“Of course. But we don’t have time for a history lesson.”
“Listen to me,” urged the president. “This is our Fort Sumter moment. I know it’s hard. We won’t fire the first shot, but if fired upon, we will resist. If forced upon us, the people of our nation will learn we have the moral courage to stand against tyranny. That lesson, if necessary, starts today.”
“You want martyrs?”
“No, but this country needs a backbone.” She paused and cleared her throat. In a flat tone she spelled it out, “I’ve heard your objections, and although facing overwhelming odds, there will be no backing down without resistance. Instead, if attacked, you shall fight back. After that, you are authorized to do whatever is necessary to protect our troops, up to and including surrender. Understood?”
The general looked up and noticed his aid waving, indicating she wanted to switch his audio back to the border. He nodded, it was time to act—no more arguing. “I understand, Madam President.”
“Good. Thank you. I’ll be there soon,” replied the president, ending the call.
Upset, the general balled his fists then turned his attention to the potential disaster brewing on the border.
Colonel Rourke shot back and reiterated his position. “Lieutenant Colonel Paulson. As you have sought me out under a flag of truce, I’ve taken the time to come out and listen. I promise as an officer, in good faith, I will relay your message to ROAS Central Command and get back with a prompt answer. As a fellow officer, please understand and respect the limits of my command authority.”
Paulson, it appeared, was losing patience. “Sir, this offer is for you. You’re the field commander. No one else understands better the military situation on the ground. Look, the United States Army doesn’t want to destroy your small force. We understand your innocence. You didn’t commit the crime; your corrupt government did. Instead, in the spirit of cooperation and peace, with full military honor, we ask for an immediate surrender and a pledge to never take up arms against the US again. Afterward, the ROAS troops under your command will face no further threats and can return home. No bloodshed, no death, no imprisonment, just an honorable peace. Sir, do you accept this generous and reasonable offer?”
Rourke struggled to listen while trying to keep up with Central Command whispering in his ear. Command wanted him to paraphrase Paulson so they could eavesdrop. Rourke shook his head, the stress of the dual role getting to him, making him irritable. “Ah. Colonel Paulson,” he stammered, thinking how best to summarize what he’d heard. “If I understand the offer, you’ve asked me to surrender this installation and pledge to never take up arms against the US. In return, my command will be paroled. Is that what you’re offering?” After saying the words, Rourke assumed the tanker knew he was buying time.
Paulson responded, confirming Rourke’s suspicion. “Sir, for your benefit, and whoever else is listening, the US is offering an opportunity to prevent bloodshed.” Paulson continued in a harsher tone, “I need your answer now, sir.”
Rourke fidgeted, thought the terms reasonable, but couldn’t imagine surrendering to such an asshole. He’d rather pull his force back and retreat with dignity.
General Story’s voice came over his headset. “Colonel, no surrender. Stick to the plan. Stretch out the negotiations and give us time to develop a response.”
Rourke swallowed hard, realizing it was up to him. He needed to stall, get things under control. In a loud voice, he re-explained his position. “Lieutenant Colonel Paulson, I have no authority to negotiate. But I’ve heard your offer. I will pass your proposal up the chain of command and gather a response. Later, we can continue the dialogue and discuss next steps. May I suggest we meet again tomorrow? Same time, right here, under a flag of truce?”
Paulson glowered at the colonel. “Sir, not taking responsibility is an answer. You are the commander of this installation. As military men, as officers, we control the destiny of those who serve beneath us. You decide for this installation, and military protocol dictates no need for higher approval.”
Rourke shook his head in consternation.
Paulson continued in a patient tone. “Look…” and he pointed backward sweeping his arm across the horizon, “…you cannot stand against the forces arrayed against you. By accepting our terms, history will not doubt or condemn you. Make the right call. Be always remembered. Link your name to peace and for preventing a slaughter. You don’t want to start a war, do you?”
“Of course not,” replied Rourke.
Paulson wiped his brow, flicking away the sweat and continued, “I ask you again, with all due respect, one last time. Sir, do you accept the generous terms of surrender as offered?” Before Rourke could respond, Paulson added a dire warning. “Be careful. Equivocation is a reply in the negative.”
Rourke found the parley maddening. He was amazed at how Paulson shifted responsibility, placing potential blame on the ROAS when the clear aggressor was the US. He thought the twisting of words and logic a preposterous obfuscation. Alarm bells ringing, he realized the crazy bastards were seeking an excuse. Worse, he’d no way of stopping it. Once the shooting started, or the ROAS surrendered, the US would claim the moral high ground no matter the reality. He needed help, fast, and paraphrased his response so CENTCOM could understand the urgency. “You’re the aggressor, sir. You have crossed into our territory demanding a military surrender, not the other way around. Regardless, I must repeat, we need time to review your proposal. If tomorrow doesn’t work, when do you suggest we meet again?”
Lieutenant Colonel Paulson, like a mother to a misbehaving child, sighed in deep disappointment and clucked his tongue. “Your answer is no. Let your decision stand for the record.”
“I didn’t say no,” Rourke stammered.
Paulson shook his head then reached out and grabbed his radio antenna and bent the flexible rod until he could reach the white flag. With a sneer, he ripped off the material and flung it outward where it hung for a moment before fluttering to the ground. At the same instant, he let go of the antenna causing it to whip into place. Workmanlike, Paulson reached inside the tank hatch and pulled out a head protection system. After placing the advanced helmet on his head, he flipped up the visor and adjusted his headset. Then he glanced at Colonel Rourke and out towards the ROAS lines on either side. Wearing a wicked grin, in a loud voice, he spoke into his headset, “Tiger, Tiger, Tiger.” Quick as lightening, Paulson slipped inside his tank and, with a clank, closed the hatch.
Unsure, Colonel Rourke watched Paulson disappear.
Chapter Eight
THE TIGER
In the point pillbox standing next to his machine-gun crew peering out the forward firing slit at the parley, Upton flinched when an enormous fireball erupted. Eyes forced closed by the explosion, his teeth rattled as the concussion swept through the tight confines. Around him, the bunker shook, and heat radiated through his helmet visor. Upon opening his eyes, he bore witness as flaming chunks of wreckage from Colonel Rourke’s Humvee came tumbling to earth.
Disoriented, not sure what transpired, through the smoke, Upton spotted flame licking from the enemy tank. The noise deafening, he shook off the cobwebs and realized the beast was hammering his own force field Active Protection System (APS) fixed atop the pillbox with its M240 machine gun. Thuds and pings erupted as each 7.62 mm exploding round peppered into the thick steel protecting the system. Upton realized the tank was using smart rounds, also developed by the ROAS and sold to the US years ago, to reach up and over the side of the pill box to take out his APS. Designed to detect and protect against larger projectiles, including missiles and tank rounds, the APS was useless against small arms.