Battle of Mesquite

by David Pope

  Wiping away the bile, the dread of failure wracking her conscious, the radio crackled to life. In her headset came the command, “… Alpha Dog, I repeat, execute Alpha Dog.” Still on her knees, she glanced at the remaining three soldiers crouching nearby. By the look in their eyes, they too had received the battalion-wide command, but fear and shock seemed to hold them back. They needed leadership. She thought of the steel monsters in her sector and imagined the powerful armor racing forward. Death was coming.

  Determined to fight back and defend the rest of her people, the launchers beckoned. She pointed towards the stacked weapons leaning against the far wall. Not waiting, she crawled that direction, and as she approached, she felt the trio close behind. Good, they were following. Above them, heavy machine-gun fire continued to snap.

  As she reached for the nearest launcher, the earth shook, and a deafening roar knocked her flat.

  On her stomach, ears ringing, chunks of concrete mixed with dirt and sand rained down. A few second later, spitting debris, McMichael fought to gain control. Shaking off dust, sand, and small pieces of concrete, she pushed herself onto her knees. Through smoke and dust, she could see her assigned pillbox thirty meters away. It was nothing but a smoking ruin. A sickening realization dawned. The rest of her squad was inside. Around her, the remaining three survivors lay flat, covered in dust, the air thick.

  McMichael turned back to the pillbox and thought of the four young soldiers posted inside. Maybe they were still alive? She considered scrambling over and digging into the rubble. But she grasped the reality: the enemy was coming, and there wasn’t much time.

  Compelled by a force she didn’t understand, McMichael reached out to the nearest soldier and tugged on his combat vest. The man looked up, blinking, eyes wide with fear. It was Private Goldstein, a good man. Over the roar and din of battle, McMichael pointed at the closest launcher and then cast her chin towards the enemy front. Amazed at his response, McMichael watched as Goldstein gathered himself, nodded in return, and crawled after the weapon.

  After grabbing the launcher, rounds whining overhead, undaunted, she watched the private creep back to the front of the trench and place his weapon upon the parapet. In awe, McMichael turned and saw the other two remaining soldiers responding. They too were gathering loaded missile launchers. God, she was grateful and proud of their bravery.

  And then it happened again. This time much worse as the earth shook in a violent upheaval.

  Tossed like rag dolls across the trench, McMichael and the last of her squad tried to survive.

  * * *

  “Driver, back up, back up. Gunner, enable APS,” commanded Lieutenant Colonel Paulson. Under fire, he reacted with practiced calm. Through his thermal monitor, he could see the glowing wreck of Colonel Rourke’s Humvee and the smoking rubble of the point pillbox beyond it. Destroyed by his main gun, both initial targets lay in ruins, and he felt a deep sense of satisfaction. But there was more work to do. Multitasking, he listened as radio updates from his company commanders came piping in. The news was excellent. Many enemy targets hit, no losses yet. A minute gone by and all was going well.

  Still, Paulson needed to protect against a potential counter Javelin strike and get away from the massive pre-planned artillery barrage. He didn’t want to die by friendly fire or a missile, and the best way to avoid both was to create some distance. The further he got from enemy lines, the better chance of avoiding a short artillery shell. As for defending against missiles, his tank relied upon its APS. Developed and sold by the ROAS years earlier, the APS was mounted near the top of the tank and, using radar, detected and destroyed inbound anti-tank threats by spraying a counter array of exploding projectiles. The farther from the incoming threat, the more time available for the APS to react. But he remembered the words of Rourke, who claimed the ROAS could defeat the system, and he decided to do more.

  “Gunner, open fire with the .240 on the nearest trench. I don’t care if you can’t see shit, just let the smart bullets do their thing and keep raking.” A moment later, the light machine gun responded by firing short rapid bursts. Paulson decided more was better and took control of the remote heavy machine gun. Joystick in hand, he slewed the heavy weapon toward the enemy lines and squeezed out long, sweeping bursts of .50-caliber smart-bullet fire. As he played the gun back and forth, pouring lead down range, he didn’t care that he lacked specific targets. If a smart bullet detected a human target, it would follow. Most important, his purpose was to keep enemy heads down and missiles at bay.

