The colonel’s smirking face was borderline sadistic as he pointed back to the railhead. The empty train pulled out of the way while a new one, loaded with hulking M1 Abrams tanks, took its place.
Colonel Pemberton beat his chest and yelled to the crowd around the hasty fort. “Make no mistake; this is the end of the line for the rebellion!”
It was hard for the president not to believe his bravado as every soldier and civilian within a kilometer picked up his “Hooah” chant. He’d come down here to motivate them, but the president left more confident and fired up than ever.
If only confidence alone could win wars.
“Christ, what the hell are those Teddy bears doing?”
The URA battalion commander shook his head at his allies. A combined arms battalion from the Texan Expeditionary Detachment drove past his spearhead unit and kept advancing. The URA brigade was under strict orders to hold at every phase line until their overworked supply train could catch up, but the TED’s had their own command structure.
“Can’t those idiots read a map? This town is the final stop before the Mississippi River.” According to his command, this was the last chance to prep for what could very well be the last major battle of the war.
Which apparently didn’t mean a damn thing to the independently commanded TED units. That rampaging horde of Texan and Oklahoman National Guard forces, backed up with a liberal sprinkling of paramilitary militia units, rarely communicated their intentions. Their actions were even more mysterious to the regular rebel troops than the enemy’s movements.
“Who the hell knows, sir? Those cowboys are always running off on their own FTX. Good fighters, at least. Just look at the Battle of Shreveport. Nasty door-to-door combat, sure, but those Texan’s routed the Feds in hours. Still, yeah, this is pushing things too fast. Borderline reckless. I tell you what; their lack of discipline is going to get all of our asses in a sling one of these days.”
The rebel battalion commander rolled his eyes. His sergeant major always obsessed over discipline. According to him and his NCO cadre, every mistake in the history of the universe could be explained away by “po’ discipline.”
Which was bullshit, the colonel mused. Poor leaders were just as dangerous. He shrugged. What could he do? He wasn’t a general. All he could control was his little slice of the coalition army.
“Well, I guess you can’t argue with the results.” They both ogled a convoy of Texan pickup trucks pouring back east, overflowing with wounded federal prisoners.
Since swapping sides last fall, the URA’s newfound allies slapped similar conditions on their unification with the West as they had demanded from the East. The worst of which was this crazed insistence on maintaining an independent Texan/Okie command structure. Their units fought alongside the URA, but as they obsessively rubbed it in, not under. Massaging their irrational pride was a constant headache for the rebel’s military leadership.
Complicating things even further was the “Teddies” strangely placed patriotism. Regular URA units were carefully blended amalgamations of existing National Guard formations, Federal Army defectors, reservists, recalled veterans and brand-new recruits. All drawn from every state in the rebel alliance and painstakingly shuffled about to avoid regional loyalty. Sacramento took diversity to an anal-retentive level. Texas and their junior partner Oklahoma, however, demanded “pure” forces.
Among the Lone Star-flying units, it was routine to see an entire company raised from the same hometown. Many of their soldiers were already Texas Nationalists before the world turned upside down. Naturally, they were thrilled to see their fantasies of independence coming true. Others were deserters from the Federal Army, not nearly as many as expected, but a sizable chunk. In short, members of the Texan Military Forces were used to saluting either the Stars and Stripes or the Lone Star, but had no common history with the URA’s Black Stars and Stripes.
Distrust and a failure to communicate ran deep with both allies. Still, the common bonds of hating Washington and success in the field had trumped any petty differences so far. The coalition forces were kicking ass against their ill-prepared enemy all over Louisiana and Arkansas. Even at their stop and go pace, they should be able to storm the Mississippi River defenses by tomorrow night. Maybe even by tonight, with the way these Texans rushed forward like dogs in heat.
“Well, whatever they do, we’ve got a good hour wait until resupply gets here, sir. Goddamn insurgents have hit the convoy twice with suicide bombers already. I’m going to do a round and make sure all the men are taking a break.”
More likely looking for anyone getting too relaxed, but the colonel kept his mouth shut. Discipline was none of his business. He walked up the back ramp of his command Bradley and took a load off, with delicious relish. He tried to avoid sitting whenever possible. At his age, it was getting harder and harder to drag himself upright. Why the hell did he come out of retirement again? Still, after 36 hours of non-stop fighting, he needed a break. He unsnapped his vest and popped open the front IBA flaps.
“Ahhhh.” The muggy spring air wafting across his chest wasn’t particularly cool, but compared to the 100+ degrees inside his Kevlar straight jacket, he might as well be standing in front of an air conditioner.
Luckily, none of his troops could smell his marinated sweat. At least not over their own. How long since anyone had so much as seen a shower? He waved at his driver, out stretching his legs.
“Specialist, have all the company CO’s meet up here. We’ll have lunch together; got a few details for the next push to work out.” He kicked a box of MRE’s out from under his bench. “Don’t worry, I’m buying!”
The colonel’s eyes caught activity from some mom and pop barbecue joint just outside their perimeter. The gentlest twang of honey mustard heavenliness drifted over the stink of sweat and exhaust fumes.
“Hold up a second.” He dipped into a vest pocket, where most soldiers stored extra ammo magazines, and whipped out a wad of bills from the battalion’s petty cash fund. Since each side claimed to be the legitimate Federal Government, they both used the same money. Even after a year of war. Maybe the inflation wasn’t as bad here as back in California.
“Take a couple of guys and see what they still have; I don’t care what.” He came out of his trance at the last second. “Oh, and you better get something for everyone in the headquarters company or nothing for anyone. I don’t need a mutiny on my hands!”
The young soldier laughed as he stepped up the ramp and reached for the money. The second his fingers touched the bills his arm exploded at the elbow. There was a brief moment without pain as his mind struggled to process what the hell just happened. That moment stretched a little further as he slowly took in the colonel’s blood-splattered and horrified face. The pain hit hard when he glanced down at his lower arm. It waved back and forth at a 90-degree angle from the elbow. Only a single tendon kept the forearm attached. The shattered, protruding bone wasn’t much use. Why was the blood spurting?
Someone grabbed the kid from behind, yanked him to cover and tied off the arm with a tourniquet. After the specialist was hauled off on a stretcher, the colonel reached down and lifted up the spent round intended for him. It had ricocheted off the soldier’s bone and ripped through the MRE box inches under his balls. A dozen rifles, shooting in as many directions, fired back at the unknown sniper. The colonel held the still hot shell up with two fingers, unable to pull away.