APRIL 30TH, 2009
11:00 AM
Three days had past, and while Groggy's regiment rested and recovered, the campaign was slowly trudging along. General Ramsey's division of Army regulars, supported by swarming Palacian insurrectos, overran the Russian outpost at El Morro on the 28th. General Slurry, who had finally arrived on the island on the 28th (after stopping at Miami for a two-day Stanley Kubrick marathon), extolled this as the correct way to fight a war, unlike the accidental victory at El Grapadura. Nevermind that Ramsey had suffered as many casualties as Groggy's regiment in his action, and had taken longer to reduce the target.
General R.D. Jenkins lie in the Army hospital, still suffering from his injury. His arm had been shattered, mangled by four metal-jacketed slugs, fired by idiot Floridians, and he was steaming mad. He had to relinquish his field command to General Ale, who gave the brigade to Colonel Alstott of the 7th Florida. His elaborate anti-Groggy plan was naught, as they were talking about sending him back to the States to recuperate. And unless he could convince the DOD to fire a missile at Groggy's tent, it wasn't likely he'd garner his desired vengeance.
Stoically smoking a cigar, Jenkins dismissed his nurse as Captain O'Brien entered the tent. The Captain daren't mention it to his commanding officer, but he was growing increasingly leery of the revenge plans. He had come to respect Colonel Dundee - clearly not a model officer, but a brave if somewhat foolhardy and egotistical man. And after all, his cousin hadn't been directly killed by Groggy, no matter what the General might say. Jenkins could stake such a claim to vengeance, but the Captain didn't particularly care about a cousin he barely knew, who died largely of his own choice and accord.
"They say I'm lucky if I'll be able to use this arm again," Jenkins said, wincing.
"The Devil's work is still to be done, boy," Jenkins continued. "Sadly, I need you to do it. I won't get the satisfaction of killing that son-of-a-bitch myself."
"You came awfully close yesterday," O'Brien said.
"Well, suicide by Russkie isn't that reliable a method," Jenkins uttered, before bursting into a long and violent coughing heat. "Damn this heat, I think I got some sort of fever since I've been laying here. Them bastards ran like squirrels yesterday."
"Well, I can't say I'm too upset by that," O'Brien replied.
"Now you listen here, Captain," Jenkins said pointedly. "This ain't no time to be backing out. You're in this up to your neck, and you ain't getting out now."
"Yes, sir," O'Brien saluted, unable to defy his commander, at least to his face.
"Now I'm giving you command of a company under Colonel Dundee," Jenkins said. "That's right, find one of his companies whose Captain got shot up and take command. Tell them you have my authorization."
"How should I do it?"
"What do I care?" Jenkins answered. "Just get it done. Anyway you please. But you might have something-"
Jenkins reached into a knapsack and pulled out a large, rusty cutting knife.
"This was cousin Dave's. See if you can put it to use."
O'Brien balanced the weapon in his hands, contemplating it.
"You have your orders, Captain." The two men saluted. "Dismissed."
Jenkins watched his subordinate exit the tent slowly. He then laid back, taking a long drag on the cigar.
That boy has a conscience, Jenkins mused, a smile creeping over his face. I hope I'm just being paranoid, but a conscience is the last thing we need in this situation.
Thursday, April 30, 2009
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Aftermath
APRIL 27TH, 2009
EL GRAPADURA, PALACIOS
12:00 PM
Jim Tate was the first journalist to break the story. Watching Groggy's men make their final charge against the Russians and Cubans, he Tweeted: "America wins its first great land victory of the war! Biggest rout since Desert Storm!" Soon word was spreading all throughout America, then the world.
Groggy was in a state of feverish excitement. His men had won their first engagement as a regiment, and it was clear that what had started out as insubordination of an insubordination had turned into a grand, perhaps even decisive victory. The irony.
The bulk of his regiment was stationed around the blockhouse, where they had staged their triumphant final charge. The 2nd Battalion of the 7th Florida, heretofore unengaged, and Groggy's K Company, which had served as a regimental reserve, were guarding the mouth of the pass. They had been reinforced with a plethora of machine guns, mortars and field artillery in order to guard against any possible counterattack. American warplanes and helicopters roared overhead, without any Russian planes or missiles to challenge them.
Groggy's men - indeed, all of Jenkins' division - were to be kept in reserve for the time being. The regular division was being expected to push towards the Russian position at El Morro the next day, which was fine with Groggy; he knew the men of his command needed some time to recover from their 85 minutes of hell.
Bodies of his men, shredded by bullets and shrapnel, were being carted en masse towards the rear. There they fell into the hands of Lieutenant Jana, a handsome, statuesque nurse with dark auburn hair and a never-ending smile.
Groggy's men had suffered in the action. They recoiled from their first true taste of bloodshed, exhausted and dazed, like an animal emerging from a fight. The regiment had lost 27 killed and 79 wounded in its first major action. Total American casualties were 36 killed and 110 wounded.
Not all the men had enjoyed what they had done. Angel, the pacifist, threw up violently upon reaching the camp - she could hardly stand the bloodshed she had taken part in. Susie was distraught by the death of her boyfriend and her friend Charlie, whose deathmask was one of cherubic innocence. Elizabeth hurried to the hospital to comfort Matt, suffering from a painful shoulder wound.
There was little jubilation amongst the fighting men, but Groggy at least was ecstatic. It was the first time since his destruction of Sierra Charriba that he'd won a clear-cut victory. And he had no doubts that he would soon become a hero, his decisive success would eradicate the lack of authorization his plans had received. And yet, as he looked around the camp at his wounded and exhausted men, he felt a tinge of empathy. But mostly, he felt within him the stirrings of primitive fascism and militarism, a thrill and glory in combat and killing his fellow man. Perhaps it was because he wasn't suffering from any injury beyond a minor scratch to his head, from a bullet that had grazed him. But he could glory in his success; for the moment, most of his officers and men just seemed happy to be alive.
12:30 PM
At the hospital, Jana and her nurses were tending to the wounded as quickly as they could. Fortunately, most of the wounded were not that seriously hurt - but there were a few exceptions, like Private Steve, who had been struck in the chest and was already developing a painful condition of sepsis.
Jana tended to the injury of Captain Harriman, bleeding from two AK bullets which had crushed her left hand. She started wrapping a bandage around the dressed wound.
"It isn't a serious injury, Cap'," Jana said, a hint of Yorkie accent in her melodic voice. "Just a few bones out of place, shouldn't be too difficult to work around."
"That's good to hear," Harriman replied. "Groggy would kill me if I were laid up without both legs missing."
"How long have you known the Colonel?" Jana asked.
"Quite awhile," Harriman said.
"Did you hear they're talking about him for brigade commander?" Jana asked off-handedly.
"Oh?" Anna was surprised.
"Yeah, since General Jenkins got injured." Jana finished her wrapping and turned away, washing her hands.
Anna couldn't help as a smile spread across her face.
"Yeah, they said he was shot by some of his own troops," Jana continued.
"Well, that's good hearing," Anna muttered.
"Eh?" Jana expressed surprise, but didn't turn back towards the Captain.
"I don't trust anyone named Jenkins," Anna replied.
"Seems like a nice enough chap, your Colonel," Jana said, turning back to the Captain. She then smiled, and said, "Well, I've best attend some of the other lads," before departing.
* * *
"War is thus divine in itself, since it is a law of the world," quoted Miles Truelove, watching the flag-draped coffins of dead colleagues being carried towards a group of waiting helicopters. "War is divine in the mysterious glory that surrounds it and in the no less inexplicable attraction that draws us to it."
Ulysess Bunsher, watching with him, spit. "Hell, whoever said that ain't never seen a war."
"I think it's quite a profound statement, myself," Truelove mused. Then he added bitterly: "All too true." Truelove had been a die-hard pacifist, but he had found himself as excited and thrilled in the battle as anyone else, like an animal scenting blood. He'd never thought such feelings could overcome him - but he was only human.
Jim Tate, that damned reporter, was rushing through the camp interviewing the soldiers and their officers. He epitomized the idea of war as a game, a grand adventure, but then he only had to push a few buttons on his iPhone and haphazardly wave a pistol around. He didn't realize how stupid he looked in his actions. His colleague, Eric Glenn, remained the same stoic individual as before, typing away calmly and quietly, swigging rum, attended by a pair of balloon-breasted Palacian senioritas whom he mostly ignored.
Eventually, someone started playing their iPod shuffle, and strated cranking out banal and obnoxious Top 40 pop and hip-hop tunes. Many people rolled their eyes and complained about it, but it allowed them to relax, and soon the beleaguered men and women were dancing and singing off-key, trying to release their tension and anxiety. It had been a long day, and yet they knew the campaign was just beginning.
EL GRAPADURA, PALACIOS
12:00 PM
Jim Tate was the first journalist to break the story. Watching Groggy's men make their final charge against the Russians and Cubans, he Tweeted: "America wins its first great land victory of the war! Biggest rout since Desert Storm!" Soon word was spreading all throughout America, then the world.
Groggy was in a state of feverish excitement. His men had won their first engagement as a regiment, and it was clear that what had started out as insubordination of an insubordination had turned into a grand, perhaps even decisive victory. The irony.
The bulk of his regiment was stationed around the blockhouse, where they had staged their triumphant final charge. The 2nd Battalion of the 7th Florida, heretofore unengaged, and Groggy's K Company, which had served as a regimental reserve, were guarding the mouth of the pass. They had been reinforced with a plethora of machine guns, mortars and field artillery in order to guard against any possible counterattack. American warplanes and helicopters roared overhead, without any Russian planes or missiles to challenge them.
