by G. R. Carter
Walsh shook his head again, closing his eyes at the effort. “No, no...My fault. Got in too big a hurry. Should have sent the recon team in by river, first,” Walsh coughed. An orderly brought him a small sip of water as Eckert looked back up to Walsh. Walsh could see Eckert’s eyes mist, something Walsh never witnessed in all the years and horrors of war the two men experienced together.
“You saved the mission, sir. Once the Marines overwhelmed our Guardsmen in the middle, you grabbed a weapon and led our command unit straight into the teeth of their attack. The other Legions saw that too, and they followed you in. The fighting was the toughest I ever saw. Even worse than that night in Mosul when we were outnumbered four to one and out of ammo. Remember that?” Eckert paused, as if trying to push back down some demon from the past.
“Well, those Service-Marines were tougher than that. But you took down two of them yourself before you caught one there in the leg. Our guys really had their blood up then, and there was no way we were going to let you down. We took them out one by one, and once all the Marines were down, the fight sort of went out of the rest of the resistance. Our guys were pretty fired up after seeing you get hit…so like I said, there aren’t really any prisoners. We might find a couple yet,” Eckert concluded.
Walsh took the Captain’s arm, and held it for a moment. “Good, you’re good. The best,” Walsh wheezed. Eckert was clearly shaken now, looking down at the floor to hold back his emotion.
After a moment of silence between the two, Walsh finally asked the question Eckert dreaded.
“How many?”
Eckert sighed: “Forty-seven Centurions and Guardsmen dead, one hundred and eleven wounded.”
Walsh closed his eyes tightly, picturing the day he first watched his new legionnaires training in Memorial Stadium. The pain medication clouded his thoughts as his mind drifted and finally went black.
*****
Two days later, Walsh sat uncomfortably at a modified desk, looking over stacks of reports from each Legion’s Lead Centurion assigned to the New American Reunification Task Force One. His injured leg was extended out over a folding chair, a pillow relieving some of the extra pressure from bandages and swelling. Sitting on his butt in a hospital bed for nearly seventy-two hours left his still fit middle-aged body with excess energy. Random waves of nausea hit him as pain pulsed through his surgically repaired limb. The skin itched underneath, challenging Walsh’s considerable willpower to prevent him from scratching the healing wound.
No field exercise for three weeks! Might as well be in a wheelchair for all the good I’ll do the Legions, Walsh moped to himself. He guarded his emotions in the presence of his men, trying to provide reassurance. But being honest with his private thoughts, he couldn’t remember feeling depression like this.
Walsh’s mood at least took some comfort that overall, the battle for West Lafayette was a success. He grieved the loss of the fine young men he took so much care in training. And Centurion Ramirez was a good man and a good leader. They had served two tours together in the Sandbox and he’d specifically requested Walsh's assignment before the Reset. He’d have a statue in Memorial Stadium for the next recruits to train beside.
But I have to eventually put them in harm’s way, that’s what they’re trained for. And each man who saw combat will never look at life the same way. They’re hard now. Bloodied.
To help offset the loss of his men, West Lafayette appeared to be a solid prize. The well-trained defense force New America’s Legions battled turned out to be well armed, too. Walsh’s Illinois University armory initially contained enough front-line battle rifles for the first few hundred Guardsmen. However, as his forces grew, New America’s supply experts patched in confiscated private and police weapons next to standard-issue equipment. No one in West Lafayette’s defenses remained able or willing to admit the source of their armaments; Walsh didn’t care as long as those weapons now resided with his troops instead.
The city also yielded an abundance of food stores – canned, dried and raw grain. Being the home of Purdue, one of the finest agricultural universities in the world, plus being situated in some of the best farm ground in the world, made the western Indiana area a prime source for food. Regardless of the losses, Walsh remained confident some of that expertise would soon begin helping New America reach self–sufficiency in food production. By the end of winter, he doubted there would be many well-stocked cities like this one to assimilate. The map of reconstructed territory hung from an easel placed across from his desk, showing cities already assimilated in various stages of organization. Red for low organization, others in orange, blue or green depending how well they were doing. Outside of the area controlled by New America, the latest information obtained on other communities was reflected by status tags: good, fair or poor. Most of the map fell into the latter category.
Walsh busied himself reviewing recommendations for new Squad Centurions to replace those he lost in the battle, as Captain Tyler Eckert approached in ready posture.
“At ease, Captain. You know you can relax when it’s just you and I,” Walsh said without looking up.
“Thank you, sir. But I’m afraid the news I have isn’t going to allow relaxation for either of us,” Eckert said. His North Carolina upbringing showed in his voice when delivering bad news. Walsh believed he did it unconsciously, as though a little bit of home might soothe what he had to deliver.
“Must be pretty bad, Captain, considering what we’ve been through this week,” Walsh said. He looked up now from his papers. Eckert continued to look ahead, not down into Walsh’s eyes.
“Sir, we have received word that New America forces under Major Terry Stillman have lost Decatur. Major Stillman successfully defeated the city’s police holdouts in the morning, bringing all municipal groups under his command. However, he was then drawn into an ambush with another force shortly after. Major Stillman was killed, and all loyal New American troops were killed or captured.”
