One Man's War

by Thomas J. Wolfenden

  There were a few grumbles from the crowd, but no one spoke up.

  “Gentlemen, we were tasked by the president of the United States himself to set out on this journey. Somewhere out there, west of us, is a man who is detrimental to our country. Some might say seditious, I say the word traitor. He has been claiming he is the president, when we all know he’s not, we know the real president is safe, back in Washingto—”

  “I bet he’s not eating spam or MREs!” a voice came from near the back of the group of men.

  The major chose to ignore it, and continued. “Men, I know it’s been difficult, long journey, and it’s not over yet. Once we get to Arizona, we will find this man, and bring him back with us. He’s violated the law, and the president demands justice. We, gentlemen, are that justice!” he said, raising his voice loudly in mock anger. The show worked, and a wave of hoots, shouts, and catcalls came forth from the men.

  Seeing his showmanship was working, he plugged on. “We didn’t know how bad the roads would be, or that the bridges over the Mississippi would be washed away, or damaged beyond repair. But like the soldiers that we are, we continued the mission. Charlie Mike. That is all I want to hear from you now, when asked anything, I want the reply to be ‘Charlie Mike!’ loud and clear, got that?”

  “Charlie Mike!” was shouted by several of the men, but not all. This didn’t satisfy the major. “What was it? I can’t hear you!”

  “Charlie Mike!” was yelled louder, by several more men, still not all, but it was enough for the major for now.

  “Like you’ve known from the beginning, there’s a rogue soldier out there west of us, just over those mountains,” he said, pointing at the distant Rocky Mountains for emphasis, “and we’re going to bring him to justice. But that’s not all!”

  That last statement got everyone’s attention, and he smiled inwardly.

  “That’s right. You heard me. That’s not all. There are a few details that up until now you haven’t been told,” he said, and that brought some renewed grumbling from the men.

  “Settle down and let me finish. My orders were to bring back this man, the aircraft he has at his disposal, and the pilot of said aircraft.”

  You could have heard a pin drop when he finished that last statement, and he looked at all of their faces with delight. He had their full and undivided attention now. He grinned broadly.

  “That means, gentlemen, that we will be flying home. What has taken us almost two months to accomplish, on our return will be hours, not days and weeks!”

  When he was finished, he let the last words truly sink in, folded his arms across his chest smugly in satisfaction as a loud roar and cheer went through the crowd.

  The sergeant looked over at the major in shock. He leaned in to his commanding officer and whispered in his ear, “Do you think that was wise, telling them that?”

  “I don’t see why not, Sergeant. It’s the truth. He’s got a plane out there, and we’re to ferry it back. No sense us all riding back in vehicles.”

  “Sir, I need to talk to you about this,” the sergeant hissed in a whisper.

  “Alright, give me a minute,” he said, then turned back to his men. “That’s all I have for now, get some rest, we have another long day ahead of us tomorrow!”

  The men broke up into gaggles of four and five men, scattered with great cheer and glee, and when they were finally gone, the major beckoned the sergeant to follow him back to his Hum-Vee.

  As they walked, the major asked his companion, “So, why do you think it was a bad idea to tell the men about the aircraft?”

  “What if we get out there, the aircraft is only a Piper Cub, or other puddle jumper?”

  “Sergeant, we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. I don’t see a problem with telling the men a little something to boost their morale, do you?”

  “No, not at all, but what happens then when we get out there and it is some little plane? Yeah, we can take it back, have the pilot fly some of us back, but can you imagine the reaction if that’s the case?”

  “I think you’re overreacting, Sergeant,” the major said in his saccharine-sweet voice of condescension that annoyed the shit out of the sergeant.

  “No, sir, I am not overreacting. What will we tell the men? Oh, too bad, we’ve got another two month truck ride back home?”

  The two men stopped at the major’s Hum-Vee, to find Nuggets sound asleep at the wheel, which seemed like his natural position. The major stopped to relight his cigar, and when he had it fully going again, looked at the sergeant.

