Groggy Gets His Colonelcy

MARCH 30TH, 2009
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
12:00 PM

There was a small crowd of about two dozen men and women, servicemen, Congressmen, friends and family (and a girlfriend) assembled for the ceremony. Major Groggy Dundee was dressed in his Sunday best, wearing his dress uniform, neatly pressed and starched by the finest $2 laundromat. He stood at attention onstage.

With a deep, pompous voice of officialdom, Major General James Teague Walsh proclaimed, "Colonel Dundee, you are a gallant soldier and have errantly come of good stock, but be idle, dissolute, and unprincipled. You use the law and chain of command when you see fit, and you discard them when you do not. You are an adverse influence upon your men and your fellow officers. And despite all of your bravery and talents, I'm sure you will come to no good."

With an air of unprincipled but showy haughtiness, the Major replied: "General Walsh may think me failure and send me to the Devil, but know this - I would go to the Devil to defend my regiment and my country." Then he saluted the General, received his new epaulets, and stood at attention as the audience applauded.

And thus Major Dundee, United States Army became Colonel Groggy Dundee, United States Volunteers, and was officially commissioned as commander of the 1st United States Volunteer Infantry Regiment.

* * *

MARCH 31ST, 2009
WASHINGTON, DC
8:00 PM

Groggy burst into the crowded reception room with Edith Barlow in tow. Elated by his promotion, by his recent string of good fortune, he was an ebullient whirlwind, and he was eager not only to elicit praise - always a goal of an egomaniac - but also to get things underway. Too much talk and delay were making him mad with anticipation, and Edith was bearing the brunt of it.

The two enlisted Marines at the door sloped arms as Dundee entered, but he breezed past them, dressed in his new Colonel's uniform, his hair freshly cut. Edith wore a beautiful black Vera Wang dress, her Irish face and brown hair glowing.

Colonel Dundee engaged in a whirlwind of handshaking. He met two Congressmen, Senator Bob Casey, and several military officers, shaking their hands vigorously and greeting all of them. It was all Edith could do to keep up; she'd never seen Groggy so excited, at least not since the first night they slept together.

"Oh, Joe!" Dundee called out across the room, waving frantically as he sighted his old friend Joe Starbuck. Starbuck was now a Captain, and had served a tour in Iraq since returning from Mexico. He was far from the young shavetail he'd been during the Charriba expedition; now he was a seasoned officer whose computing skills were being put to the best of use by the Army.

Captain Starbuck stood at attention, but he was quickly put at ease by his old friend and commander, whose broad smile disarmed his formality. At Joe's side was his fiancee, Lauren.

"Delighted to see you here, Captain Starbuck!" Groggy said rapidly. "It's been awhile."

"It has indeed, Colonel!" Joe said. The two old friends shook hands, as their escorts greeted each other.

After formalities were exchanged, Groggy went straight to business. "Captain, how would you feel to be catapulted up the ranks a bit?"

"Sir?" Joe seemed surprised.

"I need a Lieutenant Colonel for my new regiment," Groggy continued. "Someone I've worked with, someone I can trust, someone with experience."

"And that's me?" Joe replied, his voice a mixture of surprise and flattery.

"Of course it's you!" Groggy said, with the elation and vigor of a heavily caffeinated ten year old. "Who's been my oldest and longest lasting friend? Who saved my ass in Mexico and then at the court martial? Why, you're more fit to lead the regiment than I am!" He added in sotto voice, "Don't let that get around."

Joe looked at his fiancee and smiled. "Pretty sure it's a well-known fact, Colonel," Lauren replied, staring into her fiancee's eyes.

"And your technical skills and abilities make you even more valuable than before," Groggy continued, now on a roll.

"It's Mexico all over again," Joe said with a smile of reminiscence.

"No, this time it's legal," Groggy said. Edith smiled uneasily at this. "We'll have proper arms, proper uniforms, proper everything."

Groggy suddenly looked across the room and spotted a thin-haired man. "SENATOR SPECTER!" he shouted, rushing across the room, stumbling and knocking over a waiter on the way.

"Oh, for God sake's Joe, help me," Edith said, dragging the Colonel and his afianceed after the Colonel. She knew she couldn't keep Groggy in line by herself.

Senator Arlen Specter, accompanied by his wife and a strikingly-dressed red-haired woman, rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Ladies, brace yourselves," he warned wearily. "Groggy!"

The Colonel stepped forward and shook Senator's hand. "Delighted to see you, Senator!" Groggy said. "It's been too long - since the 2004 campaign, hasn't it?"

"Well, you've been busy in that time, haven't you Groggy?" Specter said wryly.

"This is my girlfriend, Edith Barlow, and I believe you know Captain Starbuck," he continued.

"This is Frau Janina Heinrich, wife of the German Ambassador," Senator Specter replied.

After greeting her in his butchered, fragmented German, he returned his attention to the Senator.

"Senator, we must not allow cowardice and complacency to blind us towards the threat," Groggy lectured. As he spoke, his vigorous hand motions knocked a flower off the shoulder of Frau Heinrich's shoulder.

"Colonel, look what you've done!" the Senator said, aghast, as Groggy continued ranting. Captain Starbuck pinned it

"So, are you in the fight, Senator?" Groggy demanded.

"The people of Germany think you should approach the situation with prudence," Frau Heinrich opined.

"You mean the same people who tried to block our invasion of Iraq because their government and military had illicit dealings with Saddam's government?" Groggy demanded.

Specter was shocked. "Groggy! Some respect, please!"

"Why should I respect this lady's viewpoint when she's a hypocrite?" Groggy continued. "You'll beg my pardon, madam."

"Oh, surely," Nina answered coolly.

"Thank God YOU'RE not President, Groggy, or we'd be at war with half the world!" Specter continued.

"The President? He has the backbone of a Twinkie!" Groggy stated. He'd used the phrase before, but the shocked indignation on the Senator's face was worth it. "And that goes for the United Nations as well! They won't do a damned thing to stand in the way of any major power and you know it, Senator."

"Well, that's certainly true," Frau Heinrich sneered at him.

There was a long, awkward pause. Then the Senator answered, "Well, perhaps Russia will see this side of common sense. Come on, ladies!" He then hastily excused himself and his party,

"Goodbye, Senator!" Groggy called after them. Edith grabbed insistently at his arm. "You know, Joe, this sort of crap might be appropriate for some navel-gazing professors and crooked kraut-eating Kraut businessmen, but we shall not let that effect us or our way of thinking."

"Very good, Groggy," Edith said.

"I believe I've convinced the Senator," Groggy continued.

Edith dragged him away. "Excuse us, Joe."

