rows of small hooks, each numbered, and many with keys.
He and Terri had been assigned #11, and Bishop quickly inventoried the room numbers that were unoccupied. The room across the hall, #12, still had keys dangling on the hook. Without thinking, Bishop threw a fast glance at the general’s door, took three quick steps, and dropped those keys in his pocket.
Bishop was feeling a little guilty about taking the keys as he maneuvered through the passages of the HQ building. Powell’s voice sounding from a darkened doorway made him jump.
“Hey, Bishop, I wanted a quick word.”
Bishop threw a puzzled look at the Secret Service agent, exclaiming, “You scared the crap out of me!”
“Sorry, didn’t mean to startle you,” Powell said, his voice thick with sarcasm.
Bishop didn’t buy it for a second, but wanted to get back to Terri. “Go on.”
Powell looked down, suddenly finding his feet interesting. He extended his hand and said, “Bishop, I’m sorry about this morning. I wanted to apologize. I wish you and Terri the very best. After the world gets back to normal, send me a picture of the kid. Would ya? I sure as hell hope that baby looks like its mother.”
Bishop shook the man’s hand, “Thank you and good luck to you, sir. I’ve got a feeling you’re going to have your hands full for a while.”
Powell watched Bishop walk away. Thinking out loud, h
e whispered under his breath, “You have no idea how busy I’m going to be, Bishop. No idea whatsoever.”
As he strode back to the VOQ, Bishop noticed a pickup truck parked nearby. The vehicle was one of the small models used all over the base, not uncommon at all. As he walked down the steps of the base’s headquarters, he heard a motor start.
Chancing a glance over his shoulder, he sensed something was different. The truck had moved - hadn’t it? A vivid imagination might conclude the vehicle was following him.
What is wrong with you, he thought. You’re really getting spooked by all of this.
Bishop became determined to disprove his suspicions and detoured to a different route. The truck seemed to follow. A burning curiosity began dominating his thoughts. Who’s in the truck? Why are they following me?
Now determined to confront the situation head on, Bishop executed a couple of quick turns and then hid behind a dumpster. The truck pulled to the curb and idled, still too far away for him to see who was inside.
“To hell with this,” Bishop mumbled to himself. He rose up from behind the metal trash container and stepped purposefully toward the pickup.
Whoever was inside evidently didn’t want to speak with Bishop. The truck sped away before he had traveled 15 steps, before he could make out any of the occupants’ features.
Shreveport, Louisiana
December 22, 2015
Colonel Marcus stood at attention, his shoulders squared and spine taunt. Two lines of soldiers mimicked the colonel’s stance while the American flag was raised, the assembly surrounded by scores of well-wishers, friends and the curious. Everyone relaxed a bit as soon as Old Glory reached her home atop the flagpole.
There was a pause while the honor guard marched off, their important function now fulfilled. While he waited, Marcus’ gaze scanned the area, a swelling sense of irony filling his thoughts. The flagpole resided in front of a rural Louisiana middle school that had been converted to an armed camp and headquarters for his military operations. The exhausted officer couldn’t help but think about the building’s original intent. This place was once used to educate young minds, he thought. That was a higher purpose. We need to return it to that function.
The throng’s attention diverted to a makeshift stage adorned with the podium borrowed from the school. Today, his command’s new flag would be officially unfurled, and several men who participated in the Battle of Scott’s Hill would be awarded honors.
The colonel’s overall command had a new designation, bestowed upon it by the ruling council of the Independents. The organizational change was necessitated due to the hodgepodge of assorted units being woven into an entirely new army. Every conceivable size of element imaginable had joined the cause over time. Platoons, rifle squads and even a few full brigades had sworn their allegiance and now needed to be integrated into a functional fighting force. Restructuring and deploying these assets had been a monumental task that had resulted in endless hours of staff meetings, written orders and overall confusion. Marcus hadn’t slept more than a few hours per day in over two weeks.
The newly designated ICOMS, or “Independents Command – South,” was comprised of over 60,000 men and hundreds of war machines. The original intent had been to occupy the southern section of the Mississippi River Delta and use the region’s resources as a base to rebuild society.
A funny thing happened on the way to the recovery, thought Marcus. Both the federal government and the Independents had the same idea. Both had sent sizable military forces to implement said plan, and those armies had collided at a place named Scott’s Hill. The carnage had been atrocious, with two full brigade combat teams - over 10,000 men - mauling each other over a worthless piece of rural Louisiana real estate. The butchery had resulted in over 8,000 dead and wounded as well as a tactical stalemate.
A small cluster of VIPs from the Independent’s leadership council began their introductions, and a few brief speeches continued the ceremony. With only one exception, Marcus cared for none of it. The only worthwhile part of this entire shindig is awarding my men their medals, he thought. Medals they earned in battle. The rest of this shit is just pomp and circumstance, and we’ve got more important things to accomplish.
