Earlier, Rourke had ordered the highway and surrounding desert mined with remote-activated explosives but lacked specific details about where the actual devices were buried. Concerned, Rourke asked, “Lucas, even I’m not aware of where we laid the mines. Are you confident the Humvee has valid avoidance data?”
Lucas glanced at the colonel, considered the question before turning back to the road. “Programming, sir. I programmed our fleet of vehicles, put in where we laid the mines. Yes, sir, I’m extremely confident.”
Rourke gave up worrying about mines and leaned back in his seat. He imagined the bastard awaiting atop the enemy tank. Goddammit to hell. What did they want?
Through the windshield, he spotted the point pillbox. He spoke into his headset, activating the internal radio, “PB One, this is Blocker Actual. Over.”
The pillbox was quick to respond. “Copy, Blocker Actual, PB One at your service.”
“Ah, PB One, we’re approaching your six. Reminder: no itchy fingers. You copy? Over.”
“Blocker Actual, PB One copies,” replied Master Sergeant Upton from inside Pillbox One. Rourke recalled the sergeant. He was a tough guy, built solid with a square jaw, dark hair and eyes, and right out of central casting, perfect for leading the point squad. A “set the example” NCO, Upton rose through the ranks as a steady performer. The master sergeant continued, “When we first clocked the enemy tank, we almost shot it back to the border. Lucky for them we spotted the white flag. We won’t shoot unless ordered or fired upon. Over.”
“PB One, roger that. Has the enemy said anything else or hinted at what they want?”
“Blocker Actual, that’s a negative. Over.”
“PB One, Blocker Actual out.” Rourke could see beyond the point pillbox. Sure enough, an ugly heavy tank squatted in the middle of Highway 15. The sight of the enemy M1A7 caused him to grow angry, and a knot tightened in his stomach. There was no good reason for the enemy to cross into ROAS territory, not with political negotiations underway.
Rourke pondered the enemy motivation. Fuck it! He’d find out soon enough.
Chapter Six
PARLEY
US Army Battalion Commander Lieutenant Colonel Paulson stood waiting in his command tank cupola. Although the ROAS enemy pillbox had stuck a white t-shirt out its forward firing slit, there’d been no other reaction. Good news—no shooting so far. Apparently, the dumb-ass rookies recognized the flag of truce.
Faced by many an enemy over the years, he’d survived every time, and today wouldn’t be any different. But dammit, he wanted them to hurry up and get with the program. He’d wait a while longer, but if someone in charge didn’t arrive soon, he’d get back on the loudspeaker and raise hell.
He believed higher Command considered him the best tank officer in the Army, and today was further proof. Given the responsibility of meeting with the enemy and commanding the tip of the spear, he was confident and pleased. After all, he loved tanks, reveled in their power, and knew how to use them. His only complaints were the close quarters and invariable stink the tight confines wrought. But stench and cramped spaces were a minor complaint more than offset by the killing ferocity of his magnificent machines.
As he waited, Paulson felt the vast power of the US Army pulsating behind him, and he absorbed the martial energy. It felt good. But standing beneath the beating sun, he wanted the cocksuckers to hurry. It was getting hot.
About to pick up his microphone again, Paulson spotted movement on the highway past the enemy pillbox and smiled. A Humvee approached. Good, the pricks were coming. In anticipation, he stood straighter and puffed his chest. And he couldn’t help but smile.
Colonel Rourke and his Humvee rolled to a stop in front of the massive tank. Peering out the windshield, he saw a youthful man with a confident smile atop the tank thirty meters distant. Above the tank, affixed to an antenna sticking high in the air, a white flag whipped in the gentle breeze.
Keeping his foot on the brake, Sergeant Lucas stared wide eyed at the main-battle tank. “What now, Colonel?” he asked.
“Put it in park, and I’ll go have a chat. Both of you stay harnessed. Be ready to leave on a moment’s notice. No telling where this might lead.”
Not taking his eyes off the tank, Lucas pulled the parking brake. White knuckled, he kept a firm grip on the steering wheel.
In the back seat, Lieutenant Swaringer leaned forward. “Reminder, sir. Please keep your headset on, mic open to the Command Net.”
“Got it,” said Rourke, opening the Humvee door.
Behind him, the lieutenant unbuckled his own belt and tried to follow. “I’ll go with you, sir.”
Rourke raised a hand, “No need.”
Swaringer fell back in his seat with a frown.
Rourke understood the man was eager but not now. He tried to soften the blow. “Lieutenant, you have an important job. Keep your eyes peeled. If something goes awry, then hightail it back to the CP and support Rollins. Now, keep buckled and stay tuned and alert.”
The young officer, pouting, refastened his harness.
With the huge tank and its main barrel threatening through the window, Sergeant Lucas leaned over and gave encouragement. “Give ’em hell, Colonel, sir.”
Although unsure, Rourke put on a confident smile. “Will do, Sergeant.” He turned to go when he remembered his radio headset and issued the voice command, tuning it to the proper command frequency. Before exiting, he reminded himself he wasn’t alone and that his every move would be under aerial observation. Everything was fine—just an atypical office meeting. Time to go.
After taking a last deep breathe, Rourke exited the Humvee. Before him stood the massive tank and, he sensed, his destiny.
Lieutenant Colonel Paulson, standing in his cupola, came to a salute and held it.
Colonel Rourke strode forward and stopped twenty paces away. In time-honored military tradition, looking up at the officer in the tank, Rourke came to attention and touched the tip of his head protection system.
Paulson dropped his hand, and Rourke followed suit.
The tanker introduced himself. “Lieutenant Colonel Paulson, Sixth Armored Brigade Combat Team, of the Fifty-Fifth Armored Division, First Battalion Commander, 435th Armored Regiment, sir.”
“Colonel Rourke, ROAS Commander of the Fourth Infantry Brigade, First Infantry Division.” Before Paulson could speak again, Rourke pointed at the tank. “Lieutenant Colonel, you came out under a flag of truce, asking for me. As a courtesy, please lift your cannon and come down here face to face. No one likes staring down the barrel of a gun.”
Paulson laughed and with the back of his hand waved past the colonel. “And that concrete box behind you, sir, it has no weapons trained on me?”
Rourke turned to look at the ROAS point pillbox and then shifted back to face the enemy officer. “Fair enough. Now what can I do for you?”
Lieutenant Colonel Paulson nodded and, still smiling, patted the side of his tank. “Do you admire my M1A7?”
Rourke frowned at the question. “I’m not much of a tank guy myself. The ROAS has only a handful of older heavy main-battle tanks. Dinosaurs we call them, lumbering targets full of explosive fossil fuels. The only good thing about the Stonewall M1A7 is their advanced protection system—Force Field One we called it—developed by our technicians years ago. I’m sure you’re glad you have that capability even though we have the means to defeat it.”
Paulson laughed at the gibe. In truth, he’d zero respect for the ROAS military. He knew the colonel standing before him, despite the rank, lacked combat experience. Unlike himself, the ROAS officer wasn’t a true warrior. Still, he knew that many of the advanced technology features his army used were developed and sold to them before the trade war in the previous decade by the ROAS. To make the distinction, he said, “I love tanks. The M1A7 is a proven battle platform and an absolute joy to command. Over the last ten years, my tanks and combined armor, under my leadership, have never lost a battle. Yes, sir, a joy to lead in combat, and the APS force field works like a charm and hasn’t been defeated. In looking at you, I pity your circumstances. No real opportunity to ply your trade. The frustration must be maddening. Sad.”