“You’re right, Captain Eckert, that is bad news.” Walsh sighed. The Commander of New America whistled softly, considering what the loss of their entire Western Front meant. Not that there was much progress being made there to achieve Reconstruction, but at least Stillman was holding the territory until Walsh could make his own gains toward Indianapolis.
“Fredericks should have been there to help Stillman. I’m still not buying Stillman’s story about him and the rest of my men being killed in a shootout with a gang. Was it the same group that took him out? Must be more than just a group of street thugs,” Walsh thought out loud.
As Walsh went through his thoughts and options, Eckert remained at attention.
“Could there possibly be something worse, Captain?” Walsh demanded, becoming irritated with his field commander now.
“Sir, our information is that this was an inside job on Major Stillman. That he was lured into the ambush by men of his own command, and that these troops are now in league with a group calling themselves the Okaw Valley Self Defense Cooperative. Apparently that’s an area down the highway about forty-five miles from Decatur. Small towns and farms, no major city. The National Guard base at Decatur is now under their control, as is the entire city government. That now means everything from west of Illinois University all the way to the Mississippi River could be out of our control,” Eckert said, confirming what Walsh had already calculated.
“And with the refusal of Old Main College to cede to the authority of New America, so is everything south,” Walsh added.
Eckert hesitated, not sure if he actually believed what he was about to report next. Steeling his nerve, he continued in a drawl now quite distinctly of the North Carolina mountain country.
“Colonel Walsh, our sources also tell us that this trap was designed, commanded and executed by the traitor Martin Fredericks.”
Chapter Six– Shield of the Okaw
Headquarters – Okaw Valley Self Defense Cooperative
One Year after the Great Reset
“Phil, you’ve become like a brother to me. We’ve accomplished something worthwhile here together. I’ll always support you, but I don’t think I can carry this weight anymore.” Sheriff Olsen wasn’t crying, but those who knew him well would recognize the closest he ever came to that softest of emotional expressions.
Doing what he believed was his duty, Olsen positioned himself in with the SDC fire teams during the Decatur ambush. He was no coward, and defending the innocent from evil was part of who he was. But this had been different. Seeing the death of people he considered fellow Americans, and soldiers at that, crushed his will to lead. Phil and Fredericks noticed Olsen’s mood shortly after, and Phil made a point to pull Maryanne Olsen aside to check on his wellbeing after the battle.
After the discussion with Clark’s wife, Phil knew this moment was coming. But that didn’t mean he was going to give up on his friend being part of the decision making for the Okaw Valley Self Defense Cooperative.
“I understand, Clark. I really do, and I feel the same way. But I don’t see what our options are. If we go and retire, who do you think will hold this together? No offense to other folks, I’m not saying we’re better than the next man. But everyone is looking to us now to stay strong. If we don’t, this whole thing could fall apart,” Phil pleaded, hoping his SDC co–leader could hold it together.
“I’m sorry, Phil. I wasn’t talking about both of us stepping down, just me. You can’t go anywhere. The SDC really would fall apart then,” Olsen replied.
Phil stared at his friend, stunned. The conversation was turning in a way he hadn’t suspected.
“You’re talking about me being what, President or something? Without you? We weren’t even elected in the first place, just drafted. And now I’m supposed to take over? That makes me a dictator, doesn’t it? People don’t want that!” he insisted.
“Pull your head out of the sand, man!” Olsen snapped. “People want something to eat and their kids to stay alive. They’re scared to death of the world outside. There’s time for theory and politics later, right now we’re on the edge of survival. We can’t continue to run the SDC by committee. These good men are needed in their own communities, they can't keep coming up here to the courthouse every time something comes up. You’ve always been open to other opinions. Sometimes you let me have my way even if you know I was wrong. That makes people trust you when you do stand on principle, especially in a crisis,” Olsen said, regaining his composure.
Olsen shook a finger at his friend while continuing: “And don’t think you’re going to blame Anna for not taking the job. I already spoke with her about it, and she said she understood.”
Phil was still processing. I don’t want to be the last word on anything; I just really want to go home.
Olsen continued: “I know what you’re thinking, brother. You’re thinking about hiding out in that tower on Schoolhouse Hill where you think no one can find you. That’s precisely why we need you to do this. Because once we’ve reached some level of safety and we can have real elections, you’ll be out of that chair so quick even our boys couldn’t catch you.”
Phil finally replied: “You sound like that speech in Gladiator when Caesar is trying to get Maximus to take the lead after the old man dies. Didn’t work out well for either of them. Listen, Clark, you might want this. But the mayors are going to be freaked out about one man calling the shots…one unelected man, may I remind you.”
His friend laughed, walking to open the door of the courthouse conference room where they always met. Mayors of the towns and villages making up the Okaw Valley Self Defense Cooperative filed in, each smiling at Phil like cats that just swallowed the family bird.