"I believe he will join the fight!" Groggy called. Captain Starbuck just looked up to the ceiling for guidance, then turned to Lauren.

"Does he realize he's mad?" Lauren asked.

"God knows it's never bothered him before," Joe said, exhausted. The two then went over to a buffet table.

The Camp

MARCH 29TH, 2008
10:10 PM
SOMEWHERE IN ARIZONA...

It was well after sundown. Another lifeless, dreary day in the Arizona desert.

The man named Beck rode through the flat underbrush, weary and exhausted. He might have cut a dashing, picturesque figure under different circumstances, but after two weeks of pursuit he was haggard, tired, dirty and exhausted - a decrepit cadger on horseback, a former mercenary king reduced through stupidity, misplaced loyalty and horrible judgment to a haggard fugitive scarecrow.

* * *

He ran away from home and, after lying about his age, joined the military at 17. Quickly picking up on his marksmanship skills and thorough understanding of advanced firearms tactics, Beck was put into an elite anti-terrorism spec ops unit known as Array of Many Different Colors Six. They saved the world on a handful of occasions, but you'll never hear about that.

Eventually AOMDC6 was disbanded, and he decided to transition into the private sector instead of continuing with the military; much more lucrative opportunities awaited. Beck joined up with a mercenary outfit, and together they roamed the war zones of the world. Contract war isn't glamorous, but then neither is war in general.

They participated in any number of conflicts as well as smaller one-time jobs throughout the world; Africa, Southeast Asia, Eastern Europe, the Middle East... you name it, they were there.

By 2004, he decided to take my career one step further. He set up shop and went into business for myself; there's a fine line between a mercenary and a hitman, and he was right on it.

He'd assisted freedom fighters, assassinated terrorist leaders, sabotaged hostile operations... he'd done jobs undercover, and done them without ever having been seen. He'd worked for governments, corporations, and private individuals. He wasn't cheap, but he was the best - or at least one of the best.

It had been over a year since his last proper job. Five North Korean nuclear physicists had been found with bullet holes in their spines, in a case that baffled local police. While the authorities puzzled over the situation, Beck received a handsome check for $10 million from a Japanese media tycoon. The story didn't make the news, but it yet again saved the world. And he was content to rest on his laurels, at least for the time being - his $50 million was more than enough to fall back on, and there was always someone out there who wanted someone else dead, if he ran short of cash.

But now Beck was on the run from the law. He'd been involved in an incredibly stupid deal with his old Army buddies, Dub and Taylor, in trying to rob a Montreal casino. The heist went without a hitch, until Taylor made a mistake, falling through the roof onto the crowded casino floor.

Casino security and local police responded immediately, and a violent gun-battle ensued. Dub was shot to pieces before he could even reach the front door; Taylor, armed only with a 9MM pistol, held his own until he ran out of ammunition, taking at least a half dozen men with him. He was shot in both legs and the shoulder as he staggered outside, while Beck covered their retreat with a spray of machine gun fire. He didn't notice the 9MM bullet that entered his own leg during the fracas. They hijacked an old Plymouth car and fled with the cops hot on their tail.

Taylor didn't last too long; Beck left him behind at a St. Lawrence River crossing, bleeding from his wounds, leaving his machine gun. He read in a paper two days later that Taylor had been killed in a shoot-out with a posse of Mounties. At least he went out on his own terms.

Beck managed to cross the River under an assumed name, dumping all his gear except his SigSauer 9MM pistol, and wandered aimlessly through the Western desert. He had planned to return to his flat in LA, but he knew that the FBI, US Marshals and other cops were swarming all over the place, and he remained a nomad, hiding from bush to bush, evading the law and anyone who might recognize him. Only rarely did he venture into a town or city, and then only for a few hours, lest someone find him suspicious.

At one town, Beck had stopped at an ATM machine to withdraw some cash. He then found, however, that his account had been deleted, his assets frozen. This could mean only one thing: the government knew who he was. And he had gone from fugitive to super-outlaw. Because of his stupid loyalty to his friends, he was now wanted by almost everyone. And all he could do was keep running, driving and riding into the horizon.

* * *

And here Beck was, with a two-week old bullet wound in his ankle, thirteen rounds of ammo, a canteen full of piss and a dead tired horse.

He saw a slight flicker of light in the distance. Drawing his pistol wearily, he began approaching it at a slow-pace. Maybe it was just a friendly. If nothing else.

He saw a grim-looking gathering of individuals, about a half dozen men gathered around a campfire, some in sleeping bags or on blankets. He carefully holstered his sidearm as he approached the camp.

"Evening," he said to one of the men, a grim, gaunt smoking figure in a long trenchcoat. Another man eyed him warily, fingers on a hunting rifle.

This didn't look like the friendliest bunch of fellows he'd ever run into. There was a distinct air of tension emanating from this hard-scrabble gathering of gutter-trash and ne'er-do-wells.

"Am I intruding?" Beck asked quietly.

"You sure are," one of the men, an elderly hippie-looking fellow answered, holding a Desert

"Put the cannon away, Pops!" Beck cried, raising his hands. "I'm a friend."

"Uh-huh," came the reply. "What are you doin' out on a horse this late at night?"

"The desert ain't so crowded," Beck replied. This drew a dry laugh from one of the men, but the Hippie-Man kept his gun out.

"I just need a place to sleep for tonight," Beck continued. "That's it. And maybe some grub. Then I'll be on my way."

The gathering of men looked at each other wearily, unsettled by the newcomer. Beck was too tired to , but he had his hand inching towards his own pistol.

"Well, will you be joining us?" one of the men

Beck was confused. "Joining you with what?"

"We're enlisting in the 1st Volunteer Infantry Regiment," Golf said. "We're going into Prescott tomorrow to sign up."

"We're at war with Russia, ya know?" "About damned time."

Beck hadn't known this. He'd heard about the tensions, vaguely, but he didn't know it had come to war.

"Figures the politicians have it ass-backwards," one of the other men opined. "We don't fight the Russians till AFTER the Cold War's over."

"Don't blame me, I voted for McCain!" laughed one of the old coots.

"That damned Obama! He got elected on a peace platform and now he's pickin' fights with superpowers."

"Lay off, man," the Hippie said. "He ain't any worse than Dubya!"

Beck listened to their inane hillbilly chatter and cornpoke political arguments as he settled down on the hard ground, rolling out his ratty blanket. He lay awake, listening to the men chortling, the sounds of cicadas chirping and coyotes howling, the wind whistling through the flat desert plane. And then he smelled the noxious gas of a particularly large chili fart wafting towards him.

Beck scrunched his nose and looked over at the gaunt, bearded man staring at him. He was smoking a cigarette, and in fact wreaked of tobacco. It whetted Beck's appetite; he, too, was a heavy smoker, but hadn't had a cigarette or cigar or even a butt in over a week.

