by Joe Nobody
Pete shook his head and stared out the window. “A lot of people think of me as the mayor around here, and I just don’t believe we can raise a lot of support from the townsfolk. We are barely holding on as it is, keeping order in our own town. I wish it wasn’t that way, but that’s the truth of the matter.”
Terri looked at Pete and nodded understandingly. “I hear what you’re saying, Pete. We both know that view is short sighted, but you’re right. If Diana’s people lose, it won’t be long before those crooks will be looking for new territory to plunder, and Meraton is the closest town. Still, most of the folks around here probably won’t see it that way.”
Diana was disappointed, but understood. She stared out the window for a bit and then said, “I had better be getting back. It will be dark soon, and they will probably hit us again in the morning.”
Nick cut her off. “Now hold on just a minute. I have some knowledge in these matters, and I don’t think you should give up just yet.” The older Beltron hand agreed, adding, “Ma’am, I think you can count on Mr. Beltron lending you some help. I can’t speak for him, but I bet if I were to relay your situation, he would do what he could.”
Pete rubbed his chin, “While the whole town wouldn’t support such an effort, I can think of five or six men who had relatives in Alpha or who have lost family members when those crooks raided us.”
Nick thought for a moment and seemed to make up his mind. “Kevin and I are in. I think you two gents should head back to the ranch and see how much help Mr. Beltron is willing to offer.”
The momentum was building to help the people of Alpha. At least it was until Terri spoke up. “Well count me in, too. I’m bored around here, and besides, that was the last place anyone saw my husband. I imagine he’ll come back through there on the way home.”
Nick and Pete both blurted out, “Whooooah there,” at the same time. The two men looked at each other, and Nick went first, “Terri, I don’t think it’s a good idea for you to go.”
Pete quickly nodded his head in agreement. “He’s right Terri. Besides, if something were to happen to you, I don’t want to be the one explaining to Bishop why we let his pregnant wife charge off into a battle.”
Terri waved them both off, replying in her best southern belle tone. “Now, it’s mighty sweet of you two strong, brave men to be all chivalrous and think of my protection. But you fine gentlemen are forgetting one very important fact. Even if Bishop were here, do you think he could stop me if I wanted to go?”
Pete and Nick didn’t like it one bit, but there was little they could do. The two ranch hands hurried out, rushing back to the ranch to inform their boss of the situation. Pete left Terri in charge of the bar and headed off to spread the word while Nick left in search of his son.
Chapter 8 – Executive Worries
The President of the United States paced back and forth with a steady cadence. While his body moved in a relatively straight line, his bobbing head betrayed an indecisiveness regarding which direction to focus first. To his right was a large LED display, not dissimilar from the thousands installed in high-end media rooms around the country – only this screen wasn’t featuring movies or sporting events. Today, the light emitting diodes were tasked with indicating the latest tactical information graphically across a map of the United States.
The other contender for the president’s concentration was the commanding conference table stationed dead center of the room. Unlike its high tech competition, its imposing granite surface was littered with stacks of old-fashioned paper reports and documents. Loosely sorted into some unfamiliar order, the coal black lettering overlaying stark white paper was an extreme contrast to the brightly colored hues of the wall display.
At the moment, the Commander in Chief really didn’t want to look at either, but couldn’t help but try to attend to both. He was losing control, and that fact weighed heavily on a man whose resume included being the single, most powerful individual on the planet. Men who achieve such lofty positions don’t like the fall – having no understanding as to the cause often accelerates the descent.
There were two uniformed men in the room with the chief executive. Both had been present during the emergency escape from a White House that was being overrun with thousands of angry citizens. Like the chief executive, the man seated at the table was no stranger to extraordinary authority and responsibility. General Wilson had been the Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff for almost two years. He now found himself as not only the highest-ranking military officer in the land, but also as the president’s closest advisor. Many of the executive branch’s cabinet had been killed that fateful day. Many more were classified as “whereabouts unknown.” The few who had managed to flee Washington were no longer trusted by their boss. Fueled by a string of bad decisions resulting in horrendous consequences, paranoia ran deep in the troubled administration.