  “Sergeant, I don’t think that will be the case. This rogue madman had satellite capabilities. He’s been able to call up spy satellites, so I’m thinking he’s got at least a C17 at his disposal. We’ll all be able to fly home,” the major said, pointing at the sergeant’s chest.

  The soldier just looked at his superior in disbelief for a moment, and then whistled. “Are you telling me he’s got control of the military satellites?”

  “That’s what I’m telling you, Sergeant.”

  “Holy shit, sir, maybe he’s watching us right now for Christ sake!” he said loudly, looking up into the night sky involuntarily, as if he could spot the orbiting satellite. “We might have thought this one out just a little longer. I mean, fuck. We should have brought more men. Who knows what the fuck we’re up against, Major?”

  “You know what I think, Sergeant?” the major said, emphasizing the word as though to let the man know who was really in charge. “What I think is some crazy old grizzled soldier with far too much time in rank, and suffering from PTSD, finally snapped when the Cull happened, and like that Colonel Kurtz in the movie Apocalypse Now, has gone off the reservation and is gone completely insane. That’s what I think, Sergeant!”

  “Maybe that’s the case, but if he has that kind of control, that kind of power, don’t you think we ought to step back and rethink just going off half-cocked, sir?”

  “What could he possibly have that can stop us from bringing him back, Sergeant?” the major asked, in the voice of a school teacher talking to a particularly dense student.

  “He could, Major. Have you thought about that?”

  “He’s not Rambo. I’ve read his file, so have you. There’s nothing in there that’s overtly threatening.”

  The sergeant was starting to feel the creep of a migraine coming on, and he wondered what he ever did in his life to deserve this. He took a breath. “No sir, he’s not Rambo. But shit, he’s got more combat experience than most people I knew. Grenada, Panama, the First Gulf War, Kosovo, Somalia, Iraq for three tours, Afghanistan for five tours, two Bronze Stars, a Silver Star, Distinguished Service Cross, Purple Heart, Combat Infantry Badge, HALO, Master Parachutist, Air Assault, Pathfinder, Ranger Qualified. Besides a shitload of stuff that’s been redacted starting in the mid 1980’s, and that screams of Secret Squirrel CIA shit. Fuck sir, shall I go on?”

  “He failed the Special Forces ‘Q’ course, Sergeant,” the major replied smugly.

  “Sir, how can you be so cavalier about this? So, he failed the ‘Q’ course. Haven’t you ever failed anything?” he spat angrily.

  “I most certainly did not fail at anything, Sergeant. I was top of my class at VMI also, I’ll have you know!”

  Oh great, the sergeant thought. Now he’s bringing up college. It was no use arguing with the man, so he just sighed and said nothing.

  “Is that all, Sergeant? If so, I think it’s time we turned in and had a night’s sleep. We’ve got another long day ahead of us tomorrow.”

  “No, I’ve said my piece. I’ll do whatever you say, sir.”

  “Good. I’m tired. Go get yourself some sleep, and you’ll look at it from a different perspective in the morning.” He placed his hand on the sergeant’s shoulder in a fatherly way, which had the opposite effect of its intentions. It only further infuriated the sergeant. He walked away, back towards his Hum-Vee, leaving the major to his delusions of grandeur.

  The next morning, th
ey started out earlier than what had become normal, as most men in the unit had higher expectations and were all buoyed by the thoughts of flying home in a plane, something that none of the men had seen for several years.

  The sergeant had to give the major one thing, as his pep talk the night before did serve one purpose, and that was to lift the sinking morale, and there was less discontent in the ranks.

  They made their way south from Santa Fe into Albuquerque, and despite several rusted hulks of what used to be semi-trucks and cars along the way, found the ramp onto I-40 westbound by mid-afternoon.

  Several miles west of Albuquerque, they stopped at a truck stop to refuel and rest, and the sergeant made his way through the convoy on foot, making sure that all was going to plan and the refueling was done quickly and efficiently.

  It was slow going, as always. They still had to siphon the diesel for the trucks and the Hum-Vees from parked semis, and it took a while. Those not helping with the refueling were busily tearing into the new MREs they’d gotten in Denver, and every time the sergeant stopped to chat with his men, he could feel a renewed sense of purpose running through them.

