Battle of Mesquite

by David Pope

  General Story closed his eyes for a moment as if replaying the battle. “Our troops did the best they could under difficult conditions.”

  Not appreciating the vague response, the president asked, “Did we resist or not?”

  The general sighed. “The sheer unrelenting force of the attack kept our troops pinned. They never stood a chance. In less than twenty minutes, the battle was over. Throughout, other than a few instances, we detected no material return fire.”

  The president slumped and asked, “It doesn’t seem possible.”

  “Madam, even with advanced warning the outcome was certain. In this case, not only was the attack unexpected, but the US force arrayed against us was insurmountable. The battle, as I warned, was over before it started.”

  Ortega felt a pang of guilt. She imagined a bloody battlefield, troops terrified by an unyielding onslaught. All of them dying in place, unable to strike back. Still, there had to be a silver lining. The country needed something from the sacrifice, no matter how small. “I’ll take responsibility for the events of today. You advised a withdrawal, even a surrender, but I ordered resistance. In my statements to the public I’ll make my position and your role clear. Please, you mentioned in a few cases our people resisted. Explain.”

  The general shrugged. “Not much to say. In the first case, we observed explosions near a few enemy tanks, but their APS—Active Protection Systems—were effective in countering our missiles. One tank appeared to take a glancing blow and lost mobility. We also shot down many of their incoming missiles, though not enough.”

  “So we fought back,” she said with a hopeful smile. “You claimed several instances. Are there more?”

  The general sat higher in his chair and gave a quick grin. “Yes, one more. A confirmed kill on a single enemy vertical-lift aircraft. A US Custer was shot out of the sky. Full fireball upon impact. We’ve excellent drone video of the event. For an unknown reason, the enemy APS didn’t engage. Anyway, a hand-held Javelin missile struck the Custer broadside.”

  The president nodded. It wasn’t much, but she was thankful. It might be enough to spin a positive story. “Excellent. Please get me the footage right away.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Soon as we exit this meeting, I’ll have my staff send it over.”

  The president nodded. She needed to avert a public-relations nightmare. At this stage, civilian support was critical. “We need to let everyone know we didn’t fire the first shot. The enemy attacked without warning. Although outnumbered many times over, we fought back. No one died in vain. We need sympathy for our cause, admiration for our spirit, and animosity towards our enemy.”

  The general glanced over at the secretary and frowned. “It appears neither you nor Secretary James seems to grasp the big picture. Impossible odds face the ROAS. From a military standpoint, the ROAS hasn’t the means to resist. Today, when the US attacked, shifting from diplomacy to war, they called our bluff.” General Story cleared his voice and continued, “Madam President, we’d need a miracle to stand against the military might of the United States. The pathway to solving our problems isn’t through force of arms.”

  Listening, the president searched the eyes of her general. Now was the time for inspired leadership, a spearhead willing to infuse optimism. She wasn’t sure about her general. Maybe his spirit needed hope. “You say we need a miracle?”

  The general grunted, “Metaphor, Madam President. Nukes might do the trick, but we’ve none. Besides, mutual destruction isn’t an answer. If there is any way to sue for peace, now is the time. I’m sorry.”

  Ortega knew suing for peace without leverage, as proven today and throughout the crisis, was naïve. The US wouldn’t negotiate unless compelled. She wanted more from her general. “Short of nukes and suing for peace, there must be another way to give the enemy a serious black eye. Give them a licking bad enough to get them to the bargaining table. Agreed?”

  “Wishful thinking won’t help. Both Armored Brigade Combat Teams, elements of the US Fifty-Fifth Division that struck today, can reach the outskirts of Las Vegas in a few hours. Let me focus my time on protecting the Vegas civilian population with our current capabilities. Meanwhile, I recommend you figure out a way to save our nation through political means.”

  The president laughed at the bold statement and shook her head. “The enemy won’t advance right away.”

  General Story raised his eyebrows. “Madam President, how have you reached that conclusion?”