"Boy, you plannin' to join up?" the bearded man asked finally.

Beck paused. He hadn't thought of it before, but this might well be his way out of the mess. How many times he had escaped responsibility for his actions before? He'd always put off his reckonings by finding a new battle half-way around the world from the last one.

"I'll sleep on it," Beck said groggily.

"What's your name?"

"Delta," Beck said after a moment's pause. "John J. Delta." He closed his eyes, hoping his old alias would suffice.

"Well, Delta, we're headin' into Prescott in the morning," the man continued. "If you're gonna take advantage of our hospitality, you'd better..."

But Beck didn't hear him. He drifted off quickly to sleep, only to be awoken moments later by a noxious smell. The smell of chili passed through the cranky digestive system of a forty year old man.

"Ulysess Bunsher, you could kill a whole division uh Russkies with your gas!"

The men cackled, but Beck wasn't up for their games or chatter. He slowly, his mind a blur, completely exhausted by his travails. Even as he felt asleep, he could feel the bearded man's snake-like eyes staring through the darkness, and smell the nicotine - and Bunsher gas - wafting on the night air.

Holding Manhoods Cheap

The news hit the airwaves immediately. Fox News ran a two-hour special on verified claims of mass murder by the Russians on Palacio. Newspapers, TV channels and other media were soon in turn flooded with images of the massacres, the bullet-riddled bodies of brave natives - and for once, Americans weren't the bad guys. Bloggers everywhere rose up in outrage. The streets filled with demonstrators, demanding vengeance and retribution. And some of these even protested Russia's actions.

"Putin could keep his atrocities hidden in his backyard," one blogger wrote, "but bringing them to our doorstep is asking for it. Time to smoke the Russkies!"

And all the while, Groggy Dundee looked on and smiled, knowing he'd soon have his regiment. All he had to do now was send out a call for volunteers.

And thus was born the 1st United States Volunteer Regiment.

* * *

MARCH 27TH
12:38 PM
UNIVERSITY OF PITTSBURGH
PITTSBURGH, PA

They gathered in a corner of Market Central, determined on a plan of action. These bright young scholars were in between classes, but they had more important things on their minds than Intro to Logic or How to Type 1. Higher things, like patriotism and war and glory.

Charlie spoke up first. He was a tall, handsome young man of about 20, theatrically inclined - he was in fact a drama student, and thus earned the occasional ire of his colleagues for his incessant quoting of Shakespeare and Shaw. A young bearded student, Kyle, and his girlfriend Susie sat next to him. Also at the table were other students - Steven, Elizabeth, Dan and Terry. Most of them were friends, or at least acquaintances of, Groggy Dundee.

"It is wonderful that at least we have a real war," Charlie said eloquently, "not stained with the droppings of imperialism and lies but one with a just cause and a real sentiment."

"Do you think Groggy will allow us to join his regiment?" Kyle asked.

"He's taking all comers, haven't you heard?" came the answer.

"Even girls?" Susie asked.

"Even girls," Charlie affirmed, smiling at her.

"I don't think I'm much keen on the idea of war," Steven said. "I would have joined the Army long ago if I wanted to die for my country."

"But you'll be dying for President Obama, and for freedom!" Charlie said persuasively.

"That prick Putin wants to start World War III," Dan added. "Re-establishing the Soviet Union isn't a prospect I'm particularly fond of. And he's starting it."

"And the humanitarian justification for the war screams from the front page, gentlemen!" Charlie said melodramatically. "Look at these atrocities! It is our duty as young men - er, and women - of the world to put right the wrongs, to lead the world and to shape it. Enough cheap talk, enough food drives and rock concerts! Time for action!"

"Well, I'm in," Elizabeth said curtly, smiling. "I'll have to see about my boyfriend, though."

"I've got a D- this term in Calculus," Terry said. "What the hell?"

Kyle and Susie nodded their assent, but held hands somewhat .

Charlie dramatically stood on the table. "We few, we happy few, we band of brothers!" he recited, holding a glass of Diet Pepsi into the air. Instead of continuing into the hackneyed and overexposed words of Shakespeare, he launched into a decidedly different citation:

"War is an ugly thing, but not the ugliest of things.
The decayed and degraded state of moral and patriotic feeling
which thinks that nothing is worth war is much worse.
The person who has nothing for which he is willing to fight,
nothing which is more important than his own personal safety,
is a miserable creature, and has no chance of being free
unless made or kept so by the exertions of better men than himself."

"Hear hear!" his friends all stood, holding their glasses in the air like knights of old, pledging allegiance to the zeal of patriotic glory.

The tableau was broken as a freshman slipped on a banana peel in the background, falling face-first into a tray of mashed potatoes. But the starry-eyed scholar-patriots paid him no mind and they drunk to their own oblivion.

* * *

Others were less eloquent in their volunteering. When word reached the Kansas home of Richard "Chill" Scotsdale of war, he looked around at his messy home, his fat, drunken wife asleep on the couch, his delinquent children running all over the house, and jumped in his tractor, driving down to a recruiting station and signing up.

Miles Truelove, ordinarily a pacifist, was disgusted by the idea of war. He had, after all, voted for Obama specifically to avert a catastrophe on this scale - well, at least under a Republican's leadership. But when his laptop crashed and his Internet connection was severed, he realized he had nothing better to do, and decided what the hell, why not sign up? At the very least he could be a thorn in the hawk's side. For his troubles, he was commissioned a Corporal.

A man emerged from his Cellar Door in Utah and went over the recruiting station, bringing a large machette with him, eager to join the cause. He was arrested on the spot, and as soon as he was let out, he returned. This time, he was accepted.

Tom Overtsar heard of the war and joined the fray. Assuming because of his name he would be given a superior rank, he was disappointed when commissioned as a buck Private. His friend Gordon Sumner gloated when he was made a Private First Class, and the two got into a violent fistfight that was only broken up by the intervention of a half dozen MPs.

Old Paul, a veteran of Vietnam and multi-lingual dilettante, was at the firing range testing out his gun collection - a collection of pistols dating from antiquity to the present - when he heard of the atrocities and the call for war - well, received word, as he was almost deaf and wearing ear muffs. But the tap on the shoulder and the sight of a friend's newspaper was all he needed to know. He marched down to the nearest station carrying all of his weapons with him. Needless to say, he too was arrested, but then allowed and commissioned a 1st Lieutenant immediately afterwards.

Sven Celeton, a Finnish immigrant, and a prickly old seaman named Whalestoe, decided to join the expedition for lack of anything better to do.

