“England, France, Italy, Romania, Turkmenistan, and China all took hits,” the battalion commander said grimly. “But that isn’t the worst of it… The Chinese thought they were under attack. So they launched a dozen intercontinental ballistic missiles from submarines out in the Pacific. Japan, South Korea, and Australia were targeted, along with certain locations in the United States. We believe Peterson Air Force Base was among them.”
The news was so bad that none of them said anything as Mac sought to absorb what the words meant. Millions, perhaps billions of people were dead, and Peterson was the headquarters for NORAD (the United States Northern Command), as well as the Air Force Space Command. Both were hardened targets—but could they withstand what the Chinese had thrown at them? Only time would tell.
“The Chinese apologized once they understood the truth of the matter,” Wilson said. “Not that it makes any difference. Our government has been destroyed—and our command structure has been decimated. So the general and his staff are on their own until someone wearing more stars shows up.”
Mac knew Wilson was referring to the Joint Base Lewis-McChord’s commanding officer, Lieutenant General “Rusty” Rawlings. A man who, unlike her father, had risen all the way from private E-1 to general. It was a long and nearly impossible journey.
“General Rawlings wants us to secure the base,” Wilson informed them. “Civilians are trying to enter. Our orders are to stop them using the minimum amount of force required to do so.” None of Mac’s peers said a word as they made their way back to the company area where anxious soldiers were awaiting them. Now it was their turn to deliver the bad news.
Even though Mac prided herself on knowing each person under her command by name, she couldn’t remember what area each one of them was from. But it seemed like a safe bet that each soldier had lost someone. Once the platoon was gathered around her, Mac delivered the news and eventually brought the briefing to a close with a lame, “I’m sorry.” Some of the soldiers cried and turned to each other for support. A few stood motionless, their faces empty of all expression, while they sought to process what they’d heard.
PFC Wessel, AKA “the Weasel,” started to giggle. “What the hell is wrong with you?” Specialist Sims demanded angrily.
“I’m from LA,” the Weasel explained. “The Chinese nuked my ex-wife! There is a God.”
Sims was staring at the other soldier in disbelief when Driscoll arrived. “Okay, people,” he said in a voice loud enough for everybody to hear. “The CO wants us to establish a position west of the main gate on Division Drive. The MPs set up a traffic control post over there, and we’re going to provide backup. Let’s load up and roll out.” His eyes roamed their faces. “I know this is hard,” Driscoll added. “But you joined the army to do hard things. This is your chance to make a difference.”
“You heard the captain,” Mac said, as Driscoll left the area. “Let’s roll.”
Mac was in command of the battalion’s scout platoon, which consisted of four M1127A2 Stryker RCs. The “RC” stood for “recon.” Each vehicle was equipped with a .50 caliber machine gun, or a 40mm grenade launcher, and ancillary weapons as needed.
Crews consisted of a commander/gunner and a driver. A typical load out included a crew of two and a nine-person squad in back. But more people could, and frequently did, squeeze into the rear compartment. Archer Company’s record was seventeen.
Mac chose to ride in the one-two vic (vehicle). She rarely if ever rode with Evans since that would put the platoon’s entire command structure at risk. The rest of her tiny headquarters group consisted of Doc Obbie, the platoon’s combat medic; Sparks Munroe, her radio-telephone operator (RTO); and forward observer Lin Kho. The weapons squad was crammed into one-two as well, which meant Mac was sitting knee to knee with Sergeant Brown. If the noncom was worried about the overall situation, she couldn’t see any sign of it on his face.
The rear hatch produced a whining sound as it came up and locked into place. Now Mac was confined inside what amounted to a tin can where, though responsible for everything that happened to the platoon, she couldn’t see. It was a helpless feeling, and one she would never get used to. The air was heavy with the sickly-sweet smell of hydraulic fluid. The truck produced a high-pitched, whining noise as it got under way.
The soldiers slumped sideways as the TC (truck commander) applied the brakes. That was followed by some backing and filling as he positioned the Stryker to fire on whatever targets might present themselves. As soon as the ramp went down, Sergeant Brown and his squad surged out to take up defensive positions around the first platoon’s vehicles. But there wasn’t any threat that Mac could discern. A group of citizens was gathered around a hastily created traffic control point (TCP)—but the MPs had the situation under control.
In addition to his military gear, Sparks was carrying a Sony pocket radio. He turned the set on and fiddled with the controls until he found a station that was still on the air. All of them listened intently as a field reporter described the way things looked from the top of Seattle’s Queen Anne Hill. “… The top half of the space needle was sheared off… The wreckage fell toward the east—and is spread all over the place. Two of the buildings in the South Lake Union business complex were severely damaged, and one of them is on fire. The elevated section of I-5 can be seen through the smoke. It looks like a large section of it collapsed. Cars are scattered on the hillside and north–south traffic is blocked. Oh, no! Another section collapsed!”
“Turn it off,” Mac said. “I can only take so much of that.”
No one disagreed. Kho wiped her eyes. “My God, Lieutenant… When will it stop?”
Mac didn’t know. And as the day progressed, it became increasingly obvious that no one else did either. By the time the sun set, it was completely hidden by a globe-spanning blanket of particulate matter. And, because the power was out, the only lights to be seen were those that belonged to a scattering of people with generators and the military. Sporadic gunfire began shortly thereafter. “What the hell are they shooting at?” Brown wondered out loud as he munched on a candy bar.
“Each other,” Mac replied. “The people with generators shouldn’t turn them on. Lights will attract trouble.”
“What about our lights?” Brown inquired.
“Same thing,” Mac told him. “It’s only a matter of time.”
That was the beginning of a long, nerve-wracking night. Gunfire was heard, fires could be seen in the distance, and by the time there was enough light to see by, a large crowd had gathered in front of the traffic control point. Some people had been driven out of their homes by looters. Others had been forced to abandon their cars on I-5 and were looking for a safe place to stay. But General Rawlings knew there were tens of thousands of such individuals out there—and a very real limit on how many refugees JBLM could safely handle. So he had chosen to dispatch medical teams, plus food and water, rather than let them enter the base.
But as two days morphed into three, the pressure was starting to build. As the amount of crime in the surrounding areas continued to increase, people wanted to enter the base for safety’s sake. And Mac couldn’t blame them.
A tall, thin MP had taken up a position in front of the barricades and was clutching a bullhorn. “Do not approach the barricade unless you are a member of the military and have ID to prove it!” the MP declared. “Please stay back.”
A woman with two children approached him. Mac couldn’t hear what was said, but could see the look of anguish on her face and saw the MP point. The woman was sobbing as she led her children back into the seething crowd. It was heartbreaking.