Groggy's men - indeed, all of Jenkins' division - were to be kept in reserve for the time being. The regular division was being expected to push towards the Russian position at El Morro the next day, which was fine with Groggy; he knew the men of his command needed some time to recover from their 85 minutes of hell.
Bodies of his men, shredded by bullets and shrapnel, were being carted en masse towards the rear. There they fell into the hands of Lieutenant Jana, a handsome, statuesque nurse with dark auburn hair and a never-ending smile.
Groggy's men had suffered in the action. They recoiled from their first true taste of bloodshed, exhausted and dazed, like an animal emerging from a fight. The regiment had lost 27 killed and 79 wounded in its first major action. Total American casualties were 36 killed and 110 wounded.
Not all the men had enjoyed what they had done. Angel, the pacifist, threw up violently upon reaching the camp - she could hardly stand the bloodshed she had taken part in. Susie was distraught by the death of her boyfriend and her friend Charlie, whose deathmask was one of cherubic innocence. Elizabeth hurried to the hospital to comfort Matt, suffering from a painful shoulder wound.
There was little jubilation amongst the fighting men, but Groggy at least was ecstatic. It was the first time since his destruction of Sierra Charriba that he'd won a clear-cut victory. And he had no doubts that he would soon become a hero, his decisive success would eradicate the lack of authorization his plans had received. And yet, as he looked around the camp at his wounded and exhausted men, he felt a tinge of empathy. But mostly, he felt within him the stirrings of primitive fascism and militarism, a thrill and glory in combat and killing his fellow man. Perhaps it was because he wasn't suffering from any injury beyond a minor scratch to his head, from a bullet that had grazed him. But he could glory in his success; for the moment, most of his officers and men just seemed happy to be alive.
12:30 PM
At the hospital, Jana and her nurses were tending to the wounded as quickly as they could. Fortunately, most of the wounded were not that seriously hurt - but there were a few exceptions, like Private Steve, who had been struck in the chest and was already developing a painful condition of sepsis.
Jana tended to the injury of Captain Harriman, bleeding from two AK bullets which had crushed her left hand. She started wrapping a bandage around the dressed wound.
"It isn't a serious injury, Cap'," Jana said, a hint of Yorkie accent in her melodic voice. "Just a few bones out of place, shouldn't be too difficult to work around."
"That's good to hear," Harriman replied. "Groggy would kill me if I were laid up without both legs missing."
"How long have you known the Colonel?" Jana asked.
"Quite awhile," Harriman said.
"Did you hear they're talking about him for brigade commander?" Jana asked off-handedly.
"Oh?" Anna was surprised.
"Yeah, since General Jenkins got injured." Jana finished her wrapping and turned away, washing her hands.
Anna couldn't help as a smile spread across her face.
"Yeah, they said he was shot by some of his own troops," Jana continued.
"Well, that's good hearing," Anna muttered.
"Eh?" Jana expressed surprise, but didn't turn back towards the Captain.
"I don't trust anyone named Jenkins," Anna replied.
"Seems like a nice enough chap, your Colonel," Jana said, turning back to the Captain. She then smiled, and said, "Well, I've best attend some of the other lads," before departing.
* * *
"War is thus divine in itself, since it is a law of the world," quoted Miles Truelove, watching the flag-draped coffins of dead colleagues being carried towards a group of waiting helicopters. "War is divine in the mysterious glory that surrounds it and in the no less inexplicable attraction that draws us to it."
Ulysess Bunsher, watching with him, spit. "Hell, whoever said that ain't never seen a war."
"I think it's quite a profound statement, myself," Truelove mused. Then he added bitterly: "All too true." Truelove had been a die-hard pacifist, but he had found himself as excited and thrilled in the battle as anyone else, like an animal scenting blood. He'd never thought such feelings could overcome him - but he was only human.
Jim Tate, that damned reporter, was rushing through the camp interviewing the soldiers and their officers. He epitomized the idea of war as a game, a grand adventure, but then he only had to push a few buttons on his iPhone and haphazardly wave a pistol around. He didn't realize how stupid he looked in his actions. His colleague, Eric Glenn, remained the same stoic individual as before, typing away calmly and quietly, swigging rum, attended by a pair of balloon-breasted Palacian senioritas whom he mostly ignored.
Eventually, someone started playing their iPod shuffle, and strated cranking out banal and obnoxious Top 40 pop and hip-hop tunes. Many people rolled their eyes and complained about it, but it allowed them to relax, and soon the beleaguered men and women were dancing and singing off-key, trying to release their tension and anxiety. It had been a long day, and yet they knew the campaign was just beginning.
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
El Grapadura III - Charge
9:35 AM
The actions of Beck, Adnan, Atlas, Emma and the rest of the regiment's right wing were the decisive stroke in the battle. The Russo-Cuban right was not driven back, it was destroyed. American air power, something which the Russians were completely lacking in, was finally committed, as a swarm of attack helicopters rained hellfire down on the retreating Russians and Cubans, decimating their ranks and preventing any attempts to regroup or make a stand. The arrival of the 71st New York on the field ended any hopes of resistance; while Atlas's battalion swept up enemy prisoners and wounded, Ackatsis and his New Yorkers advanced and mopped up any remaining pockets of Russian and Cuban resistance.
Groggy's forces in the center encountered surprisingly little difficulty in their advance. They did not meet without any problems, as Tom Overtsar found when his head was torn off by a sniper bullet, but it was mostly from sharpshooters and small detachments. Groggy couldn't tell whether this was negligence or a battle plan that had gone awry, but the success of Major Atlas's forces made this question moot. Thus far in the battle, the only prolonged resistance he had received was from a small contingent of native conscripts - and even this skirmish lasted only about five minutes, with only one American casualty.
But on the left flank, it was an entirely different story. Although Lieutenant Colonel Starbuck and the hasty arrival of B Company had repulsed the attempted Cuban ambush, they had found their advance rough going. Here, the Cubans had the better part of a whole brigade stationed in the area, which was made up of rough, thick forest and marshy swamps. Starbuck and his men had to fight for every inch, suffering many casualties along the way.
By 9:35, although Atlas and Groggy had all but destroyed the forces opposing their respective wings, Starbuck's troops were bogged down in a firefight with a crack battalion of Cuban infantry, aided by a large contingent of Russian machine gunners and mortarmen. They were too close for artillery to be called in, and thus Starbuck's men had to rely on their own firepower. Not only that, but they were also nearly a quarter mile behind Groggy's main force.
B Company had been decimated in the first few waves of assaults, and was now ordered merely to hold their position. Starbuck ordered C Company, commanded by his brother Alex, to make an infantry assault, but this led only to further casualties; Alex was wounded in the foot, the commander of his first platoon also fell, and Private Steve was seriously injured shot through the lung. Three others were killed and ten more wounded, and only the heroism of a small unit led by Corporal Miles Truelove allowed the rest of the company to withdraw safely.
Starbuck was managing the battle well - he was far removed from the shavetail Lieutenant from Mexico - but with his limited resources, and the surprisingly determined Russo-Cuban resistance, his men were paying a price in blood without much reward. He simply didn't have enough men to overwhelm the Russians in a direct assault, and he was too close for artillery or air power to be brought to bear. He radioed Groggy for assistance, but Groggy only belatedly dispatched Captain Grenouille's B Company to assist. However, this was for naught, as Grenouille's men got lost down a road and ended up trapped in a swamp, and spent the rest of the battle fighting mosquitoes and gators.
However, Fate intervened, as the 7th Florida Regiment, ordered to the front by General Ale, suddenly appeared to the left of the Cuban forces, precipitating their withdrawal. Starbuck didn't see this happening, and merely watched in stunned disbelief as the Cubans, who had resisted him for the better part of half an hour, suddenly melted away into the forest.
He advanced cautiously, attempting to siddle his forces to the right to meet up with Groggy's wing. They finally emerged from the woods, facing across a large open field. He could make out lines of Russian and Cuban troops hastily deployed around a blockhouse, along with the sun's glint on the barrel of several machine guns.
Suddenly, there was a rustling in the wood's beside him. Starbuck panicked for a moment, then saw that they were wearing American uniforms. It was F Company of the 7th Florida.
"Captain McKillop!" Starbuck shouted, recognizing an old colleague from West Point. McKillop saluted.
"My God, it's good to see you!" Joe said, smiling.
"And you, sir," the Captain answered.
"We're trying to link up with Colonel Dundee and the main wing," Joe said. "My men have seen some rough fighting on the way here."
"Don't worry, Colonel," McKillop said. "I have your right of line."
After a few moments, Starbuck was able to make out more American forces emerging from the bushes to his right. "Colonel Dundee! Groggy!" he shouted.
One of the figures answered him. "Joe, we're a long way from Fort Benlin!" he shouted. Joe smiled again.
"I want all three wings to charge in unison," Groggy shouted, struggling to be heard. "Me and Joe will charge them straight on. Captain, get word to your Colonel that I want you to pivot from the left. We'll envelop the bastards and crush their flank. We're taking them in a rush, no more of this methodical firefight bullshit. We take this spot, we win the battle!"
"Very good, sir!" McKillop shouted.
"Prepare to advance!" Colonel Dundee called. The three wings readied themselves as their officers shouted out orders.
"CHARGE!" Groggy shouted after what seemed like an eternity.
The attack went off like clockwork. All three wings swept forward over the field. The Russian and Cuban troops opened fire immediately, and many men were lost; but the Americans were too flushed with adrenaline and the scent of victory to be denied now. They quickly covered the distance to the enemy lines, and reached the Russian blockhouse, the fighting becoming close-range and often hand-to-hand.