  The massive M1A7 continued to charge backward, away from the ROAS lines, when Paulson felt the tank’s APS engage. Vibrations rippled through his seat as the device launched thousands of exploding microbursts at an unseen incoming threat. A moment later, the M1A7 trembled, all sixty-five tons. Paulson stiffened, waited for a possible secondary explosion. Nothing! Relieved and exhilarated, Paulson let out a long, hearty laugh. Strapped in their positions around him, his crew didn’t say a word but just kept working to stay alive.

  Shaking off the amusement, looking at his command monitor, Paulson observed the first artillery shells impacting near the enemy trenches. The concussions from the barrage bounced against his retreating tank and he winced. For a second, he felt a flash of fear, but as the tank continued to back away, he relaxed. A few seconds later, and he sensed they were far enough removed. Letting go of the joystick, he ceased firing the .50-caliber and spoke into the tank radio, “Driver, stop. Gunner, hold fire on the .240.”

  Paulson considered the battlefield. Tons of debris hurled through the air towards his front as the pounding artillery ripped apart the enemy trenches. Things were going well. Surprise achieved, the enemy appeared overwhelmed. He and his tank were intact, and his battalion unscathed. He spoke into his headset, “Driver, until I say so, run us in a defensive loop. Gunner, keep hunting but only engage if you have a target.” Paulson laughed and added, “Boys, it’s time to let the artillery join the fun. This shit’s almost over!”

  Chapter Nine

  END GAME

  Inside ROAS Central Command, General Bill Story watched the lopsided battle unfold on the many monitors viewable from his workspace. Angry, the general sat dismayed and powerless.

  In his professional opinion, the fight had started with a cowardly sneak attack—the point-blank murder of Colonel Rourke. A few seconds later, two hundred Stonewall M1A7 main-battle tanks opened fire. It didn’t take long for the enemy guns to take every ROAS pillbox out of action. Simultaneously, the enemy launched a massive missile strike, overwhelming his advanced counter measures. The ROAS command bunker and air defense batteries were obliterated. Next, they struck with a self-propelled Paladin 109A7 artillery barrage using optical self-guided ordinance. Originally developed by the ROAS, the artillery shells precisely targeted the entire ROAS defensive trench network.

  Still underway, the ROAS entrenched positions were taking a terrific shellacking. Huge geysers of sand, dirt, and rock sprayed upwards. The few remaining souls of the original three hundred were being pummeled with little opportunity to return fire.

  Neutered, the general turned to his aid, Lieutenant Colonel Simpson, and said, “Send a clear text broadcast across the battlefield. Keep sending it until I say so. And I quote, ‘By command of ROAS Army of Defense General Story, the ROAS Second Infantry Battalion surrenders to the US Armed Forces attacking Mesquite. All combatants cease fire.’”

  “Sir, the command bunker is gone. Getting a message transmitted may prove difficult,” said Lieutenant Colonel Simpson, obviously frustrated.

  “Find a way. Do it now!” urged General Story.

  “Yes, sir,” replied Simpson. Before she could react, a new threat emerged. “General, look at monitor ten. Enemy Custers inbound. Sensors indicate thirty aircraft. Must be part of a Calvary Aviation Brigade.”

  Unsurprised, General Story nodded. The overarching enemy battle plan made sense. It was a classic combined-arms attack—missiles, tanks, artillery, and now vertic
al-lift aircraft. Fast, the VLA airframes combined the capabilities of an attack helicopter with the speed of a fixed-wing plane.

  On his monitor the aircraft stretched across the entire battle space and streaked towards his battered lines. After closing to within two hundred meters of the ROAS forward positions, the Custers slowed and went into a fast hover. At an altitude of one hundred meters, he couldn’t help but admire their precision. Noses pointed downward, as one, the machines came alive. Twisting and turning, they ripped off short, self-guided bursts of smart 30 mm high-explosive auto-cannon rounds. Anything still moving was auto-detected and destroyed.

