“Christ! So much for getting here early.”
Since the Military Entrance Processing (MEP) station’s parking lot was barricaded off, Miranda and Jason were forced to park half a mile away. They naively assumed the crowd outside the fortified admin building were just more protestors. One of those shadow armies of screaming pacifists besieging every military base in the country.
No such luck. They strutted, full of youthful confidence, past the line and straight to the front gate. A couple hundred queued up, coffee-less early birds found some entertainment with the cocky kids. “Back of the line! Who do you think you are?”
If Miranda had been the easily intimidated type, he wouldn’t be trying to join the damn Army during wartime. He whipped out the signed forms from his pocket and smirked at his assailants. “Kiss my ass. I’ve got orders. I’ve already signed up. Just need to take the ASVAB test and find my perfect job.” Miranda focused on keeping his voice from cracking; he just realized how full of crap the recruiter sounded when you repeat his words out loud.
“Shut up, kid. We all have papers. Everyone here has already been to the recruiter.”
Caught off guard, he looked for help from his buddy. Jason just shook his head. “Come on. The end’s only getting farther away.”
Two hundred smug faces later, they found a place. Miranda jerked a thumb at the dozen or so people stacking up behind them. “I see why they still haven’t imposed a draft. No shortage of volunteers!” He beamed with patriotic pride. “I tell you what; that’s America for you! The greatest country on earth!”
Jason wasn’t so impressed. “Yeah, plenty of fresh meat. It’s like this war sells itself.”
“Huh? What type of hippy nonsense is that?”
“Nothing. Listen, man. We don’t have to do this. I mean, it’s not deserting; we haven’t even been sworn in yet. Look at all these fools. Do you think the military really needs us?”
Miranda searched his friend’s eyes, hunting in vain for any bit of sarcasm. He wasn’t sure he had the strength to finish signing up without his best friend. If he didn’t join up, what the hell else was he supposed to do with his jacked up life?
“Jay… you gettin’ cold feet? You were all fired up about enlisting at the party last night.”
“Come on, I was drunk. This is a real commitment. Do you want to get your nuts shot off fighting over which government collects your taxes?”
Miranda suddenly needed two hands to carry the burden of his enlistment paperwork. “You get to choose your job. You don’t have to go in the infantry or something dangerous. Like the recruiter said, they have hundreds of positions. Not all of them on the front lines.”
Jason snorted. “Right. I’m sure they’re offering that $10,000 sign-up bonus for paper pushers.” He danced from foot to foot, literally wavering. He bobbed his head indecisively, but Miranda could tell he’d already made a decision.
“Miranda, I know you need this, and I hate to leave you in the lurch….”
Miranda’s blood boiled. Not least because his friend was right. He graduated over a year ago, but had yet to find a job where 50 % of his paycheck wasn’t gobbled up by his student loan payments. Then last week his girlfriend gave him that old, “I’m a little pregnant” surprise the same day he was forced to move back in with his parents. Miranda thought fast.
“So you’re only patriotic when you’re trying to impress girls at the bar? When it comes time to man up you’ll just chicken out? I bet your old man would have been proud.”
Miranda might have pushed it a bit too far there. Jason’s fist clenched. Unlike him, his buddy hit the gym every day; Miranda wouldn’t last long. Instead of giving him what he deserved, Jason just hung his head.
“He’s the only fucking reason I ever agreed to this bullshit idea! That was a cheap shot. Dad’s only been dead a year.” Miranda tried to hold onto his desperation, rather than his shame. Jason’s father’s end had not been quick. That was a painful year of slow liver failure, brought on by depleted uranium poisoning, for the proud Gulf War veteran to endure. By the time the Veterans Affairs office finally recognized the syndrome and tried to treat the survivors, many were too far gone to save.
Jason brought himself together. “Never mind my father. Where do you get off preaching about politics and patriotism? Did you even vote in the screwed up election that started all this? I didn’t think so, yet you’re willing to kill, or maybe get killed, debating the outcome!”
The guy in front of them had nervously fiddled the whole time. He finally turned around and stuck his nose in their business. “Ya’ll a bunch of selfish pricks. All you two can think about is yourselves. What about all those people the terrorists have killed? Have you forgotten? Fuck the president; fuck all the politicians. This war ain’t about them. My cousin was on the George Washington when the rebels sunk her. Somebody’s got to stand up to those traitorous bastards!”
Miranda was pissed at the loudmouth’s interruption, but Jason seized on the distraction. “Look, all I want to do is think things over. We can’t rush into this. I’m leaving. Let’s go get something to eat and figure out a plan; what do you say? The line will still be here if you want to come back.”
Miranda knew that if he stepped away now he’d never screw up the nerve again. So he said nothing and stood firm. Tried to stay focused on the betrayal. Jason just stared at him. What could he say? Jason threw up his hands, turned and started crossing the street. Two steps later, Miranda’s courage broke. “Hold up, Jay. You’re right. I’m coming too.”
Jason stopped in the middle of the street, flipped him the bird and laughed. “Jesus Christ, you really had me going—”
Jason went airborne in a metallic blue flash. Miranda’s mind temporarily shut down in shock as his friend’s crumpled body landed and twitched on the pavement. A faint wisp of fuel oil and fertilizer hung in the air. Miranda followed the speeding F150 down the block with his disbelieving eyes, since his legs were suddenly full of concrete.
The obviously overloaded truck veered off the road and straight towards the MEP station’s sandbagged gatehouse. Even from a hundred yards away, Miranda heard a shout of, “God is great!” If there was more, the words were drowned out by machine gun fire from the gate guards. No way that truck could get past them.
Which was fine, because the heavily fortified station wasn’t the target. The so-called “American Taliban” might be insane, but they weren’t stupid. Why put so much effort into striking an office with a few dozen workers, when hundreds of the devil’s minions clustered outside unprotected?
Miranda had neither time to run nor to help his friend. Let alone make peace with his Maker. At least he felt no pain as the truck’s bleeding driver pumped his fist in victory and pushed a button. The ensuing blast held the equivalent of nearly 2,000 lbs. of high explosive. Or the end of the world, as the survivors recalled.
On a rooftop 300 yards down the street, the shockwave kicked Jimmy Bob Phelps right off his feet. That bomb was far more powerful than the Bubbas told him back in the compound. A wonder those good old boys didn’t blow themselves up building the damn thing.
He scrambled back upright and shoved his camera over the parapet. The Pastor would be pissed if he missed filming the climax of his private show. The preacher demanded his “sermons” be reviewed, edited and posted online within one hour of an attack. Disappointing the leader of the Unified Biblical Foundation movement terrified Jimmy more than the sirens racing towards the neighborhood.