Groggy shot two Russian machine guns. A third soldier stepped forward and fired at point blank range. Groggy winced, thinking he'd been hit, but Corporal Dan emptied his M-16 into the soldier before him, allowing Groggy to realize that he'd merely been grazed. Dan then smashed the head of a Russian officer with his rifle butt, while another soldier was felled by Captain Harriman, firing with her pistol.
Sven Celeton bashed soldier after soldier, Russian and Cuban, with his rifle, until the stock shattered in his hands. Then he commenced to using his fists to pound his enemies; not until the battle was over did he realized that a bullet had entered his left thigh. His colleague Whalestoe fought with a pistol and his clamming knife, dispatching a brace of Cubans in one fell swoop. Major Martinez shot down Russian and Cubans as fast as he could shoot, continuing even after he was shot in his left arm. C.D. used his machette to deadly affect, gutting and impaling his enemies with deadly efficiency. Even the pacifist Angel knocked down several Cubans with her gun butt, swinging it awkwardly but managing to connect with most swings.
Kyle, rushing towards the blockhouse, was shot down by a pair of Russian officers. Susie screamed and avenged her boyfriend, spraying his two assailants with half a clip of M-16 rounds. Teacher Tom charged into the blockhouse, shouting and blazing away with a pair of handguns. He came out a moment, dripping blood from a pair of shoulder wounds, but stoically smiling.
Jim Tate Tweeted as the Army advanced. At 9:46, he entered "Finally, an interesting story to cover!" At 9:50, as the blockhouse battle neared its climax, he entered, "Mom, I'm fighting in a war! This is SO COOL!"
After ten more minutes of fighting, the Americans succeeded in clearing out the blockhouse. A few Cubans attempted to make a stand, but the Americans concentrated machine gun and rifle fire on them, quickly putting them to rout. A hastily-called artillery strike annihilated the remaining resistors, and the rest of the enemy forces melted into the woods in complete panic. They wouldn't get very far, as further artillery explosions and roaring jets attested.
Groggy emerged from the blockhouse, panting with exhaustion, gripping his smoking revolver, blood trickling from a small head wound. He approached Captain Harriman, who was nursing a wound to her left hand. "THAT'S how you win a battle!" Groggy said excitedly, watching his enemy take flight into the woods.
This was the decisive stroke of the battle, and now American firepower did the rest. The infantry swept back the front line troops, the main body of Cuban and Russian troops were decimated by artillery, American bombers destroyed Colonel Marquez's redoubt at the mouth of the pass, and helicopters strafed and bombed the refugees as they fell back. By 10:00 AM, El Grapadura Pass was in American hands.
The first land battle of the Russo-American War was over.
The actions of Beck, Adnan, Atlas, Emma and the rest of the regiment's right wing were the decisive stroke in the battle. The Russo-Cuban right was not driven back, it was destroyed. American air power, something which the Russians were completely lacking in, was finally committed, as a swarm of attack helicopters rained hellfire down on the retreating Russians and Cubans, decimating their ranks and preventing any attempts to regroup or make a stand. The arrival of the 71st New York on the field ended any hopes of resistance; while Atlas's battalion swept up enemy prisoners and wounded, Ackatsis and his New Yorkers advanced and mopped up any remaining pockets of Russian and Cuban resistance.
Groggy's forces in the center encountered surprisingly little difficulty in their advance. They did not meet without any problems, as Tom Overtsar found when his head was torn off by a sniper bullet, but it was mostly from sharpshooters and small detachments. Groggy couldn't tell whether this was negligence or a battle plan that had gone awry, but the success of Major Atlas's forces made this question moot. Thus far in the battle, the only prolonged resistance he had received was from a small contingent of native conscripts - and even this skirmish lasted only about five minutes, with only one American casualty.
But on the left flank, it was an entirely different story. Although Lieutenant Colonel Starbuck and the hasty arrival of B Company had repulsed the attempted Cuban ambush, they had found their advance rough going. Here, the Cubans had the better part of a whole brigade stationed in the area, which was made up of rough, thick forest and marshy swamps. Starbuck and his men had to fight for every inch, suffering many casualties along the way.
By 9:35, although Atlas and Groggy had all but destroyed the forces opposing their respective wings, Starbuck's troops were bogged down in a firefight with a crack battalion of Cuban infantry, aided by a large contingent of Russian machine gunners and mortarmen. They were too close for artillery to be called in, and thus Starbuck's men had to rely on their own firepower. Not only that, but they were also nearly a quarter mile behind Groggy's main force.
B Company had been decimated in the first few waves of assaults, and was now ordered merely to hold their position. Starbuck ordered C Company, commanded by his brother Alex, to make an infantry assault, but this led only to further casualties; Alex was wounded in the foot, the commander of his first platoon also fell, and Private Steve was seriously injured shot through the lung. Three others were killed and ten more wounded, and only the heroism of a small unit led by Corporal Miles Truelove allowed the rest of the company to withdraw safely.
Starbuck was managing the battle well - he was far removed from the shavetail Lieutenant from Mexico - but with his limited resources, and the surprisingly determined Russo-Cuban resistance, his men were paying a price in blood without much reward. He simply didn't have enough men to overwhelm the Russians in a direct assault, and he was too close for artillery or air power to be brought to bear. He radioed Groggy for assistance, but Groggy only belatedly dispatched Captain Grenouille's B Company to assist. However, this was for naught, as Grenouille's men got lost down a road and ended up trapped in a swamp, and spent the rest of the battle fighting mosquitoes and gators.
However, Fate intervened, as the 7th Florida Regiment, ordered to the front by General Ale, suddenly appeared to the left of the Cuban forces, precipitating their withdrawal. Starbuck didn't see this happening, and merely watched in stunned disbelief as the Cubans, who had resisted him for the better part of half an hour, suddenly melted away into the forest.
He advanced cautiously, attempting to siddle his forces to the right to meet up with Groggy's wing. They finally emerged from the woods, facing across a large open field. He could make out lines of Russian and Cuban troops hastily deployed around a blockhouse, along with the sun's glint on the barrel of several machine guns.
Suddenly, there was a rustling in the wood's beside him. Starbuck panicked for a moment, then saw that they were wearing American uniforms. It was F Company of the 7th Florida.
"Captain McKillop!" Starbuck shouted, recognizing an old colleague from West Point. McKillop saluted.
"My God, it's good to see you!" Joe said, smiling.
"And you, sir," the Captain answered.
"We're trying to link up with Colonel Dundee and the main wing," Joe said. "My men have seen some rough fighting on the way here."
"Don't worry, Colonel," McKillop said. "I have your right of line."
After a few moments, Starbuck was able to make out more American forces emerging from the bushes to his right. "Colonel Dundee! Groggy!" he shouted.
One of the figures answered him. "Joe, we're a long way from Fort Benlin!" he shouted. Joe smiled again.
"I want all three wings to charge in unison," Groggy shouted, struggling to be heard. "Me and Joe will charge them straight on. Captain, get word to your Colonel that I want you to pivot from the left. We'll envelop the bastards and crush their flank. We're taking them in a rush, no more of this methodical firefight bullshit. We take this spot, we win the battle!"
"Very good, sir!" McKillop shouted.
"Prepare to advance!" Colonel Dundee called. The three wings readied themselves as their officers shouted out orders.
"CHARGE!" Groggy shouted after what seemed like an eternity.
The attack went off like clockwork. All three wings swept forward over the field. The Russian and Cuban troops opened fire immediately, and many men were lost; but the Americans were too flushed with adrenaline and the scent of victory to be denied now. They quickly covered the distance to the enemy lines, and reached the Russian blockhouse, the fighting becoming close-range and often hand-to-hand.
Groggy shot two Russian machine guns. A third soldier stepped forward and fired at point blank range. Groggy winced, thinking he'd been hit, but Corporal Dan emptied his M-16 into the soldier before him, allowing Groggy to realize that he'd merely been grazed. Dan then smashed the head of a Russian officer with his rifle butt, while another soldier was felled by Captain Harriman, firing with her pistol.
Sven Celeton bashed soldier after soldier, Russian and Cuban, with his rifle, until the stock shattered in his hands. Then he commenced to using his fists to pound his enemies; not until the battle was over did he realized that a bullet had entered his left thigh. His colleague Whalestoe fought with a pistol and his clamming knife, dispatching a brace of Cubans in one fell swoop. Major Martinez shot down Russian and Cubans as fast as he could shoot, continuing even after he was shot in his left arm. C.D. used his machette to deadly affect, gutting and impaling his enemies with deadly efficiency. Even the pacifist Angel knocked down several Cubans with her gun butt, swinging it awkwardly but managing to connect with most swings.
Kyle, rushing towards the blockhouse, was shot down by a pair of Russian officers. Susie screamed and avenged her boyfriend, spraying his two assailants with half a clip of M-16 rounds. Teacher Tom charged into the blockhouse, shouting and blazing away with a pair of handguns. He came out a moment, dripping blood from a pair of shoulder wounds, but stoically smiling.
Jim Tate Tweeted as the Army advanced. At 9:46, he entered "Finally, an interesting story to cover!" At 9:50, as the blockhouse battle neared its climax, he entered, "Mom, I'm fighting in a war! This is SO COOL!"
After ten more minutes of fighting, the Americans succeeded in clearing out the blockhouse. A few Cubans attempted to make a stand, but the Americans concentrated machine gun and rifle fire on them, quickly putting them to rout. A hastily-called artillery strike annihilated the remaining resistors, and the rest of the enemy forces melted into the woods in complete panic. They wouldn't get very far, as further artillery explosions and roaring jets attested.