The third man in the room stood quietly by the door. Agent Powell took his duties as head of the Secret Service’s protection detail seriously and seemed always to be at the president’s side. While General Wilson waited on the leader of the free world to digest the latest bad news, he secretly wondered if the stoic bodyguard ever slept.
A continuing decline in the number of territories that would execute the president’s orders was the root cause of his pacing. Some military units simply didn’t respond anymore. Others replied with terse messages ranging from repeating bogus requests for clarification to outright insubordination. The communications infrastructure of the United States was in complete turmoil. Citizens normally received their news via television, radio or the printed word. All of these media required electrical power to both send and receive. Electricity had become a luxury that currently only 5% of the population enjoyed.
While operating at a fraction of pre-collapse levels, the military fared better than the private sector. Wherever they were available, high-tech satellite systems, originally appropriated for the foreign war on terrorism, were distributed to field commands. Some domestic bases and forts used civilian communication networks and were just as susceptible to the failure of those structures as were town councils and other local authorities. The cold war era Emergency Broadcasting System was a shell of its former self, a direct result of budget cuts enacted as the threat of nuclear war faded from the government’s priorities. Regulated to weather alerts, most EBS locations had suffered a decline in maintenance and upkeep. Within a few days of being activated, the vast majority of EBS transmitters failed. Even those stations that were broadcasting didn’t have many listeners. About 99% of the nation’s radio receivers required either batteries or electricity to run, and both were in short supply.
Despite a seemingly hopeless situation, there was a plan, and the president believed it to be a good one. Operation Heartland could be summed up as a strategy to take control of the nation’s heartland, focusing all available resources to jump-start society there, and use the Mississippi River Delta as a springboard to recover the rest of the nation. The area 150 miles on each side of the Mississippi River had all of the key ingredients: nuclear plants to generate power, the river for a transportation artery, and the nation’s breadbasket to feed the people.
While the plan appeared to be the best course of action, the president hesitated to implement the actions necessary for its execution. Some critical regions of the heartland had been on their own for months since everything had gone to hell. Other areas had been under control of the military for some period, but those units were disintegrating for various reasons. There was also the issue of pulling troops from areas that were barely hanging on as it was. Initially, the military had occupied the 40 largest American cities and declared martial law. Now, almost 30% of those commands either refused to follow orders or didn’t respond at all.
When the president ordered the Pentagon to find out what was happening to the military, the resulting report appeared incomplete and confused. Many national guardsmen were said to be going AWOL due to the desperate situa
tion of their families. Other sources indicated the morale of regular troops was so low that it was a credit to the officers that more units hadn’t ceased to function. It was a single paragraph buried deep inside of the report that was the most troubling. Rumors had been circulating of another authority taking control of some units. One source had described the coexisting command structure as “an alternative government.” This supposed government even had a name – “The Independents.”
Power, especially in time of crisis, wasn’t something men like the president shared. His every instinct was to take control and move the country forward. To his way of thinking, he needed every pair of boots marching in step toward the same goal. He expected his leadership to go unchallenged and his authority to be supreme. There was no way the nation would recover without a strong, purpose-minded hand at the helm, and the American people had elected him to be that hand. No other confirmation was necessary.
POTUS cleared his throat and began. “General, I’m not satisfied with this report. You have to admit it isn’t up to your people’s normal standards. I realize I pressured you, but the information it contains is sketchy at best.”
General Wilson rubbed his chin, using the delay to carefully choose his words. “Mr. President, the resources available to me are severely limited. My orders were clear and precise – don’t include rumor, innuendo or anything else that can’t be backed up with facts. As I told you before, sir, I believe there is another group or organization that is filling the vacuum of control this situation has fostered. I believe that organization is growing daily. I just can’t prove it at this time.”
