The colonel almost had a solid strategy hammered out when a top-attack TOW missile imploded the roof. One of the dismounts dashed inside and yanked the charred husk of his brigade commander out. Through his one non-melted eye, Armistead glanced down at the stumps where his wrists used to be.
He looked back into the flaming wreckage and could have sworn his fingers were still tapping away on the keyboard. Armistead opened his mouth to shout his final orders, but nothing came out. A medic hovered over him, scooping away the remnants of his shattered jaw and shoved a breathing tube down his throat.
Armistead’s last sight on Earth would have brought a tear to his eye, if he still had enough fluids.
Behind the medic’s shaking head, someone waved a white flag towards the federal troops. The advance was over.
“Washington’s goons might have bloodied our nose, but we’ll never back down! The Feds are numerous, but those numbers do not equal strength. No hired gun or brainwashed fascist can match the strength of free men and women defending their homes! The dictator rules through fear; well let’s give him something to fear! Hooah!”
General Stewart drove his fist in the air, red-faced and sweating with excitement. Finished with his pep talk, he hopped down from the hood of the Humvee to mingle with the troops. The gaggle of soldiers around him merely stared on in silence. One of them, sporting a non-regulation beard and red crescent on his sleeve, jogged over. He shined a light in the general’s pupils and tried to shove something into his mouth.
“Akaka Anda baik-baik saja?”
Stewart slapped his hand away. “What the hell are you saying?”
Another officer rushed up, choking back his laughter. “Sorry sir, he doesn’t speak English. Great medic though. We’re lucky to have him.” The junior officer waved over an interpreter. “How about you give the Indonesian volunteers a summary of the general’s speech?”
Stewart looked more closely at the hundreds of other soldiers, most of them bearded, taking a break on the side of the road. Just as many rolled-up prayer mats jutted out of their armed pickups as rifles.
“Are any of them Americans?”
The captain nibbled the inside of his cheek. “Uh, they will be, as soon as they’ve finished their enlistments, or get wounded in the process. I thought the fast-track citizenship program for foreign recruits was your idea, sir?”
“Yeah, I proposed it to the president, but I’ve never seen the results in practice…”
General Stewart stole the idea from the US, where the recruitment project was wildly successful. Even with America tearing itself apart, immigrants kept pouring in from around the world. All willing to don a uniform just for the opportunity to call this war-torn land home.
“Don’t let their appearance fool you, sir. These people are tough as nails, even if their discipline leaves something to be desired. Oh, and all the officers speak English, if that’s what you’re worrying about.”
“Wait a minute. Captain Goldberg, you’re commanding them?”
The other officer narrowed his eyes. “I can assure you, sir, that I’m fully qualified… oh, you mean the other thing. Yes, I’m a Jew and my first sergeant is a Christian. The majority of the troops are Muslim, but we have plenty of Hindu’s to keep the Catholics from feeling all alone. Haven’t had any serious issues so far.”
“Damn. We created one hell of a lethal melting pot.”
Stewart shook his head. Even though America held every conceivable race, ethnicity, religious group and political nut this fractious world could come up with, sectarian violence was rarely seen in this war. Brothers fought one another. Friends blew each other apart. Neighbors shot each other over razor wire borders. All manner of horrific violence threatened to plunge America back into the Dark Ages they once missed out on, but through it all, America remained the land of equal opportunity.
White, black, brown, Christian, Muslim, Jew… all had the right to kill and be killed over politics. Bullets and bombs don’t discriminate.
The rumble of distant artillery drew closer, throwing a wet blanket on Stewart’s humor. “Sir, I need to get them moving. The Feds are starting to push back around Vicksburg. We need every rifle at the front to blunt their counterattack. If you don’t mind…”
“Of course, of course. Good luck. Tell your people we’re rooting for them.”
The captain saluted with a nod, rather than his hand. All these snipers crawling about the backwoods made any other gesture of respect too dangerous.
Stewart turned back to his entourage. “Which unit is next on the tour?”
“There aren’t any more. Every other reserve force is either in contact or on the way. It’s a slaughterhouse along the Mississippi. We can go back to the headquarters, sir.”
Stewart took a load off in his Humvee. “I’d rather not bug the forward command post. Those poor bastards have enough on their plate without me hanging around.” He scanned the battle computer.
“Here we go. I can tell you who needs a pick me up visit right now: those lazy militia folk. I see them massing near Baton Rouge, but not doing a thing. When the hell are these amateurs going to get into the fight?”
Their Freedom Brigade liaison officer bristled. He sported the latest fashionable line of Ranger Joe tactical gear rather than a uniform. General Stewart enjoyed annoying the well paid “grassroots activist.” Whenever he was agitated, his slight French accent, honed from years in the Legion, came out thick and strong.
“Zee Group Leader has big plans. Do not worry, General. We will intervene soon and save your armeé.”
“Uh huh. Well, let’s go see these ‘big plans’ in the field. We have time.”
The militia officer calmed himself, but that grating condescension kept pouring out. “I’m afraid you’re not cleared for such information, sir.”
“The hell you say. Enough with the games. If you people have something in the works, then we need to coordinate our efforts. Get me your ‘group leader’ or whatever your head honcho is called, on the radio ASAP.”
“Alas, the unit in question is under strict radio silence. We have orders straight from our sponsors not to allow any URA interference in the operation.”
General Stewart hopped out of his seat.
“Who the hell do you think you’re talking to? You mercenaries are getting on my last nerve. Now, take me to this mysterious unit of yours or I’ll have them all imprisoned. I don’t care how influential your friends are.”
The nominal civilian sighed and pulled out a satellite phone. He pressed a number on speed dial and handed it over to the general. Boredom etched his face.
Through the speaker, a familiar voice made Stewart grind his teeth. He grabbed the bull by the horns and plunged in.
“Hello, Ms. President. I’m sorry to contact you with something so trivial, but I’m having an issue with access to the Freedom Brigades. They refuse to coordinate—”
A thousand miles away, Salazar cursed. “Look, I know it’s frustrating, but play along. I don’t know what they’re planning, but the sponsors are adamant that we stay out of the way. We need these sponsors more now than ever. Swallow your pride just this once, General.”
“Ma’am, since when are we allowing Goddamn private civilians to dictate military operations?”
Salazar’s frustration dripped out stronger than his own. “Since they’re paying for this damn war. Don’t bite the hand that feeds you. Whatever they’re up to, the militia is confident they can gouge a hole in the Mississippi line for you within 48 hours. Since your forces can’t get the job done, we have no alternative but to let them try. Now, I won’t say this again: stay out of their fucking way!”