  “Intelligence,” she replied.

  The general shook his head. “My own intelligence staff, using the latest deep-learning systems, predicts both US Armored Brigade Combat Teams will pass through Mesquite within a few hours and arrive outside Las Vegas by early tomorrow. Hostilities will then resume. If you have better intelligence, please share it.”

  President Ortega pondered how much to relate. Too little, and he wouldn’t understand. Too much without enough context, and she might lose him. Ortega decided to take the middle road. “The United States is seeking to overthrow our government and end our little experiment. I assure you, the US vice president wasn’t assassinated by our government. Under great pressure, we’ve tried to reason. Earlier today, in a last attempt to avert war, I agreed to my personal extradition in return for the release of Manuel and Ross. The US responded by executing Manuel and attacking Mesquite.”

  Ortega paused, looked at the general, and could see his mind churning. She kept going, “We expect the US will tell the world my extradition agreement is an admission of guilt, and the attack on Mesquite and the execution of Manuel justifiable. But it won’t be enough. As further punishment for our supposed crimes, we expect the US will demand ‘repatriation’ of Nevada and give us forty-eight hours to comply. If we accept those terms, it still won’t be enough. They’ll come up with more excuses until our nation no longer exists. We’ve seen similar models used before. Unrealistic demands based on trumped-up falsehoods. General, you used to work for those people. You know the game. A model of zero-sum foreign policy with a willingness to use pretense for military intervention. The same method used by the other two great nationalistic powers. With US intentions now clear, other than nullifying secession and surrendering, we’ve no choice but resistance.”

  “Where do we stand with our friends? Canada, the other liberal democracies? Last I heard, you were seeking their assistance.”

  “Canada, as you know, possesses a military much stronger than ours. But, like us, to survive, they’ve adopted a neutrality stance in world events. We’ve asked them, begged, for military help. We’ve explained the writing is on the wall, and they’ll be next. So far, they’re unwilling and trying their best to stay out of harm’s way. After today, maybe they’ll change their minds, but we can’t count on it. The remaining liberal democracies are too weak, and the distances too great. They’re also fearful of garnering the wrath of the Great Powers. No, we stand alone.”

  “How about seeking the help of Russia or China?” he asked.

  “Good question full of problematic possibilities. ROAS re-absorption into the United States would upset the apple cart. Neither Russia nor China wants that. Our technological capabilities in the hands of the US could tip the balance of power. So, China, and to a lesser degree Russia, may offer us assistance, but we won’t ask for or take any offers. If we did, we’d only be trading one set of problems for another; eventually, we’d lose our independence. No, the best solution for our long-term survival depends upon unilateral action. We must hit the US hard enough that they decide to pull back their ambitions against our country.”

  General Story leaned back and in a soft voice said, “Madam President, you’re a brave woman, but having that kind of force isn’t in the cards.”

  Ignoring the statement, Ortega asked, “So how do we hurt the US enough to turn them away?”

  In a flat voice he said, “Militarily, we can’t.”

  Ortega frowned. “I don’t need defeatism.”

  The general sighed
and appeared worn down. “I’m being real. The US military is vast and their military capabilities far superior. I know what’s in our arsenal and what we’re capable of achieving. Madam, we don’t have the means.”

  The president asked, “But if you had the means, no matter the sacrifice, would you use them?”

  General Story stopped for a second and seemed to ponder the question. Then he answered in a slow voice. “I’m not sure I understand. To defend our nation, I’m prepared to do what is necessary. If sacrifices are necessary to achieve success, then yes. But I’m not willing to sacrifice lives with no chance of a positive outcome. Madam President, we don’t have the military means to force the US to do anything. There must be a diplomatic solution.”

  Ortega waved off the pessimism. Bending across the table she asked, “For survival, do you believe the ends justify the means?”

  The general appeared frustrated. In a tight voice he said, “To survive, in most cases, yes the ends would justify the means. We don’t have the means.”