As did hundreds of others from all over the nation. Soon, Colonel Dundee had hundreds of recruits swarming over. And before he knew it, he would have many others - men from every conceivable background, belief, race, gender, even nationality. His regiment was truly a polyglot creation, his janissaries recruited from every possible walk of life, all the far-flung corners of the nation and the globe. He couldn't have been more pleased by the turn-out, and couldn't wait to lead his men into battle.

War fever had swept the country, uniting it in a fashion the country hadn't known since the dark days immediately after 9/11. Republicans, Democrats, Greens, Klansmen and Communists, Americans and non-Americans, all rushed down to the recruiting station to volunteer their services to the Cause. Not all were assigned to the 1st Volunteer Regiment, nor would many of them see combat - but all were united in a common cause, regardless of motive or reason for joining.

We Need Republicans

MARCH 24TH, 2009
8:55 PM
THE PENTAGON
ARLINGTON, VA

Major Dundee and Sergeant Harriman arrived at the Pentagon in full dress uniform. He had only been in the Pentagon one time, early in his career. He couldn't help but feel satisfaction as all the junior officers and grunts snapped to attention as he walked past. But he soon realized he'd be the one standing at attention.

The twosome entered a small, sparase office. A pretty young secretary, Lieutenant Fanning, greeted. "The Secretary will be with you in a moment, sir."

Groggy and Anna sat across from her, absently leafing through back-issues of VFW and Life.

Thoughts hurtled through Groggy's mind as he waited. After all he'd done to argue for this war, to argue that Russia was a threat, wasn't he obligated a commission fighting the Russian Army? Or would his past escapades catch up wtih him? He sat perfectly still, but his leg shook like a leaf. He knew this might well be the most important day of his life. Sergeant Harriman seemed a bit more calm as she leafed through a back-issue of Glamour magazine, giggling at the stupid celebrity.

Finally, the door opened. Groggy and Anna snapped to attention as a tall Colonel, his chest festooned with medals, opened the door. "The Secretary will see you now, gentlemen," he said curtly, before exiting. A Sergeant held the door open.

Groggy stood up. He looked at Anna, expressing worry. Anna just nodded stoically as he stepped forward into the room, then sat down to mock Jessica Simpson as the door closed behind her commanding officer.

* * *

Secretary of Defense Robert Gates sat at his desk. Standing next to him, however, was Rahm Emanuel - the President's Chief of Staff.

Gates was in a difficult position - he was a hold-over from the Bush Administration, bound by duty and love of country to serve in a Democratic administration he didn't much care for. The issue of war with Russia was not a pressing one to him - after all, as head of the CIA he had been much blamed for failing to properly see the collapse of the Soviet Union, and his semi-derogatory comments towards NATO allies in Afghanistan had won him few friends. It would be clear that the US would be "going alone" against Russia, in an old school showdown of the Great Powers, rather than forming any sort of coalition.

Gates did not know what Clinton and Emanuel were up to, but he didn't really care to know. As a Republican in a Democratic administration, he was essentially emasculated, and his appointment symbolic of Obama's proclaimed bipartisanship and commitment to "change". Presumably, the President - or Secretary Clinton - had sent this foul-mouthed stooge to keep him in line. His position in this meeting couldn't have been made more clear.

The Major entered and saluted the Secretary, who immediately looked up from his desk and smiled, acknowledging the salute with a friendly nod.

"Major Groggy Dundee," Gates said. "At ease. It's been the better part of two years since you've led any troops into action," he said. "You gave us quite a headache with France."

"That wasn't my intention, sir," Dundee said quietly.

"Well, whatever your intention was, it worked," Gates replied, a hint of disgust in his voice. "You came out a hero for recklessly invading a sovereign nation without a hint of authority or legality, at least among a certain group of individuals."

Groggy wasn't sure he liked where this was leading, but remained at attention. He stole a glance at Emanuel, a gargoyle on the wall, unmoving, unblinking, unspeaking.

"And yet, one has to admire your improvisional skills, quick thinking, and evident tactical ability," Gates commented tersely, with a hint of reluctance.

Groggy was pleasantly surprised. "Thank you, sir."

The Secretary raised his hand and continued. "We've been reading some of the articles you've been writing on foreign policy of late, Major - and we've kept a very watchful eye on them."

Groggy watched as the Secretary produced a newspaper clipping from a file folder.

"The President has the backbone of a Twinkie," Gates read, disapproval tempering his reading.

"One of my better statements, sir." Groggy couldn't hold back a smile.

"It is my opinion that Russia's latest actions in Georgia are tantamount to a declaration of war," Gates continued reading. "Their position of military bases in the New World and hostile stance towards the expansion of NATO, along with the increasingly thuggish actions of Putin and his regime, indicate that sooner or later, we will have to confront the Russian bear on its own terms."

"I'm glad you're an admirer of my work, Mister Secretary," Groggy said, his sarcasm and impatience leaking through his military facade.

The Secretary looked up gravely. "Very strong stuff," Gates said disapprovingly. "It's this sort of thinking that creates an atmosphere for war."

Groggy wanted to get right to the point, but that would be too insolent, too sardonic, even for him to take. He remained at attention and shut his mouth, waiting for the Secretary to bring him around to it.

"You realize these writings run counter to the administration's policy on Russia?" Gates said.

"Sir, I was not aware of what the administration's position on Russia was," Groggy said, looking at Emanuel, who had yet to speak.

Gates glowered at him. "War is sadly becoming more and more likely," he said wistfully. "And while you may write op. eds, others" - he pulled out a copy of the New York Spin with a screaming headline of atrocities on Palacios - "pass this sort of thing off as news. And after the Hamilton incident, the massacre of American tourists, it seems unlikely war will be averted."

"Why did you wish to see me, sir?" Groggy couldn't stand this any more.

The Secretary breathed in deeply and pulled out a pack of Marlboros. He offered the Major a cigarette, but the Major declined. Groggy watched as the Secretary lit a cigarette and took a long, nervous drag.

"As you know, Major," Gates began, "our military forces are stretched to the breaking point. We have most of our active combat units either deployed in Iraq and Afghanistan, or on rotational relief duty in Germany and Europe. Even so, we may have to confront Russia on its own turf, if Putin decides to get tough in Eastern Europe."

Dundee was now interested.

"This is all a contingency, mind you," Gates continued, "but it may be a necessity if events don't go the way we like. Suffice it to say, with the current state of our military we're not in shape to fight a major war against a major power - unless of course we fall back on our nuclear arsenal."

"The President thinks it's a good idea to create a select group of units," Emanuel cut in. "Volunteer regiments seperate from already existing combat units and National Guard forces. You'll be utilized, in the event of war, for operations within the Western Hemisphere."