The commander was impatient for many reasons, not the least of which was the fact that 70,000 hostile soldiers, still loyal to the old regime, were less than 20 miles from the spot where he stood. Both sides continued to build combat power in the region – both sides expected to receive orders at any moment to reengage.
Slaughter, thought Marcus, such a defining word. All up and down the mighty river, similar lines were being drawn between the old government and the new. If another clash ever occurred again, slaughter was the term that would be used to describe the results for the next 200 years.
The combat power of the United States Army had been refined and improved since the beginning of the Cold War with the old Soviet Union. American military planners always assumed that US units would be severely outnumbered in any major conflict. The political environment didn’t allow for anything but a volunteer force after Vietnam, so the generals couldn’t count on raising an army of equal manpower in a short amount of time. That left one workable alternative – fewer troops capable of projecting more violence per man than any other army on the planet. Technology was the key, and that was a nice fit since America was the global leader in electronics, engineering and software. Defense contractors and politicians were more than happy to get on the bandwagon.
Even the common foot soldier benefited from the resulting investments. A modern infantryman projected more combat power for longer periods of time than his predecessors. A current-day rifle squad, on paper, could easily overwhelm a unit twice its size from WWII. The weapons, gear, body armor, ammunition and optics had all been enhanced. The same could be said of the heavy weapons, such as tanks and artillery.
The pentagon had never imagined that any force, equal in both size and capability, would tangle with a US unit. The skirmish at Scott’s Hill had involved just that scenario, and when it was over, the devastation was shocking. Now we’re getting ready to do it again, thought Marcus, only on a scale 50 times larger.
Marcus heard his name from the podium and refocused his mind back on the speaker. Everyone was looking at him, and he cursed his lack of attention, feeling like a schoolboy who had been caught daydreaming at his desk. Given the expressions of those around him, Marcus realized he’d been called to the front of the formation.
Stepping briskly to the stage, Marcus stopped and saluted the speaker, showing respect to the retired four-star general. The senior officer returned the salute and then offered his hand while whispering, “Sorry to surprise you like this Owen, but the word just came down from the leadership a short time ago.”
Colonel Marcus flashed a look of puzzlement at the general and then stood by as the older man returned to speak to the crowd.
“Attention to orders! From Headquarters, the Leadership Council of the Independents has reposed special trust and confidence in the patriotism, valor, fidelity and abilities of Colonel Owen Marcus. In view of these qualities and his demonstrated potential for increased responsibility, Colonel Owen Marcus is hereby promoted to Brigadier General of the Army with a date of rank of December 22, 2015."
Marcus was flabbergasted, forcing himself to keep his expression neutral.
The speaker turned to Marcus and pulled a small box from his pocket. “These were mine, Marcus. President Regan pinned them on me personally. I would be honored if you would wear them.”
Marcus was stunned, unsure of what to say. After clearing his throat, he managed a weak, “Of course I would be proud to wear them, General.”
Nodding and winking, the older officer removed Marcus’s eagles and pinned a solitary star on each shoulder board, and then executed a salute.
Returning to the speaker’s podium, the presenter then announced what everyone already knew. “Furthermore, General Marcus is hereby assigned command o
f the newly formed Army of the Independents – South.”
From the side of the stage area, a stern-looking Sergeant Major ordered, “Teeeennnnnnnn hut!”
All of the attending military personnel snapped to attention while General Marcus was presented with the unit’s colors, which were promptly uncased and raised beneath the American flag.
It required another hour to award each of the assembled soldiers the various medals they had earned. The ceremony officially ended with the singing of The Star Spangled Banner, the lyrics more poignant than ever. Small clusters of proud men formed, congratulating each other and mingling with friends who had attended the event.
Eventually, Marcus and the other VIPs from the council formed their own small group. “General, I’m sure the council is aware of this,” Marcus explained, “but I’m very concerned about how long this ceasefire will hold, sir.”
“Owen, let me assure you that everyone on the council is cognizant of how delicate this situation has become. No one wants to see additional bloodshed, but the other side is without leadership at the moment. There’s no one to negotiate with.”
“Someone’s going to make a mistake or get hotheaded, General. It’s inevitable. The last battle was started by accident, and it’s bound to happen again. There are too many weapons and armed men in too small an area for something not to go wrong.”
The older man nodded his understanding, and then added, “Our insiders believe the federal government is close to determining who the next president will be. That individual as well as his political orientation will determine our next course of action.”
Marcus nodded, already having realized everything he was being told, but happy to hear it from a trusted source. “Sir, the real issue is the uncertainty. My men don’t know what is happening to their families or loved ones back home. On Monday we think we’re going to be fighting our cousins and brothers, on Tuesday everyone believes we’ll be back to serving as one big, happy family. We saluted an American flag today, sir. We sang the same national anthem. This uncertainty is undermining our morale and making my command less effective.”