Groggy emerged from the blockhouse, panting with exhaustion, gripping his smoking revolver, blood trickling from a small head wound. He approached Captain Harriman, who was nursing a wound to her left hand. "THAT'S how you win a battle!" Groggy said excitedly, watching his enemy take flight into the woods.
This was the decisive stroke of the battle, and now American firepower did the rest. The infantry swept back the front line troops, the main body of Cuban and Russian troops were decimated by artillery, American bombers destroyed Colonel Marquez's redoubt at the mouth of the pass, and helicopters strafed and bombed the refugees as they fell back. By 10:00 AM, El Grapadura Pass was in American hands.
The first land battle of the Russo-American War was over.
Monday, April 27, 2009
El Grapadura II - The Right Flank
9:03 AM
As the left and center wings of the 1st US engaged their targets, the right wing, commanded by Major Atlas, was moving into position. Atlas only had two companies, H and I, with K Company having been left back in camp. He was to link up with Lieutenant Emma and her insurrecto contingent, lurking somewhere in these woods.
A radio dispatch from Groggy's wing had revealed the heavy presence of snipers, and Atlas's men were warned to watch out for an ambush. H Company, which included Sergeant Beck and his buddies Bunsher, Mike and Steven, was in the lead, led by Captain Elliot, a tough, macho rodeo star, horse rider, pilot, and Western movie actor-turned-soldier. Behind them crept Captain Schultz and his I Company, which included Beck's archnemesis, Sergeant Adnan.
As Elliot's men march across a ridge, they saw and heard movement in the bushes to their left. Their Captain instinctively turned to initiate fighting.
"HOSTILES TO THE LEFT, FIRE AT WILL!" he shouted. His nervous, trigger-happy troopers opened fire, sending a barrage of M-16 bullets into the bush across the way. But Elliot's men suffered too; two soliders were killed, and a third wounded in the skirmish, before Lieutenant Emma rushed out of the woods, frantically waving her arms. "CEASE FIRE!" she shouted, and Elliot repeated the command.
"These are insurrectos, and I'm Lieutenant Emma!" she cried angrily, rushing over to the Captain. "You killed some of my men!"
"Lieutenant!" Elliot shouted, commanding her attention. They looked down and saw a young American private, bleeding from a head wound.
"I can't take it back," the Captain said, spitting. "We're all going to hell, now let's go there together!"
As if nothing at all had happened, the two forces joined together, stepping over their dead, and pushed on through the woods, hoping to encounter a mutual enemy soon. Sergeant Beck was ordered to take a small detachment of men forward as skirmishers, and soon Atlas's battalion was on the move again.
* * *
9:08 AM
General Jenkins marched behind the front line on foot, accompanied by General Ale and a few staffers. He could hear the now-steady patter of gunfire at the front, but had little idea of what was going on; only scattered. But he could assume that Groggy was responsible, and he smiled at the thought.
Captain O'Brien ran up. "Sir, just got a report, Groggy's main wing has driven a wedge into the center of the Russian line."
"A wedge?" Jenkins' eyes lit up at this information.
"Yes, sir. They've driven their way into the Russian center, but they don't seem in touch with the rest of the regiment-"
"Hot damn, we got that bastard Groggy on the run!" Jenkins shouted, much to the consternation of the Captain and General Ale. He then drew his pistol and fired several shots wildly into the bushes, shouting with glee.
The stupidity of this action soon caught up to the Gneral. For skirmishers from the 1st Florida regiment were advancing nearby, and as the shots flew over their heads, they let fly several volleys of M-16 fire in the direction.
"Cease fire!" a voice called to them. "Cease fire!"
The commander of the platoon, Sergeant Hendrix, cautiously advanced and saw the officers huddling around the stricken General.
"You shot General Jenkins!" General Ale shouted. "You shot General Jenkins!"
The General lay on his right side. His left arm was completely shattered, oozing blood from four bullet wounds. He grimaced in pain, his hand still gripping his pistol.
"Who's the son of a bitch who gave the order to fire?" Jenkins demanded. He rose himself up and aimed his pistol at the Florida lieutenant, but Captain O'Brien rushed forward to restrain him.
"General Ale, you take command," Jenkins gasped. "Direct more troops to the front. Lieutenant, you get back to your fucking post and call a medic."
Captain O'Brien held the General in his arms. "How fucking embarrassing," Jenkins muttered, "being shot by my own troops."
"Stonewall Jackson got shot by his own troops," Captain O'Brien noted.
"Try again, boy!" Jenkins cried as two soldiers helped him to his feet. Blood oozed down his shattered arm. "Stonewall Jackson was on the LOSING side!"
* * *
9:11 AM
General Ale quickly came across Colonel Ackatsis, who had driven up to the sound of the firing with his staff.
"What the hell's going on, General?" Ackatsis said, with a mixture of shock and anger.
"Colonel Dundee was ordered to make a reconassiance of El Grapadura this morning, and he's met with heavy resistance."
"Not that fucking upstart again!" Ackatsis screamed angrily.
"He did it on General's orders, Colonel! And now the General's wounded and I'm in charge." This shut the Colonel up.
"Now," Ale continued, "These Russians and Cubans know this area, they're fighting behind every bush, every tree, every goddamned rock, they're making it harder than hell to find 'em. But we ARE finding 'em, we are KILLING 'em, and as your brigade and now DIVISION commander I order you to tie into Dundee's right and flank those Russo-Cuban bastards!"
With a hint of shock, Colonel Ackatsis saluted. "Yes, sir!" He then ordered his driver to return to regimental headquarters and prepare his troops to join the action.
* * *
9:16 AM
Sergeant Beck slapped at a mosquito as he and his skirmishers advanced. They were moving through an area of seemingly endless forest, but Beck could swear he heard the trickle of a stream up ahead.
Just then, one of his privates shouted, "Get down, Sergeant!" Beck ducked and heard the THWACK of a bullet striking the leafy forest floor. He turned and fired, hitting a Russian sniper in the tree over his head. However, another shooter fired simultaneously, from somewhere to his left, dropping the man next to him.
Beck and his men moved on, unable to locate the second shooter. But then he heard a shrill whizzing noise, and ducked. Unfortunately, the rest of his men weren't so smart.
Beck heard the explosion and shieled his head. He looked beside him and saw nothing but a sheet of smoke and fire. He staggered to his feet, and heard another explosion, and a muted yelp of pain. The rest of his men were gone, either killed or hidden behind a shroud of smoke and fire.
Beck knew what was going on - Russian or Cuban mortars were along the road, or possibly RPG men. He stood and began inching forward, but flinched as he heard another sharpshooter firing from the trees. However, he either missed or was aiming elsewhere, as no bullet smashed into Beck, and he kept moving forward.
Beck crawled on top of a large rock, and looked down below. He saw a small stream, and on the other side of it -
A whole battery of Russian mortars. He watched two shots explode from their barrels, and heard the shrill whiz and the dull thud to his rear. Behind them was a small detachment of infantry, maybe a platoon's worth.
However, Beck was quickly spotted by one of the Russians. Though he tried to duck down, the Russians were soon firing pot shots and taunts at him. Several of the mortar men even threw shells and grenades at his position. All of them missed, but if Beck moved he knew he'd be riddled with bullets.
Beck crawled away from the rocks and began running back in the other directions. He heard another explosion somewhere in the jungle ahead. Before he got far at all, however, he came across an American Sergeant. He squinted and saw that it was Adnan, an impassive look on his face.
At first, Beck was relieved. But then, the man's identity registered in his mind, and he stood still, seemingly at the Canadian's mercy.
Adnan raised his M-16, pointing it in his direction. Beck flinched, sure the Canadian would take his revenge.
But instead, Adnan fired a burst across the river, striking one of the Russian mortar men. He advanced, firing rapidly, and soon Adnan's entire platoon moved forward, rifles blazing. They took up positions along the bushes and rocks, raining fire down upon the Russians.
The mortar men were quickly driven away, but the infantry moved forward. Armed with Kalashnikovs and light machine guns, they inflicted several casualties on Adnan's troops.
Beck crawled forward and joined the firing line. Shooting carefully, he picked off at least four of the Russian infantrymen with his carbine.
Then came an order being shouted behind them, and soon Captain Elliot emerged with the bulk of H Company. They joined in the firing line, inflicting heavy casualties on the Russians. Soon after came Major Atlas and Captain Schultz with the rest of I Company.
Now heavily outnumbered, the Russians scattered into the woods. Without waiting for orders, Captain Elliot and the insurrectos plunged down the ravine, crossing the stream. Mike Prankster, one of Beck's old compatriots, was killed in this action, along with two other soldiers, but the Russians were put to rout, fleeing in all directions. A few mortar men remained behind and tried to spike their weapons, but Emma's insurrectos shot them down.
The attack gained a momentum of its own. I Company and the insurrectos poured through the forest, past more sharpshooters and snipers. They then came across a new line of Russian troops, and prepared to engage.
This defensive line, however, was made up of Palacian militia. About 200 men, organized by the Russians and led by Russian officers, stood uneasily in line. They had little will to fight, but they might be persuaded to fight Gringos. But the sight of Lieutenant Emma and her white-clad insurrectos changed their mind immediately.
With a shout of "PALACIO LIBRE!", the soldiers turned and shot down all of their officers. They then threw up their arms, cheering as Emma and her men rushed forward. The shock of this pleasant surprise momentarily stopped the advance, but they were immediately snapped back to attention when a burst of rifle fired errupted from the tree line, killing three of their number, along with one of Emma's men.