"You're being offered commission as Colonel of one of said regiments," Gates cut in. "You'll probably never see combat, provided of course there IS combat, but you'll exist as an alternative - a reserve force, if you will - in case things should come to such an eventuality."

Groggy Dundee's head was spinning wildly. At first, he was flattered - then disappointed. He wouldn't be getting a field command in America's most important war since World War II - if, of course, there was to BE a war. But it was a command - a Colonelcy. A promotion. And if there was a war to be had, there's no way in hell he'd be missing it.

"You're being given relatively free rein to recruit," the Secretary continued. "You proved quite adept at your... improvisational recruitment in your Mexican adventure. See if you can get something like that together again."

Groggy puzzled the meaning of all this. He was not in a position to be making demands, certainly not with the Secretary of Defense sitting across from him, watching his trousers for any sign of nerve-induced urine flow, and certainly not with the measly command he was being given. But still, it WAS a free hand... and being given a free hand meant, of course, that there would be no stopping the juggernaut of Grogginess which would inevitably result. Groggy would be taking on the Russian bear, at the head of a hand-picked regiment!

But his egotistical and excited thoughts had to be sublimated by protocol, at least to an extent.

"You wouldn't be trying to get a critic of the Obama Administration - a well-paid, widely-read critic - out of your hair and into a worthless position, would you?" Groggy asked suspiciously, if somewhat facetiously.

"Well, Major, we need Republicans in this war too," Emanuel said, smiling.

Groggy pondered this for a moment. "Very smart, sir." His brain started to kick into gear, taking stock of the situation.

"I accept your generous offer, gentlemen," Groggy replied. He hesitated a moment before launching into his next tirade, but regretted it for not a moment.

"I want complete control over the regiment," Groggy began, dictating terms with a fierce ambivalence to rank. "I want power to recruit men, whoever the hell I want, I want authority to appoint my subordinate officers. I want my adjutant, Sergeant Harriman, to be promoted Captain and to serve as my chief-of-staff. And I'd like Captain Joseph Starbuck to be made my Lieutenant Colonel. And-" - Groggy was most pointed about this - "I want full armanents and proper uniforms for my men. Should we be needed for combat," he added, his voice reflecting amusement.

Gates listened, smiling broadly. "I'm sure we could arrange all of that - provided you can raise the men," he said quietly. "You'll be promoted as soon as we can twist the arms of a few Congressmen, but Rahm will take care of that." All three men smiled.

"Well, should I wait for war to be declared, or should I begin immediately?" Groggy asked. His two hosts couldn't see it, but he was now trembling with eager.

"Wars aren't declared anymore, Major - haven't you heard?" Emanuel said.

At this comment, Groggy smiled broadly, allowing his eagerness to shine through. A chance at redemption! Of even greater glory and excitement than before! But now, he was acting in service of his country, not just himself.

"Dismissed, Major," the Secretary said, not getting up from his desk.

Groggy snapped into a salute. "Sir," he said stiffly, then marched out of the room triumphantly. The Sergeant closed

"What have we just done?" Gates asked Emanuel.

"We declared war on Russia," the Chief of Staff said. "Excuse me, Mr. Secretary." He exited the room briskly, leaving the beleaguered old Republican at his desk alone.

* * *

In the outer office, Sergeant Harriman was on the verge of sleeping when her commanding officer burst out of the office, a huge grin on his face. She snapped to attention, realizing what this meant.

"We've just been given a promotion," he said, unable to contain his enthusiasm. "Captain Harriman," he added, gazing fondly at his old friend.

"Woot, sir!" the Sergeant replied, returning his grin.

"Mexico all over again," the Major said excitedly no. "No, Mexico times ten. Mexico with a purpose! Are you up for recruitment of another extraordinary legion of cut-throats, brigands, louts, and the scum of the Internet?"

"You know I am, sir," Sergeant Harriman replied.

"Well, let's not waste any time," the Major said, rubbing his hands eagerly. "We've phone calls to make, IM's to send..."

He was cut short when Mr. Emanuel emerged from the room. He smiled uncomfortably, then dropped a piece of paper conspicuously at the Major's feet. The Major picked it up, but before he could address the Chief of Staff, he was vanished. The Secretary's secretary was engrossed in paperwork.

Groggy picked up the piece of paper and read it over. And over. And over. And with each new reading, his excitement grew. He gave it to Sergeant Harriman.

"Send this to Brit Hume," he said to the Sergeant excitedly. Then, practically pulling her out of the room, a huge grin on his face, Major Groggy Dundee exited the office, ready for his next adventure.

Target practice

MARCH 24TH, 2009
5:00 PM

BAM!

The loud rifle crack sounded through the empty forest, birds scattering in the late afternoon air.

In a clearing, Groggy Dundee was engaging in habitual target practice. He had always been an abominable shot, but was trying his best to change that. But in 14 shots with a Mannlicher-Carcano, he had only scored 4 decent hits. It wasn't the rifle, as the conspiracy theorists would have it; it was the shooter. He just plain sucked.

As he worked the bolt with angry frustration, his adjutant, Sergeant Harriman, came up behind him. She winced as Groggy fired his rifle, then squinted at the target.

"Who are we shooting at today, Major?" Harriman said.

She scarcely needed to ask. She could see the face of Vladimir Putin, pock-marked by four bullet holes, pinned up to the target.

"You are a provocative individual, sir," Harriman noted dryly.

"Russia is no position to be speaking of provocation," the Major said, eyes fixed on the chamber of his rifle. He loaded another clip into the magazine and took aim. "Who forced them to invade Georgia?" He fired; the shot missed completely. "Fuck." The bolt click-clicked as he took aim again. "Who's rattling sabers in Moldova?" BAM! "Fuck." Click-click. "Who's trying to set up military bases in Cuba?" BAM!

This time, the Major hit his target, striking Putin on the right cheek. The hit released some of his aggravation, and he more carefully worked the bolt this time. "I'M not provoking anyone," he continued, eyes still on his target. He took slow, deliberate aim at the Prime Minister, the ex-KGB fucker who was returning to Russia to a state of Tsardom.

BAM!

The shot struck Putin right between the eyes.

"Bullseye, sir," Sergeant Harriman commented.

"The Empire of Russia refuses to recognize the self-determination of Eastern Europe?" Groggy continued, now in full lecture mode. "As the leaders of the Free World, are we not obligated to stand up for countries who demand self-determination?"

Sergeant Harriman said nothing; geo-politics was not her area of expertise.

The Major fired again, striking Putin on the chin. He then put down the old Italian carbine and picked up an even more ancient weapon - a Springfield 1903.

In the distance, the target went down and a new one came up in its place. Sergeant Harriman squinted to see who it might be. It was the President, Dimitri Medevev.

