Dug in around him along the highway border, Rourke thought of the three hundred soldiers under his command. A single light infantry battalion. Compared to the gathered US Army, his small force was outnumbered twenty-five to one. Just as bad, he lacked armor or effective air support.
Ever since the US forces had shown up three days earlier, he’d watched with fascination and disbelief at the growing strength of his potential foe. It hadn’t always been that way.
Two months earlier, sent by the ROAS president as a show of force to protect the Nevada border while negotiations for the release of Felix Manuel continued, his battalion faced an empty desert. For those two months, they felt powerful and built strong defenses. Ready to tackle the world, everything seemed great with nothing to shoot at but sage brush. Besides, no one believed the dispute would turn into a shooting war. Somehow, the dumb-ass politicians would find a solution.
Then, the massive US Army arrived, changing the landscape and eroding the aura of confidence.
Hope still existed. High-stakes, last-minute political talks continued. But if recent events were an indicator—prior negotiations failing, each time ratcheting tensions higher—diplomacy was failing.
Now, Rourke’s tiny force, his David, stood across from a real Goliath. But, in this case, looking at the enemy armor through his field glasses, the colonel understood full well that his David needed a whole lot more slingshots.
His three hundred were to act as a line in the sand, a roadblock. But this wasn’t Thermopylae, a narrow choke point designed to strangle a larger force. Modern warfare, the terrain, and a lack of armor conspired against a second coming of Leonidas.
Worse, the colonel knew his troops, hunkered in nearby bunkers and trenches, had never felt the elephant stomp, and neither had he.
Rourke’s troubled thoughts were interrupted by the sight of his aid, a young man still covered in pimples, clambering up the ridge towards him. The colonel stood taller and hoped the kid carried good news.
As Lieutenant Swaringer approached at a jog, he pointed towards the border. “Sir, you notice it?”
Rourke raised his glasses and scanned the highway towards the enemy. “And what should I be seeing?”
Still pointing, somewhat out of breath, Swaringer couldn’t contain his excitement. “No-man’s-land, a main-battle tank with a white flag in front of our point position pulling forward!”
Shit, there it is, thought the colonel. A US tank rolled down the asphalt highway and stopped, idling a hundred meters from the ROAS point pillbox. Atop the tank, affixed to the communication antenna, a white flag waived. Lower, in the cupola, a man sat exposed above an open hatch without a helmet speaking into a microphone. The tank had crossed the border and now sat on ROAS territory. Not good.
Chapter Four
ARRAYED
From inside the point pillbox, looking through the firing slit along with his gun crew, ROAS Master Sergeant Corey Upton studied the US tank. Standing beside him, Corporal Hudson, manning the .50-caliber, kept it trained on the cocky enemy officer exposed in the cupola.
When the behemoth first approached down Highway 15, the barrel of its main gun pointing at them, his team jumped up ready to engage. Then Upton noticed the white flag flapping high, heard a voice squawking above the sound of clanking treads, and spotted a bare head poking above the hatch. Listening, he determined the tanker wanted to meet with the ROAS commander. Forced to decide, he ordered his troops to hold fire.
Now around Upton, his squad was as taught as a wire. Excited and anxious, the fire team oozed nervous energy. With everyone in the squad on edge bristling for a fight, he needed to hold them under control. “Keep your fingers away from any firing triggers. We don’t want to start a goddamn war. I’ll radio Command Post and find out what to do. No shooting!”
Corporal Hudson, keeping his machine gun trained on the enemy tanker, said what everyone felt. “Upton, if they start something, my fingers are only an inch away. We’re ready to give ’em hell.”
Upton ignored the comment, but his stomach flip-flopped. Less than fifty meters away, the cannon of the big M1A7 stared at them. Menacing.
With an upset stomach, Upton slipped across the bunker into a far corner, pulled up his head protection system, and quietly vomited. No one in the pillbox seemed to notice, their attention focused on the tank. Wiping his mouth, the bile tasting nasty, Upton spoke into his headset and radioed the CP.
Pillbox 8 squad leader Sergeant Lisa McMichael, standing in a trench, watched as the single US M1A7 moved forward down the center of Highway 15. Four hundred meters to her right, it came to a stop, and she observed the man sitting atop wearing no helmet, his wavy blond hair blowing in the light spring air. He was smiling, or was it a smirk; she wasn’t sure. Above the man, atop the antenna, a white flag waved. Instantly, McMichael disliked the tanker, his obvious cockiness on full display.
A few seconds later, the entire battalion, including her squad, heard the call go out from the point pillbox reporting the sighting with orders to hold fire and remain vigilant. On the squad network, she spoke into her headset and warned everyone to stay on their toes. And that’s what she and her squad were doing.
Minutes passed, and tensions inside the pillbox and attached trench network continued to rise. McMichael lowered her optics and pondered her team.
The nine young men and women under her command were nervous and a little scared. No one in the squad had ever experienced combat. She listened as several stood next to her and conversed in whispered tones. Every now and then, one or two would pop up and peer at the enemy tank. Fear of the unknown surrounded them. It seemed surreal.
Deep down, in her seven years of service, she had thought combat only a remote probability. As a solider in the ROAS Army of Defense, her past experiences were more focused on helping with civil emergencies. Then, a short four months ago, everything changed. And now the prospect of a fight seemed real. It was hard to imagine being maimed in some horrible fashion, or getting killed, but the imminent likelihood of it happening stood across from her waiting in the desert. Actual warfare loomed a mere four hundred meters away, and she shuddered.
To relieve the tension, McMichael turned inward and gave a silent prayer for the madness to cease. She asked God to turn the enemy tanks and armored vehicles around and send them away. Once they did, she envisaged returning home to Las Vegas and reuniting with her young family. She smiled, thinking of her two youngsters playing together, her hugging them, plenty of laughter, and good food. A buzzing fly interrupted her thoughts.
McMichael lifted her optics and focused on the large enemy tank. Thoughts of her children vanished, replaced by pangs of anxiety. Everyone in the trench grew quiet.
Colonel Rourke, looking through his optics said, “Lieutenant, I got it. The guy on top has a loudspeaker. Any idea what he’s saying?”
“Yes, sir. Master Sergeant Upton in the point pillbox is on the horn. He called the CP once he realized the bastard was coming forward. Upton considered blowing him away but noticed the white flag and didn’t shoot. Says the guy is jabbering away, asking to meet with our commanding officer. Sir, the CP and Upton are requesting orders.”
Rourke wasn’t surprised by Upton’s actions, but the enemy crossing the border seeking a parley was unexpected… and unsettling. The politicians continued to negotiate, and it was still early, only 13:00 hours local. Fuck! Something was wrong. Damn politicians.