The Palacians dropped to the grass and saw a detachment of Cubans, at least Company strength, set up in the tree lines. They opened fire with rifles, machine guns, and several mortars. Captain Elliot rushed men to the line, while I Troop, finally catching up, lugged the captured Russian mortars and the regiment's machine guns forward.
After several minutes of inconclusive firefighting between the two sides, Atlas requested artillery support. Sure enough, within moments several explosions burst into the tree line before them. After less than a minute, the Cubans withdrew further back, their lines rocked by explosions and shrapnel, leaving thirty bodies and several shattered guns and mortars behind.
"Battalion, prepare to advance. I Company, dispatch skirmishers," Major Atlas shouted.
"You did it, Beck!" Bunsher said, patting his old friend on the back.
"I did?" Beck showed some degree of surprise.
"You turned their flank!" Steven said, shaking his hand. Somewhat dazed, Beck rose to his feet, smiling. However, he turned and inevitably saw Sergeant Adnan, manning a machine gun. Adnan shot him an icey glare, and Beck realized their reckoning was far from over.
As the left and center wings of the 1st US engaged their targets, the right wing, commanded by Major Atlas, was moving into position. Atlas only had two companies, H and I, with K Company having been left back in camp. He was to link up with Lieutenant Emma and her insurrecto contingent, lurking somewhere in these woods.
A radio dispatch from Groggy's wing had revealed the heavy presence of snipers, and Atlas's men were warned to watch out for an ambush. H Company, which included Sergeant Beck and his buddies Bunsher, Mike and Steven, was in the lead, led by Captain Elliot, a tough, macho rodeo star, horse rider, pilot, and Western movie actor-turned-soldier. Behind them crept Captain Schultz and his I Company, which included Beck's archnemesis, Sergeant Adnan.
As Elliot's men march across a ridge, they saw and heard movement in the bushes to their left. Their Captain instinctively turned to initiate fighting.
"HOSTILES TO THE LEFT, FIRE AT WILL!" he shouted. His nervous, trigger-happy troopers opened fire, sending a barrage of M-16 bullets into the bush across the way. But Elliot's men suffered too; two soliders were killed, and a third wounded in the skirmish, before Lieutenant Emma rushed out of the woods, frantically waving her arms. "CEASE FIRE!" she shouted, and Elliot repeated the command.
"These are insurrectos, and I'm Lieutenant Emma!" she cried angrily, rushing over to the Captain. "You killed some of my men!"
"Lieutenant!" Elliot shouted, commanding her attention. They looked down and saw a young American private, bleeding from a head wound.
"I can't take it back," the Captain said, spitting. "We're all going to hell, now let's go there together!"
As if nothing at all had happened, the two forces joined together, stepping over their dead, and pushed on through the woods, hoping to encounter a mutual enemy soon. Sergeant Beck was ordered to take a small detachment of men forward as skirmishers, and soon Atlas's battalion was on the move again.
* * *
9:08 AM
General Jenkins marched behind the front line on foot, accompanied by General Ale and a few staffers. He could hear the now-steady patter of gunfire at the front, but had little idea of what was going on; only scattered. But he could assume that Groggy was responsible, and he smiled at the thought.
Captain O'Brien ran up. "Sir, just got a report, Groggy's main wing has driven a wedge into the center of the Russian line."
"A wedge?" Jenkins' eyes lit up at this information.
"Yes, sir. They've driven their way into the Russian center, but they don't seem in touch with the rest of the regiment-"
"Hot damn, we got that bastard Groggy on the run!" Jenkins shouted, much to the consternation of the Captain and General Ale. He then drew his pistol and fired several shots wildly into the bushes, shouting with glee.
The stupidity of this action soon caught up to the Gneral. For skirmishers from the 1st Florida regiment were advancing nearby, and as the shots flew over their heads, they let fly several volleys of M-16 fire in the direction.
"Cease fire!" a voice called to them. "Cease fire!"
The commander of the platoon, Sergeant Hendrix, cautiously advanced and saw the officers huddling around the stricken General.
"You shot General Jenkins!" General Ale shouted. "You shot General Jenkins!"
The General lay on his right side. His left arm was completely shattered, oozing blood from four bullet wounds. He grimaced in pain, his hand still gripping his pistol.
"Who's the son of a bitch who gave the order to fire?" Jenkins demanded. He rose himself up and aimed his pistol at the Florida lieutenant, but Captain O'Brien rushed forward to restrain him.
"General Ale, you take command," Jenkins gasped. "Direct more troops to the front. Lieutenant, you get back to your fucking post and call a medic."
Captain O'Brien held the General in his arms. "How fucking embarrassing," Jenkins muttered, "being shot by my own troops."
"Stonewall Jackson got shot by his own troops," Captain O'Brien noted.
"Try again, boy!" Jenkins cried as two soldiers helped him to his feet. Blood oozed down his shattered arm. "Stonewall Jackson was on the LOSING side!"
* * *
9:11 AM
General Ale quickly came across Colonel Ackatsis, who had driven up to the sound of the firing with his staff.
"What the hell's going on, General?" Ackatsis said, with a mixture of shock and anger.
"Colonel Dundee was ordered to make a reconassiance of El Grapadura this morning, and he's met with heavy resistance."
"Not that fucking upstart again!" Ackatsis screamed angrily.
"He did it on General's orders, Colonel! And now the General's wounded and I'm in charge." This shut the Colonel up.
"Now," Ale continued, "These Russians and Cubans know this area, they're fighting behind every bush, every tree, every goddamned rock, they're making it harder than hell to find 'em. But we ARE finding 'em, we are KILLING 'em, and as your brigade and now DIVISION commander I order you to tie into Dundee's right and flank those Russo-Cuban bastards!"
With a hint of shock, Colonel Ackatsis saluted. "Yes, sir!" He then ordered his driver to return to regimental headquarters and prepare his troops to join the action.
* * *
9:16 AM
Sergeant Beck slapped at a mosquito as he and his skirmishers advanced. They were moving through an area of seemingly endless forest, but Beck could swear he heard the trickle of a stream up ahead.
Just then, one of his privates shouted, "Get down, Sergeant!" Beck ducked and heard the THWACK of a bullet striking the leafy forest floor. He turned and fired, hitting a Russian sniper in the tree over his head. However, another shooter fired simultaneously, from somewhere to his left, dropping the man next to him.
Beck and his men moved on, unable to locate the second shooter. But then he heard a shrill whizzing noise, and ducked. Unfortunately, the rest of his men weren't so smart.
Beck heard the explosion and shieled his head. He looked beside him and saw nothing but a sheet of smoke and fire. He staggered to his feet, and heard another explosion, and a muted yelp of pain. The rest of his men were gone, either killed or hidden behind a shroud of smoke and fire.
Beck knew what was going on - Russian or Cuban mortars were along the road, or possibly RPG men. He stood and began inching forward, but flinched as he heard another sharpshooter firing from the trees. However, he either missed or was aiming elsewhere, as no bullet smashed into Beck, and he kept moving forward.
Beck crawled on top of a large rock, and looked down below. He saw a small stream, and on the other side of it -
A whole battery of Russian mortars. He watched two shots explode from their barrels, and heard the shrill whiz and the dull thud to his rear. Behind them was a small detachment of infantry, maybe a platoon's worth.
However, Beck was quickly spotted by one of the Russians. Though he tried to duck down, the Russians were soon firing pot shots and taunts at him. Several of the mortar men even threw shells and grenades at his position. All of them missed, but if Beck moved he knew he'd be riddled with bullets.
Beck crawled away from the rocks and began running back in the other directions. He heard another explosion somewhere in the jungle ahead. Before he got far at all, however, he came across an American Sergeant. He squinted and saw that it was Adnan, an impassive look on his face.
At first, Beck was relieved. But then, the man's identity registered in his mind, and he stood still, seemingly at the Canadian's mercy.
Adnan raised his M-16, pointing it in his direction. Beck flinched, sure the Canadian would take his revenge.
But instead, Adnan fired a burst across the river, striking one of the Russian mortar men. He advanced, firing rapidly, and soon Adnan's entire platoon moved forward, rifles blazing. They took up positions along the bushes and rocks, raining fire down upon the Russians.
The mortar men were quickly driven away, but the infantry moved forward. Armed with Kalashnikovs and light machine guns, they inflicted several casualties on Adnan's troops.
Beck crawled forward and joined the firing line. Shooting carefully, he picked off at least four of the Russian infantrymen with his carbine.
Then came an order being shouted behind them, and soon Captain Elliot emerged with the bulk of H Company. They joined in the firing line, inflicting heavy casualties on the Russians. Soon after came Major Atlas and Captain Schultz with the rest of I Company.
Now heavily outnumbered, the Russians scattered into the woods. Without waiting for orders, Captain Elliot and the insurrectos plunged down the ravine, crossing the stream. Mike Prankster, one of Beck's old compatriots, was killed in this action, along with two other soldiers, but the Russians were put to rout, fleeing in all directions. A few mortar men remained behind and tried to spike their weapons, but Emma's insurrectos shot them down.
The attack gained a momentum of its own. I Company and the insurrectos poured through the forest, past more sharpshooters and snipers. They then came across a new line of Russian troops, and prepared to engage.
This defensive line, however, was made up of Palacian militia. About 200 men, organized by the Russians and led by Russian officers, stood uneasily in line. They had little will to fight, but they might be persuaded to fight Gringos. But the sight of Lieutenant Emma and her white-clad insurrectos changed their mind immediately.