As the Major took aim, he made one final comment. "The Monroe Doctrine, we must not forget the Monroe Doctrine either!" Then he fired again, striking the puppet President square in the jaw.

"Now, what is it you wanted to see me for, Anna?" he said, finally turning to his old friend and aide.

"Just received a text message, sir," Harriman reported. "You're to report to Washington immediately for a meeting with Secretary Gates."

"Gates?" Now Harriman had her commander's attention.

"Yes, sir."

Groggy looked perplexed. "Does it say why?" he asked.

Harriman shrugged. "An order from Sec. Def. is an order from Sec. Def.," she said evenly.

Groggy stared off absently, fondling the rifle in his hand. This could mean either one of two things. He was receiving a commission to fight in a war everyone knew was coming... or he was being sacked. Either way, it was a reckoning.

Groggy suddenly snapped to attention and fired the rest of his clip. All four shots shredded Medevev's face.

A satisfied grin crossed Groggy's face. He turned to his subordinate and said dryly, "NOW Russia has something to worry about!" Harriman only smiled. The two walked out of the clearing, as the sun began to lower into the far horizon.

Palacio Libre

MARCH 24TH, 2009
10:30 AM
FT. KURUGEN, DVORYTS (PALACIO), RUSSIAN WEST INDIES

Lieutenant Colonel Pavel Pavlovich Strelnikoff sweated through his uniform in the 100-degree heat. It was only March, but it was yet another muggy, appalling humid day. Russians were not made for warm weather, and any natural advantage his troops may have had was mooted by this fact. Russians in the Caribbean? It seemed like Zulus in Iceland, to the Colonel.

And yet his men toiled on, looking curiously out of place in their khakis and camofalgue, constructing barricades and going about their daily routines of barracks duty and drill.

War with the United States was far in the back of Strelnikoff's mind, even after the Hamilton incident, which had happened on Green Island and was not his responsibility, but that of that upstart shavetail, Captain Petrovich. He had more important things to think about, like the fact that he had been passed over for promotion to full Colonel by his old classmate from the academy, Yevgeny Pushkin.

This drew Strelnikoff's ire, made his blood boil intensely. Didn't they realize how impotent the Lieutenant appellation made him? He had the responsibility worthy of a full Colonel, perhaps even a Major General. He had the 7th Rifle Brigade, plus the 41st Motorized Batallion, under his command. And yet his epaullet ranked him as not even worthy of a Colonelcy, but the lacky of a non-existant commander. And yet here he was, commanding 15,000 men on an important Russian military base, with a worthless word clinging to the front of his title. It galled him to no end.

Strelnikoff had served the Russian Army loyally for over 20 years, having served in the waning days of the Afghan War and the disturbances in Chechnya. He was a cruel man and yet a model soldier, who always did as ordered, but occasionally did it too well, too vigorously for the Marquis of Queensbury. He was a stickler for detail and precision and had no tolerance for contrary opinions. And he was petty - any insult, any slight angered him and would color his perception of a person or situation for the rest of its days. He was a martinet, not respected but feared. His very name - Executioner - made him feared by his troops, and there was a rumor that, in Afghanistan, as a young Lieutenant, he had once summarily executed a Sergeant for refusing to fire on a group of Afghani horsemen, fearing they were civilians.

Strelnikoff watched impassively as his men drilled and chatted, seemingly in want of something to do. Then his aide, Lieutenant Komarov, rushed up to him with an urgent dispatch.

"Colonel, the insurrectionists have attacked our supply depot at Shansky!" the young officer reported.

The Colonel snapped to attention. It was news of action, which quickly jolted him out of his stuporous contemplation.

"How long ago?" the Colonel asked officiously.

"About fifteen minutes ago," the Lieutenant replied. "About two hundred rebels launched an attack. Few specifics, but it looks like the depot was overrun."

The depot was overrun... That meant rifles, machine guns, ammunition, in the hands of those goddamned apes. Strelnikoff boiled over with furious anger. He swore, then drew his pistol and fired a shot into the air, breaking the silence and scattering a flock of birds.

"Organize B Company and come with me!" the Colonel shouted, suddenly galvanized. The Lieutenant saluted and ran off to pass the word.

* * *

The insurrectos finished emptying their carbines into the guts of the last Russian soldiers. After this was done, they moved forward into the destroyed depot, eagerly looking for any surviving guns and ammunition.

Overseeing their efforts was Major Revnow. Although he spoke fluent Spanish and fought with the resolution, ruthlessness and determination, if not quite stupidity, of Che Guevara, he was actually an employee of the CIA, sent to help organize and aide the insurrectos against their Russian occupiers. With him was a small team of spooks, including his unlikely second-in-command, Lieutenant Emma - a female agent of the State Department until she was "commissioned" by her bosses for this mission, just months ago.

Revnow had been on the island since the following the Georgia War of the previous summer. Russia's attempts to re-establish a foothold in the Western Hemisphere had unnerved the Bush Administration; buying military bases in Venezuela and Cuba was one thing, but actually occupying a long-forgotten, virtually-abandoned and unknown series of islands within hopping distance of Florida was too much. The Cold War had re-booted with a vengeance, and Revnow was caught smack in the middle of it.

Revnow was an extreme cynic towards US foreign policy; he had been disgusted by America's invasion of Iraq and found Bush to be an idiot. But now he was being given a covert job, allowed to play a liberator - at least in his own mind - against a cruel oppressor. And cruel the Russians were; he had seen the mass graves, had watched deaths of too many of his newfound comrades, whether in battle or by firing squad, to maintain his pacifism.

But his subordinate, Lieutenant Emma, was a mysterious figure that he barely knew. She had been sent, allegedly at the behest of the State Department, but in fact by Rahm Emanuel himself to assist with covert operations. Revnow didn't pretend to understand the political machinations at work behind his back; he just knew he had a job to do, a people to liberate.

As the insurrectoes counted their weapons, sifted the uniforms of the dead Russian troops, and rested and recovered from their hard fight, they heard sounds of a motor vehicle coming down the road. Revnow signalled for his men to prepare to receive a counterattack; but they were too engrossed in their looting to notice.

An explosion rocked the ground, sending dirt and debris flying. Revnow fell on his stomach, then stood up, pulling his Beretta 93R machine-pistol out of his waistband.

"Companeros!" he shouted. "They are here!" But it was too late, and the men had lost their organization in the aftermath of battle. The partisans, armed with a museum's worth of weapons ranging from Enfields and M1 Garands to AKs and various burp guns, rushed out to greet their foe, but it was too late to arrange a proper reception.