  I guess the major did know what he was talking about, he thought. Still, he worried about the chances of the plane being some Cessna or Piper. When he made it to the front of the convoy, he found the major’s Hum-Vee parked under the portico covering the fuel pumps of the truck stop. Nuggets was found as usual, sound asleep, head on the steering wheel, and he wondered how anyone could sleep so much.

  “Ah, Sergeant. How is the refueling going?” the major asked.

  “Going along nicely, sir, we should be done in about a half hour.”

  “Good, good, anything new?”

  “No sir, all is about the same. Morale seems to be up quite a bit,” he conceded.

  “See, Sergeant? I know what I’m doing. Have you felt like we’re being watched again, Sergeant?”

  “No, not today, not for several days, if fact. I think it just might have been nerves.”

  “I see,” the major said, nodding. Then he got a weird look on his face, and his jaw dropped. The sergeant turned to see what the major was gaping at, then it was his turn to look dumbfounded.

  Coming out of the storefront of the truck stop, a large, disheveled, barrel-chested man with long scraggly hair on the back of his head and a shaggy beard on his face was walking wide-eyed towards them.

  The sergeant instinctively reached for his M4, then realized too late he’d left it in his Hum-Vee at the back of the convoy. He mentally kicked himself for being so sloppy. They stood stock still as the man approached, and when he was within feet of them said, “Fuck me, mate! Am I ever glad to see you blokes!”

  The accent was familiar to the sergeant, so he was the first to speak. “Are you Australian?”

  “Fucking oath, mate! The name’s Colin. Colin Milford,” he said, holding out his hand to shake the sergeant’s.

  “Where did you come from, besides Australia?” the major asked, shaking the man’s hand.

  “Arizona,” he replied, smiling.

  Chapter 15: Reinforcements

  The 5,500 BTU air conditioner that Suplee had installed in the captain’s office on the SS Jeremiah O’Brien hummed quietly.

  Johnson sat at his desk, finishing up the entry in the ship’s log; he never failed to make the daily notations. After an uneventful two-week journey from San Diego, the ship was tied up at the famous ‘1010’ dock at Pearl Harbor Naval Base, called that because it was exactly one thousand ten feet long. Several men from the island were now busily chipping away the rust and flaking paint on the hull and superstructure in preparations for a fresh coat of Navy Gray.

  Johnson closed the ledger and set his pen down when someone knocked on the door. “Come,” he said.

  The door to the office opened, and Jerry William appeared, a quizzical expression on his face.

  “Excuse me, Mr. Johnson, do you have a minute?”

  “Sure, Jerry, come on in. And belay the ‘Mr. Johnson’ stuff, call me Bill,” Johnson replied, sitting back in his swivel chair.

  Jerry entered the tiny office and closed the door behind him. He pointed at another chair that was against the bulkhead. “May I?”

  “Sure, pull up a seat. What can I do for you?”

  Jerry sat down and rubbed the back of his neck. “Sir, I was wondering about these cranes on the ship. How much weight can they lift?”

  “That I’m not sure about. I guess we need to ask Harry or Ken about that. Why do you ask?”

  “I remember seeing old newsreels of them loading Sherman tanks into these Liberty Ships during the war. I figure they must be strong enough to lift thirty-three tons.”

  “A couple of them might be capable of that.”

  “An M3 Sherman from World War Two weighed around thirty-three tons, and a Bradley weighs a little less than that, around thirty tons, right?”

  “I wouldn’t know, Jerry. I’m a sailor, not a soldier,” Johnson said. “Why the interest in loading armored vehicles?”

  “You know about the messages that Tim and I have gotten, right?”

  Johnson nodded. “Yes, you let me know about them when we sailed into port.”

  “I just got off the radio with Tim a little while ago. It’s a fact now, there’s a group, probably a company-strength unit, moving from Kansas on its way to Arizona to take Tim into ‘custody.’ They need help back there.”

  “What do you have planned?”

  “I don’t have a plan yet, just an idea. I wanted to float it by you first, and if you said it was feasible, I’d start drawing up a better plan.”