With a shout of "PALACIO LIBRE!", the soldiers turned and shot down all of their officers. They then threw up their arms, cheering as Emma and her men rushed forward. The shock of this pleasant surprise momentarily stopped the advance, but they were immediately snapped back to attention when a burst of rifle fired errupted from the tree line, killing three of their number, along with one of Emma's men.
The Palacians dropped to the grass and saw a detachment of Cubans, at least Company strength, set up in the tree lines. They opened fire with rifles, machine guns, and several mortars. Captain Elliot rushed men to the line, while I Troop, finally catching up, lugged the captured Russian mortars and the regiment's machine guns forward.
After several minutes of inconclusive firefighting between the two sides, Atlas requested artillery support. Sure enough, within moments several explosions burst into the tree line before them. After less than a minute, the Cubans withdrew further back, their lines rocked by explosions and shrapnel, leaving thirty bodies and several shattered guns and mortars behind.
"Battalion, prepare to advance. I Company, dispatch skirmishers," Major Atlas shouted.
"You did it, Beck!" Bunsher said, patting his old friend on the back.
"I did?" Beck showed some degree of surprise.
"You turned their flank!" Steven said, shaking his hand. Somewhat dazed, Beck rose to his feet, smiling. However, he turned and inevitably saw Sergeant Adnan, manning a machine gun. Adnan shot him an icey glare, and Beck realized their reckoning was far from over.
El Grapadura I - Ambush
APRIL 27TH, 2009
8:25 AM
EL GRAPADURA PASS, PALACIOS
Groggy's 1st Volunteer Infantry regiment lay in place on the edge of El Grapadura pass. Slapping at mosquitos and flies, wiping their brows at the already-stifling heat, their ears buzzing with the sounds of birds, insects and other assorted fauna lurking in the bush before them. They were waiting for the order to initialize their advance.
Groggy looked at his watch. It was broken, so there was no point to it. He turned to Captain Harriman. "Captain, tell each Company to send out skirmishers in advance. All guns set on semi-automatic fire."
Harriman walked over to the radioman and relayed the message. The ball was set in motion, and soon 90 or so men were creeping through the underbrush, about to initialize the first major land battle of the war.
* * *
8:34 AM
Company B's skirmishers, on the far left of the advance, moved out first. Captain Holland personally volunteered to lead the way, aided by Sergeant Charlie, Lieutenant Ackt, Chill Scotsdale, Elizabeth and Matt, a tough Creole named Grideaux, and two expendables, Smith and Katt.
As they poked their way through the underbrush, they were immediately consummed by it. Everywhere were trees and bushes, with only a thin trickle of sunlight reaching through the canopy. Confronted by the sudden alien environment, the soldiers found themselves both scared and awed by it. So much so, that they didn't notice several telltale signs of what lay ahead of them.
As they advanced, two Russian sharpshooters positioned in two tall trees watched them. One of them, a Corporal Sharapov, aimed his rifle at the tall, brawny officer who seemed to be in charge. He waited for the opportune moment to initiate hostilities, making sure the officer was perfectly in his sights...
* * *
8:41 AM
Grideaux, bringing up the rear of the skirmishers, saw a small flash from one of the trees up ahead. He stopped, and saw it again; he squinted, and could just make out the camoflagued outline of a man aiming a rifle. He carefully rose his M-16 and aimed it at the amorphous green-and-brown shape before him.
BANG! The first shot sounded, scattering a flock of birds. Captain Holland and his men turned as the body of a sharpshooter fell to the ground, a bullet hole neatly through his neck.
An eternal moment passed, as the shavetail troopers struggle to react. Then Grideaux fired another shot, and another sharpshooter fell.
Now a burst of rifle fire exploded from the bushes ahead of them. "AMBUSH!" Captain Holland cried, as if it weren't obvious, and the skirmishers scattered backwards, trying to reach cover.
The first fatality was that eternal idealist, Sergeant Charlie. He scarcely had time to react before a bullet pierced his heart, killing him instantly. He collapsed quietly into the brush.
Grideaux, who had initiated hostilities, fell next, two bullets striking him almost simultaneously in the groin and left thigh. He fell to the ground, alive but in pain, grittng his teeth and groaning in agony.
The battle quickly turned into a nightmare. The gallant Captain Holland was shot in the left knee, and collapsed face first into a mud puddle. Gritting his teeth, he rose himself on his good news, threw down his carbine, and started blasting away at the enemy with his pistol. "WHATEVER I SEE, I HIT!" he roared angrily. He fired a burst of shots at a sillohuette, and sure enough, a Russian soldier tumbled from the brush.
Chill Scotsdale was shot in the right leg, just above the knee, but as he fell he discharged a burst of rifle fire into the chest of one of his assailants. He crawled towards his colleagues, who were struggling to set up a makeshift defensive line.
Trying to reach the wounded Scotsdale, Private Katt rushed forward, but was cut down by a burst of fire that perforated his chest. Private Smith fired a wild volley of full-auto fire into the bushes, and two more Russian soldiers were killed.
Elizabeth, firing in anger for the first time in her life, accidentally switched her rifle to full auto and knocked herself backwards, spraining her shoulder. Fortunately, Matt stepped forward and fired, killing a Russian, but he was struck in the shoulder. He fell to his knees, but kept firing, allowing his girlfriend to crawl for cover.
Beside them, Grideaux had staggered to his knees, and resumed firing, though the pain of his wounds prevented him from scoring any hits.
The situation was becoming properly nightmarish, but now it become downright horrifying. Several phosphorous grenades sailed through the air. The first few exploded harmlessly in the trees, setting small fires but not posing any threat. But a third landed in front of Captain Holland, and Lieutenant Ackt rushed forward. He kicked the incendiary back towards the Russian lines, but it exploded in mid-air, spraying his clothing and face with the burning substance. He screamed in agony as a streak of phosphorous burnt into his cheek.
Scotsdale staggered over to the wounded chef; he was hit again in the ankle, but his leg was already lame so it mattered little. He found Ackt's carving knife and peeled the burning skin off his face as bullets whizzed around them.
At just this moment, the attack proper came. The surviving soldiers stared in horror as an entire company of enemy troops - wearing the of the Cuban Army - rushed out of the bush, rifles blazing.
Scotsdale, still holding the wounded Ackt, felt a dull thud in his back; he tasted blood in his mouth, and collapsed to the ground. Ackt, who had managed to regain some of his composure, used his friends body as a shield, firing his pistol into the oncoming waves of Cubans, killing at least one.
The gallant Grideaux, who struggled to maintain his balance from his wounds, was shot twice more, in the stomach and chest. He collapsed, slowly bleeding to death, his mouth muttering nonsensical words that were quickly drowned out by a flood of blood.
Smith shot down two of the leading Cubans, but found himself at the receiving end of an AK burst, and toppled into the grass.
Captain Holland expended his pistol ammunition. He leaned forward, reaching for his carbine, but two bullets tore through his head, and he sprawled lifelessly into the mud puddle before him.
The three survivors - Matt, Elizabeth and Ackt - braced themselves, realizing that their time had come. But then, from overhead, deliverance came.
Two quick, almost simultaneous explosions flashed in between the lines. A shower of sparks and dirt struck in front of them. Matt and Elizabeth watched incredulously, and saw a number of Cuban. A third explosion burst, killing more of the Cubans. They then realized what was happening: artillery.
A fourth explosion hit into the trees, toppling a sharpshooter from his perch. The remaining Cubans were staggered, unsure of what to do. They didn't have time to react.
Elizabeth heard a click next to her ear, and then shrieked as it exploded into fire. It was an M-60 machine gun, hastily deployed on the battlefield, and spraying hundreds of rounds into the mass of Cubans. Before long, two more machine guns were deployed, and a platoon of riflemen led by Lieutenant Paul arrived, decimating the hapless Cubans. The Cubans exchanged only desultory fire before retreating into the bush, leaving forty of their number dead or wounded on the ground. Several more explosions tore into the forest, and the Cubans disappeared from sight.
Elizabeth looked up and saw her battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Starbuck, appearing, pistol drawn. Lieutenant Ackt struggled to drag Scotsdale's body towards friendly lines.
"Who's hit?" Starbuck asked.
"Captain Holland's dead," Lieutenant Ackt shouted.
"Damn it!" Joe shouted, but he quickly regained his composure. He turned to Old Paul. "Paul, you're in charge of this company now. Displace these machine guns forward, and advance at a crawl. Dispatch a detail to take dead and wounded back to the rear."
"Yes, sir," Paul responded, and immediately began echoing the orders.
As the soliders of B Company prepared for further action, they heard a patter of rifle and machine gun fire to their right. The second phase of the battle was beginning.
8:51 AM
Just as Colonel Starbuck arrived with the rest of B Company on the left, action started up on the center. This was nominally Major Martinez's batallion, but Groggy himself was present, and as such he took command of proceedings on this part of the field.
He heard the firing off to his left, and demanded information about it. But none was forthcoming, except that skirmishers of B Company had encountered hostile forces. Groggy was waiting to hear back from his own skirmishers.
Sure enough, a flurry of gunfire errupted to his front, and the skirmishers came stumbling back through the woods, one fewer than they had been. Sergeant Falk immediately ran to the Colonel to the Colonel.
"Private Calloway is dead, sir," Falk reported. "We counted at least a platoon, probably more, with rifles and machine guns. It was an ambush. We didn't have enough cover to hold our ground."
Groggy blanched, then turned angry. "You boys want to get back at them?" he asked the skirmishers. A chorus of voices answered a variety of things, but the gist of it was, "Yes, sir!" Groggy stared at the men around him.
"Major Martinez!" he shouted. "Prepare your battalion for general advance!"