The president nodded his head in acceptance of the general’s words. He paused for a moment and then changed the subject. “General, can you show me the progress of Operation Heartland?”
“Yes, sir. Coming up on the display now.”
The large map changed to show an enlarged view of the Mississippi River delta with Chicago bordering on the north and New Orleans on the south. An area approximately 150 miles on each side of the river was depicted with dashed red lines. Certain key assets, such as nuclear power reactors, were circled in white. Two of these milestones were blinking white and blue, indicating that the military or other government agency had taken control as planned.
The map also showed several dark blue arrows at various locations. All of these indicators were pointing inward toward the great river. These were military ground units on their way toward objectives inside of the heartland. At the lower section of the map, along interstate I-20, one blue arrow was approaching the outlined border for Operation Heartland. The arrow was labeled 1st Cav DIV and seemed to be resting on the Texas border with Louisiana.
The president nodded his approval. “General, I feel like we are finally taking a step forward here. Our next step is to use the military’s Psych Ops capabilities to communicate with the people. Are the leaflets being printed?”
General Wilson replied that indeed, millions of leaflets were being printed and would be dropped from aircraft over the major population centers in the heartland. He was right in the middle of explaining the process to the president when a polite knock sounded on the door.
The executive secretary entered the room and announced, “Sir, it’s time to board Air Force One for the flight to Fort Bliss.”
Chapter 9 – Divide by 10th
First Sergeant Fitzpatrick rubbed his side and cursed his driver for the third time in the last hour. After blowing off some steam, he decided it was wrong to blame the young corporal. The kid was only pointing the Stryker where he ordered and wasn’t at fault for the jarring ride. Still, it seemed like the kid ran over every possible bump and lump this part of northern Louisiana had to offer. As far as his side was concerned, banging into the turret was just part of the job. With the high-tech surveillance systems installed in the carrier, he could have ridden down below and had basically the same view, but he liked sticking out of the turret and using his own eyes and ears. The pain from his sore ribs distracted him for a moment, and a low branch from a nearby elm scraped his cheek. That was the one good thing about Iraq, he thought, no trees, and the desert was smooth.
Fitz, as the crew called him, double-checked that the radio was set to intercom so only the crew of his Stryker could hear his words. “This looks good right here, corporal. Nudge her up against the berm, and we’re good.”
“Rodger that Top.”
When the eight wheels of the large armored vehicle finally rolled to a stop, everyone inside was relieved. Fitz pushed a button, and the large aluminum ramp at the rear opened, providing a means for the 10 members of the 1st Scout platoon to exit. The sound of their boots thumping down the ramp was reassuring to Fitz, as the team dismounted without delay. That was the way it was supposed to be done. He placed both hands on the butterfly trigger of the large .50 caliber machine gun mounted beside him and made ready to cover his men as they spread out to form a perimeter. The precaution proved unnecessary. He switched his radio to the battalion frequency and calmly stated “3-1 in position and deploying.”
As the troopers moved away from the armored transport, each two-man team knew its role and hurried to locate concealed positions. Ten minutes later, radio traffic indicated that all five teams had found good spots, forming a roughly 180-degree arch to the front and sides of the Stryker. Fritz again checked his frequency and updated battalion with a short, “3-1 deployed…3-1 deployed.”
Fitz raised his binoculars and scanned the area. His was one of eight squads that had been ordered to move forward of the main force and provide early warning of any approaching threat. When his LT had conducted the briefing yesterday, Fitz had been surprised when his commanding officer had indicated that they should be looking for an American unit approaching along the I-20 corridor. Everyone had been further taken aback when they were informed that the approaching aggressor would be the 1st Cav, and the rules of engagement were to return fire if fired upon. That shocker was quickly followed up with, “Use any force necessary to protect the men, assets, and territory of the 10th Mountain Division.” That word “territory” was disconcerting.