  The president leaned back and put her hands flat on the table. She studied her general. Perhaps he wasn’t the right guy? Other possible replacements flashed through her mind. But she’d already pondered the question. Her gut told her the man sitting opposite was the best choice. “I believe we have the means. I mentioned intelligence and predicting the enemy will pause outside Mesquite giving us two days to prepare. Our intelligence is the means. If you could use it to check our enemy, would you be willing to make significant sacrifices?”

  The general didn’t seem to get the connection. “If you’re speaking of a superior data-mining methodology, please share it. Regardless, intelligence and analytics are great for predictions, but they don’t fight battles. We need a lot more than analysis.”

  Ortega glanced over at the secretary and caught him about to speak. She put up a finger to silence the man and turned back to her general. “I believe we have the means. But some might claim they are immoral.”

  Story sat straighter, and she sensed a piqued interest. “Madam President, if what you’re offering as a means is effective, I need to learn more.”

  Pleased with the answer, it was time to make sure he understood before revealing. She asked, “Morality, General, is often in the eye of the beholder. Agreed?”

  “Yes. I agree, and I’ll make the personal determination.”

  The president expected his answer. “I believe the means we have at our disposal aren’t immoral and will be effective. You may think otherwise. If after explaining, you decide they are wrong, I’ll expect your immediate resignation and consent to house arrest for the duration. Agreed?” The tension in the room palatable, Ortega watched as the general considered the question. At last, he gave his answer.

  “Maybe I’d be better off not finding out and forgo the briefing. What becomes of me then?”

  “In that case, you’ll relinquish command and enter immediate retirement.”

  He shot back, “You have no one as qualified to take my place.”

  Ortega shook her head. “General, everyone is replaceable. We want you. I want you. But we need your commitment. Otherwise, please step aside. What will it be?” Waiting for his answer, she knew her general defected for a reason, and she expected him to do the right thing. She wasn’t disappointed.

  “I’m willing to listen. If what you offer fits within my moral boundaries, I’m your guy. If not, I’ll consent to house arrest for the duration. Now, fill me in on the damn secret.”

  Secretary James looked up with a smile and began to speak, but Ortega cut him off and said, “SALI.”

  The general cocked his head. “That’s not possible. SALI no longer exists.”

  “Yes, she does,” said the president. Pleased with her general, she gave a broad smile.

  Chapter Twelve

  WORKING THE DEAD

  May 8, 18:27 (PDT)

  With an hour of daylight remaining, Kirby Pugh and Ronnie Hough, both privates in the United States Army, found themselves on the far-left flank of the destroyed enemy trenches. As part of the US Nineteenth Army field disciplinary team, divided into multiple two-man teams, they’d be spending the night gathering up and bagging ROAS KIA. The battlefield was a one-sided slaughterhouse, and the detail was expected to take all night. For Pugh and Hough, it was just another night of bullshit duty, although one with promising opportunities.

  Kirby and Ronnie were buddies with a strong bond, sometimes too strong. Often acting together, when one got in trouble, in most cases, so did the other. And it happened again the week before. Both got caught drinking on duty. Now assigned to a gruesome punishment detail, they weren’t altogether unhappy. They broke the rules and expected to pay a price. Such was life in the US Army. Besides, they were adept at making the most of bad situations.

  After watching the truck disappear, the two friends smiled at each other. Both carried packs and assault rifles. Strewn about were other supplies, including shovels, picks, gloves, and masks. Boxes of body bags also awaited. Neither man wore a head protection system as they weren’t required for the dirty detail. Instead, both elected beanies to ward off the chilly night air.

  With packs and rifles set aside, the men gloved up, nodded towards one another, and climbed into the nearest trench. Upon entering, the smell of death assaulted them. Six bodies, maybe more, lay scattered in the sandy ditch. They’d done this detail before, on different battlefields in far-off places, and had learned through experience.