As he shouted this, he heard a number of rifle shots explode around him. Groggy looked up and saw a Russian sharpshooter dangling in the trees above him, his body riddled with bullets, dripping blood onto the ground.
"LET'S MOVE!" Groggy said.
His troopers pressed into the woods, into a large clearing. They saw a handful of Russian troops, but they fled after a brief exchange of rifle fire. Surely these weren't.
Jim Tate, the journalist, rushed up beside the Colonel.
"Colonel Dundee," he said. "Look. You can see their hats."
He pointed behind a tree line. Groggy squinted and saw, to his horror, a machine gun platoon redeploying themselves, marching towards the other end of the field. Groggy's men were now exposed, unless they acted fast, or could outgun the Russians before they got into position.
Groggy went to his knees. He gestured to Major Martinez and his company commanders, indicating the threat before them, amazingly oblivious to the Americans' presence. His men immediately went into prone position, and carefully aimed their rifle as the Russians filed into position, with astonishing slowness.
BANG! BAM!
Groggy fired the first shot, and then a flurry of rifle shots errupted from the grassy field. The Russians were taken completely by surprise. They tried to return fire, but the Americans had the advantage, and the Russians could scarcely respond. Groggy saw them starting to set up a machine gun, but he saw as Bill and Teacher Tom aimed their weapons, disabling the gun crew with a few well-aimed bursts.
After another few moments, the Russians panicked, fleeing into the woods for cover.
Groggy and the regiment slowly rose up from the grass. "Skirmishers, move forward," he ordered. Sergeant Falk and his squad advanced quickly across the field.
Jim Tate rushed up to Dundee excitedly. "Sir, I think I got one!" he said proudly, showing off his .357 Magnum.
Groggy narrowed his eyes skeptically. "You?"
Before the journalist could respond further, Captain Harriman reported to the Colonel. She was bleeding from a cut behind her right ear. "Sir, Private Benson is dead."
Groggy clenched his jaw. "That makes two of ours," he muttered. "Prepare the battalion to continue the advance," he shouted to his other officers. He then walked to a tree at the rear of the line, steadying himself, as an attack of nervous dizziness spread over him. He waited for it to fade, then rejoined his men as they slowly trodded across the open field towards an unseen enemy.
8:25 AM
EL GRAPADURA PASS, PALACIOS
Groggy's 1st Volunteer Infantry regiment lay in place on the edge of El Grapadura pass. Slapping at mosquitos and flies, wiping their brows at the already-stifling heat, their ears buzzing with the sounds of birds, insects and other assorted fauna lurking in the bush before them. They were waiting for the order to initialize their advance.
Groggy looked at his watch. It was broken, so there was no point to it. He turned to Captain Harriman. "Captain, tell each Company to send out skirmishers in advance. All guns set on semi-automatic fire."
Harriman walked over to the radioman and relayed the message. The ball was set in motion, and soon 90 or so men were creeping through the underbrush, about to initialize the first major land battle of the war.
* * *
8:34 AM
Company B's skirmishers, on the far left of the advance, moved out first. Captain Holland personally volunteered to lead the way, aided by Sergeant Charlie, Lieutenant Ackt, Chill Scotsdale, Elizabeth and Matt, a tough Creole named Grideaux, and two expendables, Smith and Katt.
As they poked their way through the underbrush, they were immediately consummed by it. Everywhere were trees and bushes, with only a thin trickle of sunlight reaching through the canopy. Confronted by the sudden alien environment, the soldiers found themselves both scared and awed by it. So much so, that they didn't notice several telltale signs of what lay ahead of them.
As they advanced, two Russian sharpshooters positioned in two tall trees watched them. One of them, a Corporal Sharapov, aimed his rifle at the tall, brawny officer who seemed to be in charge. He waited for the opportune moment to initiate hostilities, making sure the officer was perfectly in his sights...
* * *
8:41 AM
Grideaux, bringing up the rear of the skirmishers, saw a small flash from one of the trees up ahead. He stopped, and saw it again; he squinted, and could just make out the camoflagued outline of a man aiming a rifle. He carefully rose his M-16 and aimed it at the amorphous green-and-brown shape before him.
BANG! The first shot sounded, scattering a flock of birds. Captain Holland and his men turned as the body of a sharpshooter fell to the ground, a bullet hole neatly through his neck.
An eternal moment passed, as the shavetail troopers struggle to react. Then Grideaux fired another shot, and another sharpshooter fell.
Now a burst of rifle fire exploded from the bushes ahead of them. "AMBUSH!" Captain Holland cried, as if it weren't obvious, and the skirmishers scattered backwards, trying to reach cover.
The first fatality was that eternal idealist, Sergeant Charlie. He scarcely had time to react before a bullet pierced his heart, killing him instantly. He collapsed quietly into the brush.
Grideaux, who had initiated hostilities, fell next, two bullets striking him almost simultaneously in the groin and left thigh. He fell to the ground, alive but in pain, grittng his teeth and groaning in agony.
The battle quickly turned into a nightmare. The gallant Captain Holland was shot in the left knee, and collapsed face first into a mud puddle. Gritting his teeth, he rose himself on his good news, threw down his carbine, and started blasting away at the enemy with his pistol. "WHATEVER I SEE, I HIT!" he roared angrily. He fired a burst of shots at a sillohuette, and sure enough, a Russian soldier tumbled from the brush.
Chill Scotsdale was shot in the right leg, just above the knee, but as he fell he discharged a burst of rifle fire into the chest of one of his assailants. He crawled towards his colleagues, who were struggling to set up a makeshift defensive line.
Trying to reach the wounded Scotsdale, Private Katt rushed forward, but was cut down by a burst of fire that perforated his chest. Private Smith fired a wild volley of full-auto fire into the bushes, and two more Russian soldiers were killed.
Elizabeth, firing in anger for the first time in her life, accidentally switched her rifle to full auto and knocked herself backwards, spraining her shoulder. Fortunately, Matt stepped forward and fired, killing a Russian, but he was struck in the shoulder. He fell to his knees, but kept firing, allowing his girlfriend to crawl for cover.
Beside them, Grideaux had staggered to his knees, and resumed firing, though the pain of his wounds prevented him from scoring any hits.
The situation was becoming properly nightmarish, but now it become downright horrifying. Several phosphorous grenades sailed through the air. The first few exploded harmlessly in the trees, setting small fires but not posing any threat. But a third landed in front of Captain Holland, and Lieutenant Ackt rushed forward. He kicked the incendiary back towards the Russian lines, but it exploded in mid-air, spraying his clothing and face with the burning substance. He screamed in agony as a streak of phosphorous burnt into his cheek.
Scotsdale staggered over to the wounded chef; he was hit again in the ankle, but his leg was already lame so it mattered little. He found Ackt's carving knife and peeled the burning skin off his face as bullets whizzed around them.
At just this moment, the attack proper came. The surviving soldiers stared in horror as an entire company of enemy troops - wearing the of the Cuban Army - rushed out of the bush, rifles blazing.
Scotsdale, still holding the wounded Ackt, felt a dull thud in his back; he tasted blood in his mouth, and collapsed to the ground. Ackt, who had managed to regain some of his composure, used his friends body as a shield, firing his pistol into the oncoming waves of Cubans, killing at least one.
The gallant Grideaux, who struggled to maintain his balance from his wounds, was shot twice more, in the stomach and chest. He collapsed, slowly bleeding to death, his mouth muttering nonsensical words that were quickly drowned out by a flood of blood.
Smith shot down two of the leading Cubans, but found himself at the receiving end of an AK burst, and toppled into the grass.
Captain Holland expended his pistol ammunition. He leaned forward, reaching for his carbine, but two bullets tore through his head, and he sprawled lifelessly into the mud puddle before him.
The three survivors - Matt, Elizabeth and Ackt - braced themselves, realizing that their time had come. But then, from overhead, deliverance came.
Two quick, almost simultaneous explosions flashed in between the lines. A shower of sparks and dirt struck in front of them. Matt and Elizabeth watched incredulously, and saw a number of Cuban. A third explosion burst, killing more of the Cubans. They then realized what was happening: artillery.
A fourth explosion hit into the trees, toppling a sharpshooter from his perch. The remaining Cubans were staggered, unsure of what to do. They didn't have time to react.
Elizabeth heard a click next to her ear, and then shrieked as it exploded into fire. It was an M-60 machine gun, hastily deployed on the battlefield, and spraying hundreds of rounds into the mass of Cubans. Before long, two more machine guns were deployed, and a platoon of riflemen led by Lieutenant Paul arrived, decimating the hapless Cubans. The Cubans exchanged only desultory fire before retreating into the bush, leaving forty of their number dead or wounded on the ground. Several more explosions tore into the forest, and the Cubans disappeared from sight.
Elizabeth looked up and saw her battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel Starbuck, appearing, pistol drawn. Lieutenant Ackt struggled to drag Scotsdale's body towards friendly lines.
"Who's hit?" Starbuck asked.
"Captain Holland's dead," Lieutenant Ackt shouted.
"Damn it!" Joe shouted, but he quickly regained his composure. He turned to Old Paul. "Paul, you're in charge of this company now. Displace these machine guns forward, and advance at a crawl. Dispatch a detail to take dead and wounded back to the rear."
"Yes, sir," Paul responded, and immediately began echoing the orders.
As the soliders of B Company prepared for further action, they heard a patter of rifle and machine gun fire to their right. The second phase of the battle was beginning.
8:51 AM
Just as Colonel Starbuck arrived with the rest of B Company on the left, action started up on the center. This was nominally Major Martinez's batallion, but Groggy himself was present, and as such he took command of proceedings on this part of the field.