The first armored vehicle appeared over the ridge, an armored personnel carrier. The few insurrectoes that Revnow had managed to organize fanned out across the road, lying on their bellies in ambush. A few were able to take cover in the bushes, or amongst the ruins of the depot, hastily preparing their newly-acquired weaponry.

The first shots were fired by a machine gun within the depot. Within seconds the firing became general. Revnow's men, their rifles and machine guns virtually worthless, were sitting ducks, and the vehicle decimated their ranks with chain gun fire. Only those within the depot, and those hugging the ground with Revnow, escaped unharmed. The men had used most of their explosives in the initial attack; one man tried to aim an RPG but was shot down, while another, attempting to suicide bomb the truck, was turned to red mist by the high-caliber bullets. In less than a minute the Russian vehicle had single-handedly wiped out half of the partisans, and the rest gave up any pretense of further resistsance. Now it was just a question of fleeing, of survival, and only a handful of men remained with Revnow as more trucks rushed forward.

A platoon of Russian infantry carrying submachine guns rushed forward, covered by another machine gun truck. Revnow fired a burst of ammunition into their ranks, wounding two of them. But once in position, the platoon's return fire decimated his front line; a half-dozen Palacios were killed in the first volley, and the rest turned to flee, despite the American's fortitude. "Stand and fight!" he shouted as bullets crashed around him; but it was no use, as the partisans fled into the brush, desperate to escape the massacre. Few did, and most were gunned down in the back by the merciless fire. A few brave souls remained in the depot covering the retreat, or falling back through the brush under cover of rifle and machine gun fire; but the day was already lost, and survival was paramount.

Revnow stood in the road, facing the Russian vehicles alone. He aimed his pistol at the armored truck and fired, but his gun was empty. He then picked up a dead burp gun from a fallen colleague and launched a suicide run, shouting and firing his weapon at the truck. He felt a burst of gunfire enter his side, missing his arm and slamming directly into his chest; and he fell, the continuing rattle of gunfire echoing as he faded to black.

* * *

Revnow's eyes burst open. He struggled to focus, and sat up, but was immediately met with the sharp kick of a boot across his chin. As his eyes focused, he saw two Russian soldiers standing over him, rifles aimed.

Revnow coughed; he tasted blood in his mouth. Through the sunlight appeared the face of a cruel looking man - clearly an officer, he could tell from the cap alone. His white uniform was drenched with sweat and dirt.

Revnow fumbled around his waistband, hoping he could find his spare pistol, a small Walther PPK, to either kill himself or go down fighting. But he could move little under the eyes of the Russian troops, and found himself face to face with the officer.

"You are an American," he said in broken English.

Revnow coughed and sputtered, blooded running down his chin.

"CIA, yes?"

Revnow refused to say anything. The officer signalled for the soldiers.

The officer drew a small pistol from his waistband and aimed it at the wounded man.

"Sir!" a junior officer rushed beside the senior officer, grabbing his arm. The Colonel brushed him away, infuriated.

"He is an American," the officer said. "He's CIA. He could be valuable to us-"

The Colonel cut him off with a sneer. "So? Haven't you read the papers? We're at war with America now." He then cocked his pistol and aimed it at Revnow's head. All the Major could do was close his eyes and wait for Strelnikoff to live up to his name.

Furnishing the War

WEST POINT, NY
MARCH 21ST, 2009

There was grumbling, shuffling and murmuring amongst the assembled Army cadets. They were being pulled out of their Saturday routines to watch a speech by one of America's latest and greatest heroes. The new Caesar, some were calling him. The next Oliver North, said others. A real bonehead, others opined. But they all knew who he was.

"TEN-HUT!" an officer's voice called out. The cadets immediately snapped to as a man entered.

He was medium height, about 5'10", bespectacled, close-cropped blonde hair, not a very imposing figure in spite of his crisp blue uniform and regulation sabre. His chest was not festooned with medals and his epaulettes only read Major, but he was one of the greatest military heroes of the age. To some of these men, anyway, for the way he had not only defeated hostile Apache Indians in the Southwest but upheld the Monroe Doctrine and booted a French Army out.

Now he stood before them, about to give a speech in which. He spoke in a voice which started with a stammer, but grew in confidence and energy - and passion - as it went along. To modern, civilized ears, it might sound like the horrific call of a fascist demagogue, but to the ears of the fighting men, it was a statement they whole-heartedly endorsed:

“The time has come for America to re-establish herself as a true superpower. We have not fought a major power since the Korean War, and in that time we have grown weak, unable and unwilling to stand up to our rivals, overconfident in the securities of our economic hegemony and our nuclear arsenal, sluggishly trusting in the status quo of stability and the familiar, and when we do shed blood, we are trapped in asymmetrical wars against small, unforgiving enemies for causes that not even those who wage the wars can explain or articulate and in which victory is all but impossible. We have been guided during this time by fear – fear that a large war against a powerful nation is a fearful thing, no matter how successful or fast, while a splendid little war against a weak and defenseless nation, no matter how much of a failure, no matter the cost in blood and treasure and prestige, is an acceptable policy alternative. If America is to be a fighting nation again, if America is to be a truly powerful country, allow us to stand up and be counted. Have us confront our enemies, no matter the size of their nation or how formidable their weaponry. For America to remain a superpower, we must fight wars that assert our power, not sap it. Let the question be, not whether we should go to war, but whether it is worth it. Whether the war is worth the effort, the blood, the treasure, the time, the effort, the prestige, the difficulty and most of all, the victory! This should be our guiding principle - that wars, if they must be entered into, must not be entered into lightly, and must be fought only to the point of victory and satisfaction.”

This was met with thunderous applause from the assembled cadets, some of whom cheered. The speaker, unable to contain his happiness, grinned broadly before exiting the stage. For the first time since returning from Mexico, Groggy Dundee felt vindicated.

* * *

For the assembled West Point cadets, Major Groggy Dundee may have been a hero, but to the United States government, he was a headache. He had nearly triggered an all-out war with France over his little expedition, and gotten hundreds of men and women killed as a result of his little escapade. There was not the slightest tint of legality in any of what he'd done, but why spoil the beauty of the thing with legality?

Groggy was court-martialled, eagerly prosecuted with the testimony of Captain Waller, his former subordinate at Ft. Benlin. He was nearly cashiered from the Army, and was convicted for violating the Neutrality Act. Fortunately, before he could serve any jail time, President George W. Bush, as one of his last acts in office, pardoned the Major, and he was Honorably Discharged from the US Army the following day. As a boy who had spent his childhood blowing up frogs with firecrackers, Dubya could appreciate Groggy's eagerness to waste a bunch of Frenchmen.