  Kirby would search the bodies and pull out any belongings, including dog tags, and put those into a zip-lock baggie. With a safety pin, he’d then affix the baggie to the remains through an article of clothing, or if none were available, through flesh. Kirby was like an older brother and between them got the better bargain of most deals, and rummaging bodies was the most fun—like a treasure hunt. After searching and pinning, Ronnie bagged the body, or in some cases, body parts. Once full, Ronnie would zip the bag, and both men would drag it to a convenient stacking point for pickup. Later, after gathering the bagged corpses, regular Mortuary Services troops would take DNA samples and log the results.

  Tonight, working side by side, both men got used to the foul odor, and within half an hour they cleared the first trench. Six body bags lay stacked nearby. After a quick breather, they headed towards the next trench, dragging along their supplies and dodging shell holes along the way. Before going far, a rather large crater caught their attention. Peering inside, they both detected the scent of death. Sure enough, they spotted an arm with a hand attached lying near part of a torso. Once again, they dropped their packs and weapons, crawled in, and got to work.

  Kirby Pugh, at twenty-nine years of age, had two years on Ronnie Hough. Both men hovered around five feet nine, non-descript, and similar in looks. Proud southerners, Kirby grew up in Mississippi, while Ronnie hailed from rural Georgia. After joining the military, gravitated by their similarities, they found one another. In the Army, they’d achieved a few minor victories. Kirby once made it to Sergeant before getting busted in rank. But the successes were short-lived as both got demoted several times for various and sundry misdemeanors.

  Busted again, they now held the lowest rank, private. Although they complained loud and often about the Army and the unfairness of it all, the institution suited them. The Army fed them, paid them a little, provided shelter, and offered a world to exploit.

  So far, they’d stayed out of hard labor and prison camps. Both believed in God, the Christian way, although both admitted to slipping. After a backslide, they’d feel awful and behave for a spell. But a new temptation always emerged, and sometimes, bad luck brought new troubles.

  Tonight’s detail brought with it plenty of opportunity. Although under strict orders not to loot, facing long prison sentences if caught, the upside was just too promising.

  Plus, they rationalized, taking from the dead wasn’t a sin, especially enemy dead. No one got hurt. The dead weren’t alive and couldn’t take it with them. To both m
en, looting from corpses wasn’t stealing but more like prospecting, not theft, and worth the risk. Justifiable compensation for the nasty work.

  Inside the shell crater, finishing up, they concluded the gathered body parts belonged to a single person. Based on the lack of muscle tone, almost no hair on the arms, and slender, tapered fingers, they guessed it was female. Both men found the practice repulsive. The US Army didn’t allow women or queers into combat for many good and obvious reasons.

  Before moving on, they sat down to rest. Kirby was working up an anger. After taking a sip from a hydration system, he handed the water container to his buddy. Staring at the filled body bag, he turned to Ronnie and aired his grievance. “I can’t fucking believe those cocksuckers. Women fighting their wars for them. God awful!”

  “Yeah. That’s fucked up. That’s why we fight’n,” said Ronnie. Still catching his breath from the exertion, sitting next to his friend, he took a sip and clipped the hydration system back to his belt.

  “It’s one reason for sure,” agreed Kirby. Using his teeth, he pulled off the rubber glove from his right hand and flung it to the ground. With his hand free, he fished a pack of cigarettes and lighter from his breast pocket.

  Ronnie watched his buddy. “You gonna let me have a puff?”

  Kirby lit the cigarette and took a long drag. Exhaling a large cloud of smoke, he examined the pack. To his disappointment, only a couple remained. Still, they always shared. He slid the near-empty pack into his shirt pocket and said, “You bet, good buddie. I’ll let you smoke the other half.”

  Ronnie leaned back and said, “Gonna be harder to work soon. We’ll need the lantern.”

  Kirby just nodded, his thoughts elsewhere. He took another drag and spoke his mind. “We also fight’n ’em cuz they allow homosexuals. Homos allowed to fight. Women allowed to fight. Atheists allowed to fight. Hell, anyone allowed to fight. That’s just fucked up seven ways to Sunday.”