  “What’s your idea?”

  “Tim is a smart soldier, one of the best I’ve ever had the pleasure of working with. But he’s outnumbered back there. He’s only got about eight people left from the twenty that went back with him. He wants to fight them, but he’s going to lose if he doesn’t get some help.”

  “So your idea is to load up the hold with tanks and men, and head back to the mainland to help him?”

  “In a nutshell, yes,” Jerry said. “Look, Bill, I’m just a platoon sergeant. I’ve never planned anything like this before. Thirty soldiers are the most I’ve ever commanded before the world ended. I think we can do it, but I need some more ideas.”

  Johnson sat back again in his chair, looking intently at Jerry for a few moments. His elbows were propped on the armrests, fingers together, contemplative look across his face for several moments.

  “Jerry, I’d like to help any way I can. I owe a lot to Tim. I’ve got a lot of things going on here, and I appreciate the help of your men,” he said. “There’s still a lot of work to be done on the ship yet, but I’ll get Harry and Ken up here, and I’ll ask them what they think. In the meantime, you go home and come up with a plan. We’ll come over to your place later this afternoon to discuss it.”

  Jerry nodded. “Do you want me to plan it out as if it’s doable?”

  “Yeah, think it out that way. Once I talk to Harry and Ken, I’ll know better, but we’ll assume at this point that we can move the equipment.”

  “And if we can’t?” Jerry asked.

  “If we can’t, we can’t. We do have to try,” Johnson said, standing. Jerry stood also, and held out his hand, and Johnson took it in a firm grip. “I promise we’ll do our best to help.”

  Jerry left the office, leaving Johnson alone with his thoughts. His eyes drifted over to the far bulkhead, ideas and images tumbling across his mind.

  He reached across his desk, picked up the growler phone, and called down to the boiler room. Nakamura answered immediately.

  “Mr. Nakamura, is Suplee there by any chance?”

  “Ah no, Skipper, he not here all morning,” Nakamura said cheerfully.

  “If he shows up, let him know I’d like to talk with him,” Johnson said into the handset. He replaced the receiver and stood, donning a ball cap and heading out to the bridge, only to find that deserted also.

  He
walked out to the sunlit wing bridge, and looked down at the work party on the forecastle, busily sanding, chipping, and painting the exposed metal with primer. He spied Ken, stripped down to his waist, carrying two five gallon pails of primer.

  He thought of using the loudhailer, but decided that would be lazy, and something Old Lead Bottom on the USS Hughes would have done. He made his way down the three decks to the cargo deck, out a hatch that had been propped open, and forward past the closed cargo hatches to the bow of the ship.

  Ken saw him and came over to him. “Good morning, Skipper. Have you come down to inspect our work?”

  “No, Ken, I trust you’ll have everything shipshape. I was actually looking for Mr. Suplee.”

  “Suplee said he was heading over to the base ship’s store about an hour ago. I’m not sure when he’ll be back. Is there anything I can do for you?”

  “Actually there is, Ken,” Johnson said. “What can you tell me about these cranes?”

  “Not much. They’re pretty rudimentary, not hydraulic, steel braided cable, and powered by electric motors.”

  “Do they work?”

  “I think so. For as old as she is, everything else works on her. I can check them out if you’d like.”

  “Yes, please do that,” Johnson said. “Find out about their capacities, how much they can hoist aboard at one time.”

  “Aye, aye, Skipper. Is there anything I should know about?” Ken asked, curiosity piqued.

  “Not right now. I’ll explain later when you find out if they’ll work or not. When Harry comes back, report up to me in my office.”

  “Sure thing, Skipper!” Ken said, then turned to another man who was bent over painting an area of bare metal with the copper colored primer. “Hey, Jim, take over for me here, the Skipper has got me on a special mission.”

  “I’ll leave you to it, then,” Johnson said, leaving the men and heading back to his office. He made it to the open hatch leading into the superstructure, then decided to do a walkthrough of the ship, something he hadn’t done in since they had tied up to the pier a few weeks ago.