It’s a setup, they were all in on this. Here I’m worried about looking like a dictator, and they’re all for it, Phil thought.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I think this simple farmer has just been duped,” Phil announced aloud, half joking. “I do appreciate your confidence, but I don’t want any part of this. If I’m getting drafted, I will require you to complete one very important action before my conscription takes place. I am asking for a unanimous vote for me to assume the role of President. On paper, in writing. No exceptions.” Phil felt that he'd safely dodged this bullet until he saw all heads in the room nodding their assent. Crestfallen, he asked, “You’re all really sure about this?”
More nods of agreement met the question, and one of Sheriff Olsen’s deputies went to retrieve the paper needed. Mayor Steinbrink of Strasburg approached the head of the table where Phil and Clark stood. In his hands he held a green cloth banner.
No, no, that’s a flag, Phil thought as Steinbrink unfolded the cloth on the big wooden table in front of the men.
The flag was a green field with a white circle. Around the circle were seven stars representing the seven surviving communities of Shelby County, and inside the circle was a simple gray fortress. In the door of the fortress was a shock of wheat and above the fortress a bolt of lightning. Along the bottom of the flag read the motto: “Against the Storm.”
“Folks, I’m speechless,” Phil stuttered.
The motto and lightning bolt were a reference to the speech that he gave to each community when he proposed they turn their energy cooperative into a self-defense force. Storms of all kinds raged against their little group, but so far most survived the long odds.
“Clark, did you know about this flag?” Phil asked.
“I did. I figured since we’re calling ourselves a Defense Cooperative, maybe we better have a symbol for everyone to rally around. Really, it was Mayor Steinbrink’s idea. Something about icons holding a federation together. I wasn’t too good in social studies so I don’t really understand all that,” Olsen laughed. Steinbrink nodded back.
He continued: “And I’m going to propose something else now that you’ve insisted that we put this all in writing. I don’t like the term 'President,' sounds too formal for a bunch of small-towners like us,” Olsen said jovially. “Since you were the founder of the Shelby County Cooperative, the predecessor to the Okaw Valley Self Defense Cooperative, I propose that the position Phillip Hamilton so willingly volunteered for be referred to as Founder until such time as a unanimous decision of the Council of Mayors determines otherwise. And the Founder can’t vote on that one issue. All in favor aye, all opposed nay.”
Before Phil could open his mouth, a chorus of ayes filled the room, and again he stood without words.
Gordon Steinbrink’s accented baritone voice rose with song before anyone else could speak. The tune and most of the words were familiar. But the differences sent shivers down their spine.
While the storm clouds gather far across the plain,
Let us swear allegiance to lands forged with toil and blade.
Let us all be grateful for a land so fair
As we raise our voices in a solemn prayer:
God bless the Okaw, land that we love,
Stand beside her and guide her
Through the night from the lights up above.
From the forests, to the prairies,
Fertile soils, clay and loam,
God bless the Okaw,
My home sweet home,
God bless the Okaw,
My home sweet home.
“Okay, Mr. Founding Farmer,” Olsen laughed through misty eyes. “We’re a real country with our own national anthem now. Time to get to work.”
*****
The excitement of the morning gave way to the stack of decisions sitting in front of Phil, now officially Founder of Okaw Valley. One by one, the various members of the Council of Mayors excused themselves to head back to their respective communities. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised; they’ve all got important work to do, too. And they’re thinking this is what I’m supposed to do now. Each took the opportunity of some pressing issue to get back to their lives and away from the responsibilities of others.
I’m flattered they trust me this much, but I have a bad feeling I’ll never see some of them at a m
eeting again.
Apparently, Okaw business would now be his responsibility.
At least Clark stayed to help, Phil thought as an SDC deputy brought in venison sandwiches and chicory coffee for the two men while they sifted through the papers stacked in front of them.
“May I request the first thing on the agenda be the Decatur situation?” The voice echoed in the stone hallway outside, followed by the appearance of Captain Martin Fredericks.
“That depends if you have good news or bad news, Captain,” Olsen replied to the younger man. “We are in celebration mode today, since we’ve found a sucker to take over the top spot.”
“Well, if nothing else, I like the flag. When can we get them produced so they can start flying over the farms and schools?” Fredericks asked.
Before Phil could tell him it was just a personal gift, Olsen answered Fredericks. “There is one in each town flying today, and Mrs. Steinbrink has her sewing club working overtime on as many as we can get material for. The last salvage team brought in a couple of reams of cloth from one of the craft stores in Decatur.”
One more time, Olsen smiled over at Phil’s surprise.
Fredericks replied: “Excellent. Phil, I know you’re probably uncomfortable with this. Your men respect you for that. But this is bigger than your feelings. We’re getting spread out, and folks on the outskirts are scared and lonely. These titles and symbols that make you cringe are going to keep everyone moving in the same direction. I believe that once bad guys see these flags, they’ll steer clear of our folks. I hate to say they’ll probably move on to easier targets, but one step at a time. Please just accept our appreciation that you’re willing to be the rally point. We need this,” Fredericks said.
“Okay, okay, I get it. I just wish this new title could make things like the sanitation systems stop acting up. Thank God the Wizards were able to turn those tractor engines into water pumps. We’d probably have the Plague in here by now without them. That’s going to be a concern pretty quick in Decatur. So, Captain, what’s going on in our biggest metropolis?”
