McMichael was only half listening. Nothing Bowen was saying was new to her. Growing up, the political debates seemed endless, and she found them boring. Instead, she focused on absorbing real knowledge: reading, writing, mathematics, computer science, music, physics. There was so much to learn. To her, politics, like religion, were nebulous. Just a bunch of hot air. And the more she became educated concerning the hard sciences, the more she knew how little she truly understood. Someone was always smarter and more deserving. Of all the disciplines, the irrationality of politics and religion held the least excitement for her. At this stage in her life, knowing she wasn’t worthy, she wanted to be left alone without the pain of self-reflection. She raised a hand to stop the lecture. But Bowen kept going.
“Most alarming, driven by greed from the top, their army has gotten much stronger, the money spent there instead of social programs. They use that vast military power to keep the economy going. Look at Mexico and Central and most of South America. At the point of a gun, those countries now pay tribute through taxes. Lopsided trade and property agreements in favor of the US are forced upon them. Manifest Destiny and reunification, my ass. China and Russia are doing the same in their own agreed-upon spheres of influence.”
“Enough,” she said. “Our country has our own share of problems.”
Bowen nodded. He seemed to get the message and said, “Agreed.”
McMichael turned to Upton and watched as the medic helped him wriggle into a new combat shirt. When he winced, she could almost feel it. She bent over and grabbed his hand. In response, he turned and looked at her, winked, and gave her a big smile.
“Thank you,” she said.
“No. You’re the hero. If you hadn’t shot down that Custer, they wouldn’t have sent in the cavalry,” said Upton.
Even in the semi-darkness, she could see his features and, not for the first time, found herself thinking of him in a different way. His masculine chin, rugged features, and soft brown eyes brimming with compassion made her heart thump. God, she couldn’t go there. But she cared about the man. Without thinking, she let go of us his hand, reached up, and felt her missing tooth. Catching herself, she imagined what she looked like. “I’m a mess. But just so you know, I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”
“Ditto,” said Upton, still smiling. Then he raised his hand to his ribs, and while the medic moved away, he settled his back against the warehouse wall.
McMichael turned to Bowen and asked, “Now what?”
“They’ve demanded Nevada and are going for Las Vegas. If we don’t stop them, they’ll keep going,” said Bowen.
“Seems hard to believe,” said Upton, cutting into the conversation.
“Not sure what you heard, but yesterday, the US gave us forty-eight hours to surrender Nevada. Now, it’s approaching midnight. That means, in another thirty hours or so, CENTCOM expects the US forces assembled here to attack Las Vegas.”
“Will we give into their demands?” asked McMichael.
“Unless there’s a quick political settlement, I doubt it,” said Bowen, shaking his head.
McMichael felt a rising concern. “Captain, I don’t know where all this is headed or even why. Yet both of us understand our Army of Defense isn’t up to the task. The US has more of everything. Look what happened yesterday. If giving up Nevada makes them stop, we should take the offer. There is no way we can beat those guys.”
Bowen appeared to reflect on the statement. Then in a slow voice he said, “Lisa, history tells us otherwise. Like I said, we’re fighting for our liberty and democratic freedoms. That gives us great power. Think back to the beginning, to ancient Athens and their allies. They were just a few small city states nurturing an emerging idea of democratic self-determination. An army of a million Persians led by an authoritarian ruler felt threatened by those ideas. Yes, the Persians were a great nation led by a strong leader, but the ideas of the Greeks, where each citizen was considered equal, were anathema to their way of life. Bent on Greek annihilation, with a million idolizing warriors behind him, Xerxes invaded. Who won?”
“Those were different times,” she said, unconvinced.
“Perhaps,” he said. “But you won’t be in the fight. My orders are strict. I’m to smuggle you out of Mesquite to a nearby pickup point, where you will be whisked away to safety.”
“What about Sergeant Upton,” she asked.
Before Bowen could answer, Upton interjected, “Sir, my squad and battalion are gone. I want to stay with your team and fight.”
Bowen scratched the dark stubble of his beard. “My orders concerning you aren’t clear. You’re not an SF operator. But under the circumstances, we can use every able-bodied soldier. If my medic gives a green light, then yes, we can use you.”
“Thanks,” said Upton.
McMichael felt conflicted. On the one hand, she wanted to get back to her children. On the other, her life for the past seven years had been with the Army. Now the choice appeared fuzzy. She felt close to Upton, almost protective in a strange sort of way, but she was a failure, an imposter, and getting back to her children without screwing up any worse made sense. She’d go home.
“Lisa, my team will do its best to get you out of here. However, after our little charade, the enemy is on high alert. I want to let things cool down. With that said, tomorrow night, as soon as it grows dark, I’ll assign a small team to lead you through town and into the desert. From there, CENTCOM will have a stealth chopper ready to fly you back to California. My guess is you’ll get to meet the president and be reunited with your children. As for the rest of my force, the following morning, assuming the US attacks, we’ll join the fight and make life miserable for them.”
“I want to be part of that effort, sir,” said Upton.
“I heard you,” replied Bowen. “Let’s see what the medic says. The bigger picture is that we need a little luck. If the US leaves us alone till tomorrow night, we can get Lisa out, and we’ll be in a good position to join the fight the following morning. Until then, we need to remain vigilant.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
PREPARE TO HIT ’EM
May 10, 00:10 (PDT)
“How much longer?” asked Captain Raja Singh.
In Las Vegas, underneath the canopied active camouflage system, Sergeant Jason Fitch of the ROAS technical services support group struggled with the electronics. Pitch-black outside, a small light illuminated his work space. According to his digital multimeter, the voltage was too low. Without the proper energy, the awesome weapon was useless. He’d seen the problem twice earlier in the evening and knew the part to replace, but getting to the small component was difficult, and now he was struggling with the integrated circuit removal tool. And now, just as he pried the chip loose, his company commander wanted answers. Damn! The last thing he needed was the boss looking over his shoulder increasing the pressure.
Not looking up, laying aside the faulty chip, Fitch replied, “Sir, I’m going to replace the regulator logic and rerun diagnostics. If everything looks good, I’ll put the weapon online and do one final readiness check. Give me another thirty minutes.”
“Hurry up. We’re behind schedule.”
“I get that,” said Fitch, “but this technology is brand new, and out of the box we’ve had infant mortality. If not corrected, the weapon won’t work. Don’t blame me.”
“I’ve already pushed the training schedule back several hours,” said Singh, nervous.
“Understood,” replied Fitch. “Just realize operating the damn thing is easier than fixing it.”
“I’ve never seen one fired,” said the captain, more to himself than the sergeant.