Part III
I am tired and sick of war. Its glory is all moonshine. It is only those who have neither fired a shot nor heard the shrieks and groans of the wounded who cry aloud for blood, more vengeance, and more desolation. War is hell.
Chapter 6
“Reverend, I’m not sure this is the best use of the Lord’s resources.” The chief deacon of Christ’s Warriors chose his words with care, as if speaking to God himself. Important, since his leader assumed he was God’s right hand man on Earth.
“It’s just that we’ve surged 80 % of our Warriors into Louisiana and Arkansas over the last few weeks. At the same time, the big and small Antichrist’s have poured most of their satanic armies in there as well. Wedged between both sides, too many martyrs are getting called to their reward before their time.” He didn’t know how he could better spin their 50 % casualty rate.
The supreme leader of the Unified Biblical Foundation, known affectionately by his followers as “The Preacher,” and by the FBI as their second Most Wanted, tsk-tsked. He tossed a worn out Bible on the map table. Not a King James Version, but a custom text the Preacher had personally edited.
“Brother, you need to stop trusting so much in man’s twisted logic and more in God’s infallible Word. This is Armageddon! How many times do we have to go over the prophecies? The End Times are here. No one in this earthly realm will survive when the Lord returns. It’s our sacred duty to spend our remaining days smiting the wicked and earning our place at His side, no matter the cost.”
“Of course, Reverend. You’re correct as always, but that’s my point. This latest bombing campaign is targeted right here in our own backyards. I fear we’ll be sending far more of the faithful to heaven than Satan’s agents back to hell. In my humble opinion, we can do better.”
The Preacher laughed. That was never a good sign. “You’re one of my best deacons, but how many successful sermons have even you had, when preaching directly to US military forces? The devil’s minions are good at what they do. They learned well from all those years of counterinsurgency warfare against the heathens in the Middle East. No, we have to take this Holy War to our own doorstep. Besides, true believers shouldn’t fear death. We’re just hastening their reward. I’ve spoken to the Lord, and my heart is at peace. Speak to Him later if you’re having any doubts, but right now, we have work to do. God is great!”
“God is great.” His second-in-command muttered automatically.
“Now, what’s the alert status of our remaining faithful followers east of the Mississippi? I want a detailed rundown of what’s left of Christ’s Warriors.”
The deacon jerked his eyes at the sixteen-year-old girl silently serving coffee. “Shouldn’t we clear the room first, Reverend?”
“Are you scared of her? One of the Lord’s precious cherubs? Her father was the first of our martyrs. I took the poor girl and her family under my personal protection to honor his sacrifice. Believe me, she’s a good Christian woman and knows her place. Not like all those pants-wearing harlots running around this country. Isn’t that right, darling?”
The girl sat meekly in the corner, eyes to the floor, waiting to serve. She merely bobbed her head.
“See? She even knows better than to speak in a man’s presence. They don’t make ‘em like that anymore. Now, back to the Lord’s business.”
URA Sergeant Li rubbed an itch on his right leg. “This is getting old.”
He hiked his pants leg up. His mind kept insisting that one of those ball bearings where his knee used to be needed a good scratch. Perhaps some oil would make the phantoms go away. Li shied away from the high tech contraption strapped to the stump of his thigh. It ran all the way into his boot. These new generation prosthetics were top of the line. He hadn’t touched crutches since leaving the hospital.
Unfortunately. Maybe with some cheaper fake limbs the URA couldn’t have used him.
In the not so old days, having a leg blown off by a mortar round in a foreign land, like Kansas during the biggest air assault operation in history, would have gotten him a free ticket home. Probably even a small disability stipend for the rest of his life, if the paperwork didn’t get lost.
Not in this brave new world though. The URA needed every warm body they could muster, even if they wobbled when walking. Didn’t matter what sacrifices you’ve made already.
Sergeant Li scratched the real itch on a six-inch scar along his neck. Who was he to complain? He wasn’t even the most banged up drill sergeant in this basic training unit. His CO had machine parts on both leg stumps, as well as his right arm. Those were just the visible wounds. The captain did his best to hide the permanent catheter and bag he always carried. Pissing any other way was anatomically impossible for him.
Li shrugged. Guess it’s all a matter of perspective. He took a quick look around and popped another OxyContin tablet. His third of the day, and it wasn’t even lunchtime yet. He slouched down, waiting for the tender embrace of the pill genie to numb his soul and cuddle his mind. His vastly overworked doctor was skeptical about Li’s “extreme pain” after all these months, but the doc had far more pressing issues to deal with. Li only needed to call nowadays to get a prescription refilled.
“Hey Li, you want to swap platoons for a bit?” Another drill sergeant came around the corner of the maintenance bay. Unlike the rest of the walking dead making up the senior cadre in his unit, this fit junior sergeant was the very picture of health and youthful vitality. Li grinned and crossed his arms.
“Now that I got my recruits quietly cleaning weapons you want to trade? What’s on your training schedule that’s so bad?”
The other drill sergeant flushed red. “Uh, rappelling time. Four hours on the tower…”
Li nodded sympathetically and squeezed the guy’s shoulder. He might not have any external scars, but the young soldier suffered from serious traumatic brain injury. Tends to happen when the Air Force drops a 500-pound bomb right next to you. Whenever he was exposed to any type of heights, the muscle-bound kid succumbed quickly to crippling migraines and uncontrolled vomiting. Li even saw him feint once, just from walking up a staircase. Not an easy thing for the former paratrooper to deal with. There were no pills for his issues.
“Gotcha, man. No problem. Where are your recruits?”
“Thanks, Li. I owe you one. They’re suiting up out on the parade field.”
Li popped on his Smokey the Bear drill sergeant hat and snickered. “You left them all alone? Most of them are draftees. Betcha half of them are on their way to Canada by now!”
Li marched off as fast as his two legs, strangers to one another, could carry him. Desertion wasn’t necessarily a joke. Both the URA and USA had fought the entire war so far with only volunteers. This mandatory conscription nonsense that Sacramento recently introduced was far more of a headache than a military boon. Their basic training school felt more like a prison with every fresh load of nervous conscripts prodded into the camp at gunpoint.
Live fire training was the worst. You had to watch your back closer than in Baghdad, or even that hellhole called Denver. Never mind all the idiots intentionally shooting off a toe or finger in the misguided fantasy that would get them out of combat duty. It didn’t take much of a stretch of the imagination for a desperate young man or woman to point their weapon in another direction. They knew none of the other coerced recruits would testify against them. His unit had lost two drill sergeants in the past two weeks due to such sketchy “range accidents.”