Fitz lowered his glass and shook his head, thinking about the briefing. After four years with this outfit, it was the only time he could remember the gathered NCOs repeatedly asking for confirmation of an order. Everyone knew that the brigade commander had pledged the unit’s loyalty to this new government called the Independents. It had been clearly communicated that the Colonel believed this new outfit more closely aligned with the purpose and intent of their oaths. Everyone had been given the choice to continue with the brigade or leave Fort Polk without dishonor. Everyone had stayed.
What practically no one had realized was that there were other American military units still loyal to the old chain of command. They hadn’t been lied to or mislead, it was just no one had thought to ask. With what he and his men had witnessed since everything fell apart, who would have thought any government agency, military unit, or even the local dogcatcher would have the wherewithal to do anything but try and hold the country together? It just didn’t make sense.
Before leaving Polk, the mission had been to secure this remote section of northern Louisiana, so the Independents could kick-start the heartland of the country. It was the first orders they had received that were proactive, and the plan sounded reasonable and well thought out. After arriving in Shreveport, word had come down that the Independents weren’t the only ones who thought this was a good plan. The president’s men and the old regime had evidently decided to execute the same basic operation.
To Fitz and most of the other troopers of the 4/10, this hadn’t immediately translated into the potential for conflict. Wouldn’t both sides work toward the same goal? Wasn’t the wellbeing of the population more important than who controlled the government?
The sergeant glanced down at the blue armband and adjusted the recent addition to his uniform. His men had the same color Velcro patches on their helmets and load gear, his S
tryker had panels of blue cloth in strategic locations. Fort Polk was a training base as well as the home of the 4/10. These “blue force – red force” patches had been used during exercises and war games to differentiate between friend and foe. Every trooper and vehicle in the brigade now was adorned with the blue emblems.
Fitz returned to his primary job – scouting his sector. His team would have set up observation posts at least 200 meters from their Stryker. Their job was to report any sort of movement or activity, not to fight. Nevertheless, they were reasonably well armed, with one of the teams carrying a Javelin missile launcher and one carrying a .50 caliber machine gun. He even had some anti-air capabilities, as they had been issued a single Stinger ground to air missile. He had one sniper, and the rest were lightly armed infantry. The Stryker he was riding was equipped with another heavy machine gun as well as a TOW missile launcher. Should trouble come their way, the 1-3 was as ready as any light unit could be.
If the Cav was really on its way, Fitz’s primary concern was that 120mm gun mounted on their Abrams tanks. With a range greater than three kilometers, the weapon had enough power to shred his lightly armored troop carrier to bits. It wasn’t so much the actual gun that concerned him, but the targeting and sensor systems inside the big tank. The M1A2 could fight at night, through dense fog or even in a hurricane if need be. He knew from training that the crew would be using their infrared thermal sights, and some of the new systems even had automatic target detection. Fitz was sure the tank’s computer would think his Stryker was the perfect target.
Back at Polk, the 1st Sergeant had achieved quite the reputation for his creative methods of defeating thermal gun sights during the numerous exercises at the base. He had pulled every trick in the book to make sure his platoon came out on top in order to claim the most leave. Fitz had developed quite a taste for Cajun cooking, finding it a welcome alternative to the typical fare of his rural New Jersey upbringing. He was savvy to the fact that the tank gunners were trained to look for hot spots and straight edges. Military vehicles had both, and enemy troops emitted a lot of heat as well. While others had tried brush piles to distort the lines, ravines for off the grid hideouts, and even emergency foil blankets that wrapped the vehicle and obscured the heat, Fitz had gone in the opposite direction and cooled the skin of his Stryker. A soldier in constant search of his edge, he had once diverted the irrigation system of a farm bordering the exercise area to accomplish this objective. The watering truck from the base’s extensive softball complex had been tapped to guarantee his success on another occasion. The combination of breaking up the outline of the big-wheeled troop carrier and lowering the temperature of its skin had done the trick.
