Chapter Thirteen
RESPONDING
May 8, 18:35 (PDT)
“Madam President, you have to see this!” exclaimed Press Secretary Grace Navarro. Tablet in hand, she passed it to the president. “Please hit the play button.”
Earlier, President Julia Ortega had returned from her meeting with General Story in Central Command. She’d flown back to the alternate secure seat of government located underground near the heart of San Jose, California. While traveling, and since arriving, she’d been in near constant communications with Senate Leadership and her cabinet. More critical meetings awaited. But first she stopped in the media room to meet with her press team. They needed to get an updated statement out to the populace, quick, not only to clarify what had happened but to calm fears and give hope. Not an easy task. With tablet in hand, President Ortega followed instructions and hit play.
At first, the surveillance drone image was disorienting. It took a moment for her to realize it was an aerial shot. High above ROAS lines, it looked down upon a smoking ruin of destruction. Dust, dirt, sand, and smoke filled the air. Explosions thundered about in a chaotic fashion, and then the shelling stopped. In response, the video closed in tighter, scanning what was left of the ROAS trench lines. It was hard to watch. Strewn among the smoking ruins she detected bodies. The destruction seemed total, and nothing moved. Certainly, it appeared no one was firing back. The president cringed, and once again a sense of guilt wracked her conscious. The panning ceased, and then the image zoomed even tighter until the screen filled with a lone woman in profile. Fascinated, the president watched. Wearing no helmet, face bloodied, the young woman appeared to be standing in a shell hole peering out at US lines. In her arms, she cradled a weapon and in a swift move she shouldered it and fired. After tossing aside the weapon, a moment later the young woman jumped up and down with exultant hands raised high. A moment later, heavy incoming fire raked the woman’s position, and she ducked deeper into the hole. Not long afterward, a Custer screamed overhead, lighting up the shell hole with explosions. For a few seconds the camera stayed on the position as the shell hole and surrounding area erupted in a mass of sand, dirt, and smoke. Then, the video ended.
Stirred by what she’d seen, the president reflected on the bravery and turned to Grace for more information. “Do we have a name for that young woman? Is she alive, and do we have video of what she hit?”
Grace pointed at the tablet and smiled. “Last question first. Please view the next video. Hit play.”
The president pressed the button, and another drone video started. This time, the angle was outward, panning across US lines. In the distance tanks maneuvered. Farther out, armored infantry vehicles awaited. Most alarming, hovering closer by, several US Custer aircraft menaced. Without warning, one of the birds took a hit. The camera zoomed closer. Focused on the stricken aircraft, the video recorded the machine trailing smoke, falling, and spinning to the ground, where it crashed into a huge fireball. For a few seconds, the video stayed on the wreckage. A dark plume of smoke rose above the licking flames, and then the recording stopped. Forgetting her despair, the president said, “Wow! Outstanding. Combine these shots into a single sequence. Let the world witness our resolve!”
“Already on it.”
“Any idea who she is and if she’s still alive?” asked the president.
Grace shook her head. “We’re unsure of her status. Current satellite reconnaissance confirms the entire area overrun with US forces. General Story claims the US hasn’t released information yet on any individual soldiers.” Then Grace smiled and shifted to more welcoming news. “But using facial recognition, we have a positive ID.”
Expectant, the president cocked her head and pushed the tablet forward.
Press Secretary Grace took the device and tucked it under her arm. “Her name is Lisa McMichael, Sergeant with five years active service. Born and raised in Las Vegas. She maintains a permanent residence there. Twenty-seven years of age. A single mom with two young children—ages seven and five.”
Ortega reflected on the day. Death and destruction, and she had given the order to resist. The graphic nature of the video depicted the carnage. The pictures made it real and worse than she imagined. Ortega recalled General Story’s warning. He’d been right. There was no way the battalion could have survived against such an overwhelming force. It was a horrible catastrophe, and she felt an ache deep within her bones. But the video of the disaster contained a prize: an attractive female soldier in plain view, bloodied, yet fighting back against all odds. It showed what the president believed all along. Her country was strong and the people willing to sacrifice their lives. The video of Lisa McMichael shooting a Custer from the sky appeared to be the only positive outcome emerging from a long and terrible day. The president, almost to herself, whispered, “Lisa McMichael, we needed a hero. God bless you.”
Pressed for time, the president understood the urgency. She patted down her hair and smoothed the wrinkles from her red blouse. “Okay, I’m ready to record a statement. No makeup—there isn’t time. Afterward, distribute it and the Lisa video to the entire media. Do it quick. The public has a right to know and learn of their new hero.” Another important detail crossed her mind. “Also, before I forget, make sure Lisa’s kids are secure. Get them the hell away from Vegas and somewhere safe. Lord knows they deserve it.”
“Yes, ma’am,” replied Press Secretary Grace, already directing staff, “we’ll make it happen.”
May 8, 23:46 (PDT)
A series of low-rise, windowless industrial buildings lay nestled among the pines and redwoods of the Santa Cruz Mountains. Considered ugly, erected over the last decade, building functionality and security overcame aesthetic considerations. Selected by the ROAS to “hide” in plain sight, the location was close to the brains in nearby Silicon Valley and not too distant from the Federal Capital in Sacramento.
Inside the largest building sat the ROAS Central Command—CENTCOM—the headquarters for all vital military strategic decisions. At a long table, facing the north wall covered with monitors, Bill Story sat working on saving the nation. Aged fifty-two, born and raised in Davenport, Iowa, the general was a full-fledged graduate of the US Military Academy. His active military career was one of steady achievement. From fighting with distinction in the Second Korean War through assisting foreign military staff with the Turkish/Russo invasion of Iran, he was well experienced in the art of war, but nothing had prepared him for the events of today.
Earlier, after meeting with the president and Secretary James, General Story returned to CENTCOM to issue orders dealing with the defeat at Mesquite. Since then, the latest intelligence showed both US Armored Brigade Combat Teams hadn’t advanced. Instead, the enemy went into bivouac along Highway 15 west of town. From a military standpoint, he viewed the pause as a mistake. A wide-open blacktop offered the enemy a green light all the way to Las Vegas. But the president was right in her assessment.
Exhausted but thankful for the extra time, the general rubbed his eyes and tried to figure out how best to take advantage of the situation. It was hard. Too often his thinking was interrupted by sudden thoughts of the day and the horrific losses. Tired, trying to clear his mind, he remembered something and swiveled in his seat. Across the room, below a row of monitors, he spotted Secretary James sitting with a patient smile in a hard-back chair. He frowned at the sight. Intelligence, he believed, wasn’t the answer. But he was committed to listening.