  More motion caught his eye. On other monitors, hundreds of M2A6 Stuart infantry fighting vehicles filled with thousands of combat-ready infantrymen were creeping forward. Overkill, thought the general. A complete and utter calamity. And he believed, it could’ve been prevented, not just by retreating or surrendering, but by fighting back with an effective force, a force he lacked because of the ROAS political system. Instead of investing in the military and using its advanced technology to equip it, over the years, the ROAS had spent its budget on liberal social programs. Just as bad, after the self-imposed ban on military exports, his small country had all but abandoned efforts to develop new warfare technologies. He believed those poor decisions were coming home to roost, and it angered him.

  The general closed his eyes; he’d seen enough.

  * * *

  In the trench bottom, curled tight, Sergeant Lisa McMichael tried to survive. The ground shook so hard she couldn’t stand or crawl, neither of which crossed her mind. Something hit her left leg and then her right arm. Both impacts stinging, the liquid body armor she wore prevented the shrapnel from shredding her to pieces. She tried to make herself smaller when she found herself hurtling through the air. Arms pinwheeling, she caught sight of the ground and turned into the impact. Hitting the ground hard, she rolled several times. Still conscious, now on her side, she grabbed her protective helmet tight and sucked for oxygen. All around, the ground continued to shake. Clumps of dirt and debris fell in a continuous rain. She concentrated on breathing, taking in gulps of air, and prayed for the shelling to stop. Through the roar, her tongue found a missing tooth, and without thinking, she inspected the gap. Distracted, the search brought her mind back to the present and with it an unwelcome wave of claustrophobia. She sat up and, with shaking hands, grabbed the lower sides of her head protection system and pried the helmet off. For a moment, she felt better.

  Another explosion knocked her onto her stomach. With her helmet off, the noise of the barrage was deafening. Death was upon her, and tears welled from desperation. To dampen the thunder, she raised her hands, covering her ears, when she noticed a stringy length of bloody drool dangling from her chin. She remembered the missing tooth.

  Another close explosion erupted. Self-preservation returned and with it a desperate wish to live. She curled up again, facing a steep earthen wall, and tried to compress into the dirt. To keep sane, she thought of her past. A picture of herself as a little girl popped in her head. Testing in grade school and high school had indicated her intelligence was in the top two percent of students in the country. At first, she’d believed what they told her. She’d taken advanced subjects, worked harder than anyone, and scored straight A’s. Her parents, educators, and friends had all marveled at her academic success.

  But it was all a lie.

  Inside, no matter the praise and results, she was a failure, an imposter. Her talents were based on luck, dogged determination, and not deserved. She wasn’t good enough.

  Overwhelmed by needing to be the best, and knowing she never could be, although accepted to top universities, she’d eloped with a neighbor boy from down the street. To make ends meet, he’d gone to work in a casino, and she took a job as a hostess in a high-end restaurant. And then the bastard got her pregnant, not once but twice. She’d stopped working and threw herself into raising her young ones. Reading every source on parenting, she strove to be the best, but the more she studied and applied the lessons, the more she understood her shortcomings. She wasn’t good enough, and then her husband began to cheat on her. Twice, she caught him in the act, and she hated him.

  Just then the shelling worsened. Wincing, covering her ears against the noise and concussions pounding her soul, she recalled her decision to leave him. How liberating it was to throw him out of her life, and how scary it was to start anew. She’d joined the military soon after because the life seemed by the book. Follow the rules, apply the lessons, and spend the time.

  Based on high test scores, the military wanted her to go into intelligence, work in high tech, but she rejected the offer. She wasn’t good enough, was fearful of striving forever without becoming the best. Instead, she demanded the infantry. It suited her. Follow orders, soak in the training, react as programmed. Although her children were being raised mostly be her parents, that suited her as well. The less she could screw up their lives, the better. After a few years, rising in rank, she had been forced to take a leadership role. But she resisted as she didn’t want the responsibility. Having a binary choice, either resign or assume the duties, she relinquished and became a squad leader. Now under fire, she realized how much she hated the role and how important her children were. Oh, how she missed them.

  Another round exploded nearby, and she almost laughed. They were trying to kill her, and she wasn’t even worth the effort. Still, she missed her kids more than anything. Maybe, if she survived, she’d quit the military and find another career. With a little luck, she might even meet a good man, someone that would love her kids and be faithful. Men still flirted with her, and she considered herself attractive in a cute sort of way. Her tongue swished around the missing tooth. Perhaps she was less cute than before.