For the year and a half since, his life had been a morass of darkness. He stayed in only sporadic contact with his old comrades-in-arms, barring Lieutenant Joe Starbuck - who rose through the ranks to become a Captain - and his brother Alex, who opted not to remain in the military. Marie Wynter went back to school, Michelle was eaten by a giant clam while scuba-diving off New Jersey, and the rest of his command largely disseminated into the world at large.

Despite his reputation, Groggy found himself in little demand. He gave an occasional lecture and wrote the occasional column, but otherwise had little use. Fame only got him so far, and it was so interchangable with infamy as to be worthless. He was shunned by the military officer corps and by the Obama Administration, to whom he was a non-entity. His one solace was Edith, a pretty girl with a good mind he had met shortly after his pardon; he hoped that they would marry and have really smart children.

Groggy lived in a small apartment in Pittsburgh with his girlfriend, doing little whilst waiting orders that he felt would never come. He wrote, he read, he surfed the 'Net, he watched films, and ate truckloads of sunflower seeds, but did little of import until rumors of war with Russia surfaced. It was the ongoing struggle over the Russian West Indies, the faint cry of an re-emerging empire, and a violation of the Monroe Doctrine, that excited him. Here was his chance to prove himself, to prove he wasn't a wastrel and a drunkard and a criminal. And so he picked up a pen - or rather, switched on the laptop - and began his career in earnest.

* * *

WASHINGTON, DC
MARCH 22ND, 2009

Secretary of State Hillary Clinton slipped a glass of Chardonnay as she read the headline of that day's New York Spin. Sitting next to her was Rahm Emanuel, sloppily eating a piece of rotisserie chicken. Several aides looked on in alert silence, taking everything in and forbidden by protocol to speak.

The Spin certainly brought the sensational to a new level with its level of yellow journalism. It was so yellow, in fact, it was amber.

AMERICANS KILLED IN MAJOR ATTACK!
23 American soldiers die in attack by Russian soldiers
Illegal missiles believed used to slay US citizens

And, below it:

PUBLIC CLAMOR FOR WAR
DO SOMETHING, OBAMA! - Rush Limbaugh

"Hugh," the Secretary said, not bothering to hide the amused tone in her voice, "I'd say you were wholly unscrupulous and without principle."

The tycoon registered an expression of mock surprise. "What, did Kid go too far?"

The tycoon's right-hand man, reporter James "Kid" Kidderman, smiled conspiratorially as he leaned forward, a piece of chicken caught in his teeth. "You don't really think Russia wants to fight a war with us, now do you?"

The Secretary smiled. She knew very well what she was doing, and why she was there. 2008 had been her year, and all those assembled here knew it. But then along came that Obama punk, with his change and hope and all that bullshit, and swept away her long-incubated ego-dreams. Hilary had been entitled to the Presidency, and now she was serving under this upstart prick from Illinois? The nerve!

Now she was Secretary of State. And as such, she was in a position to dictate US foreign policy. With Russia flexing her muscles in Eastern Europe, and expanding, it was easy enough to depict them as a growing threat - indeed, as John McCain had during the previous administration. President Obama stressed the need for diplomacy, the need to end the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. But with enough atrocities and killings and expansion so close to America herself, even Barack would sit up and pay attention - if the threat were credible enough. And if she were the one to lead the call to war, against stopping the Russian bear - well, who knows what might happen in four years?

And although Hugh Lewelyn wouldn't ordinarily have spit in Hillary's general direction - HILDEBEAST WINS PA PRIMARY was his headline that past April - they now shared a common enemy. Who better to make a marginal threat credible than America's most powerful media tycoon?

"Sanctions are in the offing, gentlemen," the Secretary ntoed.

"Sanctions are hardly a war," Kidderman said nastily.

"What about a Security Council resolution?" Clinton asked.

Hugh and Kid just snickered.

"Furnish the pictures, Kid, and I'll furnish the war," Lewelyn said insistently. "If it's a war we want, it's a war they'll get."

Clinton smiled. The Machiavellian nature of this whole scheme appealed to her a great deal. It was the sort of thing, after all, that her whole life and career had been built around.

"Well said, Hugh," she replied, raising her glass in a toast.

"To hell with Russia, here we come to crush ya!" Lewelyn said, taking a drink. He didn't notice as those around him winced at the idiocy of his statement. But the sentiment was shared by all. Emanuel let out a long belch as they all raised their glasses for a toast - a toast that set in motion the Russo-American War of 2009.

WAR!

It was a clear March night, slightly chilly. A Cadillac pulled up besides a large, two-story mansion in Manhattan. The sounds of various musics and films wafted down the block on the spring air. All was peaceful, calm, relaxing. Little did they know the momentous event that was on the verge of erupting.

Hugh Lewellyn was dead tired. As the editor of the New York Spin, he was one of the richest and most influential men in America. He owned newspapers, magazines, TV channels, movie companies, porn distribution venues, pizza houses, Dollar Generals, Bi-Los. He owned lawyers, lobbyists, Congressmen, cabinet members, generals, diplomats. He even owned Rupert Murdoch. And he had a spent a day sitting in his office, watching his wealth and power spin around him in amidst of a world of declining turmoil and crisis. He was on top of the world, but he was tired. Sitting in that big chair all day wore someone out, as did the swanky parties with his wife and socialite friends. What a hard, miserable life.

As Lewellyn and his wife Evelyn exited their car, an aide rushed up to him urgently, brandishing a Blackberry. After his tiresome day, Lewellyn's first instinct was to kick him in the balls and rush inside to sleep. He needed sleep badly, and some new development about a failed stimulus package or a terrorist attack on DC needn't detain him from much-needed rest.

"Urgent message," the aide, an acneed intern named Steve wheezed.

"At this hour?" Lewellyn grumbled impatiently.

"Are you Mr. Lewellyn?" Steve asked.

"Of course I'm Lewellyn!" the tycoon snapped. He snatched the blackberry from the dork and stared at it, absorbing the message.

And as he read it, as it sunk in -

No, it couldn't be.

But there it was - right in front of him. What he'd been waiting for all these months.

Lewellyn's face lit up with a glorious grin of excitement, of passion, of anticipation and pure childish glee. He looked at his entourage, who stood waiting breathlessly to hear the message. A gruff, happy cry escaped his disbelieving lips:

"WAR!"

The entourage rushed excitedly into the house, gabbering excitedly about the news. There was work to be done. Lewellyn tossed the Blackberry into the air; Steve tried to catch it, but it landed on the pavement and shattered, exposing its electronic innards. One of Lewellyn's aides shook his head disapprovingly, and as Steve bent down to pick up the shattered device, the front door closed in his face.

Friday, March 20th, 2009, 9:01 PM, Eastern Standard Time. War had been declared.

But by whom, and on what?