  Then the ground shook harder as a shell erupted dangerously close. With dirt crashing around, she couldn’t believe it was happening.

  More shells crumpled, filling her ears with pain and sucking away the air. She felt herself slipping away and curled into a tighter ball. Under her breath, over and over, she prayed for the shelling to end. As if in answer, after a short while, the thundering eased and shifted farther away.

  In a state close to shock, she lifted her head and realized she was in a shell hole below ground level. Across from her, propped against the side of the hole, staring back through a cracked face plate, was a female soldier she didn’t recognize.

  An explosion rumbled nearby, causing her to duck and close her eyes. When more didn’t follow, just a distant roar, driven by a need to connect, she glanced towards the soldier again. Something was wrong. She spotted the problem. It was only half a person. Nothing but entrails existed below the combat vest. Breathing too hard and fast, nearing hyperventilation, she needed to gain control. She forced herself to slow and then noticed a change. It was quiet—no more shelling. In silence, she thanked God and wiped her mouth. Fresh blood from her broken tooth continued to run down her chin, and her hand came away bloodied.

  Ignoring her own injuries, McMichael couldn’t help it and looked across at the corpse. Staring at the mutilated soldier, a wave of sympathy mixed with survivor’s guilt caused her to cringe. Then she spotted a missile launcher lying next to the bloody mess. Staring at the weapon, she realized it wasn’t over. The enemy must be fast approaching, coming to kill her. From deep inside, her training and instincts took over. She needed to act. Now!

  In a manic move, she crawled across the shell hole and avoided looking at the dead female. Reaching the launcher, she pulled it close and examined the weapon. The missile was armed and ready. Still bleeding from the mouth, helmetless, she stood up and pulled the heavy launcher against her shoulder.

  Peering over the shell hole, she saw targets, lots of them, close. Tanks driving in defensive patterns, fighting vehicles on their heels, all the armor in the world. So many targets to choose from! She hesitated before spotting something different. Off to her right hovering in the air was a tantalizing foe
. Decision made, she lowered the Javelin III missile and confirmed it was set for direct-fire mode. Satisfied, heavy in her hands, McMichael re-shouldered the weapon and flipped off the safety. Placing the sights on the vertical-lift aircraft, the acquisition indicator turned green, and she depressed the firing trigger. The warhead released with a whoosh, and the rocket motor fired, causing the missile to soar into the distance. Blood dripping down her chin, McMichael lowered the weapon and watched.

  To her alarm, the targeted vertical-lift aircraft seemed to sense something. The ugly bird lifted its nose and turned towards her. She was about to duck when the missile struck. A bright light rippled across the fuselage, and then an explosion blew out the side of the aircraft. Yes! Finally, she’d done something right.

  McMichael dropped the spent launcher and without thinking raised her arms in jubilation. Fascinated, she watched the burning craft spin and descend out of control until it crashed into the desert. A moment later, the downed machine burst into flames.

  Against the heat of the explosion, McMichael raised her hand and stared in disbelief. But there wasn’t time to enjoy the sight. Intense machine-gun fire erupted, and the air around her began to sing with the sound of incoming supersonic rounds. Towards her front, she saw tanks advancing. She remembered the smart bullets. Not hesitating, she dropped inside the shell hole and rolled to her left and sat up.

  Her back against dirt, large-caliber smart projectiles pounded into the ground where she had stood a moment before. Other rounds continued to zip overhead, some striking the opposite side of the shell hole and sending chunks of sand and rock high into the air. The unexpected joy from downing the aircraft evaporated, and she trembled. She wondered if the battalion was fighting back. But the sight above the trench line convinced her nothing could stop what was coming. Soon they’d kill her. How could it come to this? And why would her government leave her to die alone? Without answers, feeling hopeless, in near panic, something caught her eye. Exposed in the middle of the opposite dirt wall, the jagged end of an exposed pipe beckoned. It was wide enough that she could imagine herself fitting through. Just then, an overhead shadow crossed the shell hole, and the sound of rotors emerged above the din.