He heard the firing off to his left, and demanded information about it. But none was forthcoming, except that skirmishers of B Company had encountered hostile forces. Groggy was waiting to hear back from his own skirmishers.
Sure enough, a flurry of gunfire errupted to his front, and the skirmishers came stumbling back through the woods, one fewer than they had been. Sergeant Falk immediately ran to the Colonel to the Colonel.
"Private Calloway is dead, sir," Falk reported. "We counted at least a platoon, probably more, with rifles and machine guns. It was an ambush. We didn't have enough cover to hold our ground."
Groggy blanched, then turned angry. "You boys want to get back at them?" he asked the skirmishers. A chorus of voices answered a variety of things, but the gist of it was, "Yes, sir!" Groggy stared at the men around him.
"Major Martinez!" he shouted. "Prepare your battalion for general advance!"
As he shouted this, he heard a number of rifle shots explode around him. Groggy looked up and saw a Russian sharpshooter dangling in the trees above him, his body riddled with bullets, dripping blood onto the ground.
"LET'S MOVE!" Groggy said.
His troopers pressed into the woods, into a large clearing. They saw a handful of Russian troops, but they fled after a brief exchange of rifle fire. Surely these weren't.
Jim Tate, the journalist, rushed up beside the Colonel.
"Colonel Dundee," he said. "Look. You can see their hats."
He pointed behind a tree line. Groggy squinted and saw, to his horror, a machine gun platoon redeploying themselves, marching towards the other end of the field. Groggy's men were now exposed, unless they acted fast, or could outgun the Russians before they got into position.
Groggy went to his knees. He gestured to Major Martinez and his company commanders, indicating the threat before them, amazingly oblivious to the Americans' presence. His men immediately went into prone position, and carefully aimed their rifle as the Russians filed into position, with astonishing slowness.
BANG! BAM!
Groggy fired the first shot, and then a flurry of rifle shots errupted from the grassy field. The Russians were taken completely by surprise. They tried to return fire, but the Americans had the advantage, and the Russians could scarcely respond. Groggy saw them starting to set up a machine gun, but he saw as Bill and Teacher Tom aimed their weapons, disabling the gun crew with a few well-aimed bursts.
After another few moments, the Russians panicked, fleeing into the woods for cover.
Groggy and the regiment slowly rose up from the grass. "Skirmishers, move forward," he ordered. Sergeant Falk and his squad advanced quickly across the field.
Jim Tate rushed up to Dundee excitedly. "Sir, I think I got one!" he said proudly, showing off his .357 Magnum.
Groggy narrowed his eyes skeptically. "You?"
Before the journalist could respond further, Captain Harriman reported to the Colonel. She was bleeding from a cut behind her right ear. "Sir, Private Benson is dead."
Groggy clenched his jaw. "That makes two of ours," he muttered. "Prepare the battalion to continue the advance," he shouted to his other officers. He then walked to a tree at the rear of the line, steadying himself, as an attack of nervous dizziness spread over him. He waited for it to fade, then rejoined his men as they slowly trodded across the open field towards an unseen enemy.
Sunday, April 26, 2009
The Fog of War
APRIL 25TH, 2009
1ST US INFANTRY CAMP, PALACIOS
11:00 AM
The clam that nearly ended Jenkins' life made for good eating. The lion's share of the meat found its way into the hands of Lieutenant Ackt, who of course. He created Palacio Libre stew, made up of clam, starfish, sea urchins, sea water, seaweed, and gator meat, which killed at least one man, Private Redshirt. But the rest of the soldiers had fun enough devouring the clam in their one way, straight or in a variety of specially-made chowder. They were still eating it for the better part of two days.
Among those begging for food was a small band of Palacian insurrectos. There were about thirty of them, wearing dissheveled clothing, looking dirty and exhausted from weeks - months - in the bush. At their head was Lieutenant Emma, who looked exhausted and bewildered from her weeks of leadership.
General Ale rode up to the gang of insurrectos. "Palacios Libre!" he hailed them. The insurrectos didn't respond. "Can you tell me where I can find some Russkies?"
"You want to see some Russians, you say?" Lieutenant Emma replied. "I'm Lieutenant Emma."
"You're an American?" Ale asked incredulously.
"Soldier of fortune," she replied.
"Soldier of fortune, hell, you're a Democrat!"
Emma smiled. "My men need food and clothing. They've been hiding for weeks. You give us something to eat and I'll give you information."
Ale looked around at his staff, then saw Lieutenant Ackt trying to persuade Ulysess Bunsher and Mike Prankster to eat his Palacios Stew. "See that man over there," he said, pointing to the chef. "He'll fix you up with something." The grateful insurrectos rushed over the Lieutenant, unaware of the noxious gastronomical atrocities that awaited them.
As this discussion went on, a freshly-landed journalist wandered into the camp, carrying a small suitcase in one arm and a laptop in the other. He approached a Sergeant and asked which regiment's camp it was.
Jim Tate, who had witnessed Groggy's extraordinary Florida coup de main, had requested assignment with the ballsy Colonel and his mad-cap regiment from his boss, Mr. Llewelyn, and now he had it. He was prepared to write the story of a lifetime, taking photos with his iPhone, blogging and twittering from the front lines, living the glorious life of an old-time war correspondant.
He surveyed the scene around him, finding the men remarkably relaxed, if somewhat anxious. Seated outside a tent were some of the college kids, Sergeant Falk and Kyle and Susie; the rest were. With them was now-Sergeant Beck; Angel, who struggled with her hair in the humid heat; and the Byronic Tom Weissler, alias "Teacher Tom", a hard-drinking, idealistic man in his mid-forties, whose romanticism and eloquence superceded his sensibility.
Tate smiled at this, the flower of the American intellect and idealists gathered for the cause of liberation, but was equally amused by the hardscrabble collection of gutter trash. He saw C.D., waving a machette, squaring off against the knife-wielding troublemaker Nirvana, in a manly test of strength. He saw Chill Scotsdale, chewing on a piece of clam off the blade of his knife. He saw Captain Nicholas Slick, a dodgy fellow from Connecticut, arguing with a Corporal Bill about the Kennedy Assassination and the merits of various fire arms. He saw Matt and Elizabeth, , sharing a tender moment alone under a small tree. And then he saw Sergeant Adnan leaning against a tree, staring rigidly at the collection of college kids and assorted others.
"Excuse me, Sergeant. Where can I find Colonel Dundee?" the reporter asked the Canadian.
After a pause, Adnan slowly turned to face the journalist. "Officers' meeting," he drawed. He then walked off, his eyes still focusing on the group of college kids. Tate looked after him with concern. He eagerly went around, interviewing grunts and the occasional company commander, but never came across the Colonel. He went to bed in a sleeping bag on the edge of camp.
APRIL 26TH, 2009
10:00 AM
General Jenkins sit in the officer's tent, speaking with Colonel Groggy and his staff. This was for Groggy's eyes and ears only; not even Jenkins' brigadiers were present.
He had overhead the other divisional commanders discussing strategy earlier. General Ramsay, the commander of the first division, had said to one of his brigade commanders that Jenkins' men were being kept in reserve as they were useless, while the infantry probed ahead through El Grapadura pass. He and his men were going to remain on the beachhead until the way had been cleared. At hearing this, Jenkins undertook his own initiative, and thus set the first major battle of the Palacian Campaign into action.
Jenkins gave Groggy and his officers a rough idea of the terrain and the reasons for their advance.
"Now, we don't know for sure whether or not the Russians have fortified this area." For once, Jenkins was not deliberately deceiving the Colonel; the heavy tree cover had made it impossible to do a proper aerial reconassiance, and no American ground troops had moved into the area yet. "This is your goal, Colonel - reconassiance in force, if there's anyone in your way. Just be careful."
"My men will not fail you, sir," Groggy replied, saluting. Jenkins and Captain O'Brien then departed the tent, leaving Groggy and his staff behind.
Jenkins stared at Groggy's men, still lounging and assing around like campers on a picnic. Captain O'Brien spoke up. "It feels bad. Think of many of these boys and girls have to die for..." He stopped himself, looking at his commander.
Jenkins didn't reply. He walked out of the camp, limping slightly on his right leg, still sore from his clamming. He understood his subordinates feelings, but it didn't matter. He would set his plan into the motion on the morrow, or sooner if possible.
APRIL 26TH, 2009
10:00 PM
If General Jenkins had taken the initiative on his own, Groggy did him one better. After another day of doing virtually nothing but get mosquito-bitten, Groggy decided to move. He got tacit approval from General Ale, claiming he was merely doing a reconassiance sweep; Ale only belatedly told General Jenkins, but it little matered.
Captain Holland and B Company led the advance, followed by the tough German Captain Siegel and G Company. The rest of the command snaked out of the camp on foot, slipping almost-silently into the bush. For the moment, only Captain Shaffer's K Company and the medical staff led by Lt. Jana Gladstone were being left behind, along with a few drunken Palacians.
Tate watched the command snaking out of camp. As they left, he turned and saw a middle-aged, balding man sitting on the edge of the camp, typing into a laptop with a wifi connection, some drunken Palacians standing around him.
"Hello!" Tate said, trying to break the ice. "You a reporter?"
"Of a sort," the man replied quietly.
"I'm Jim Tate of the New York Spin," Tate said, extending his hand.
"Oh." A disgusted look crept over the older man's face, and he didn't return the shake. "Eric Glenn, of the Left-Wing Rant."
"The, uh, weblog?" Tate said. Glenn merely nodded, focused on his work.
"I think Colonel Dundee has exceeded his authority, Eric," Tate said.
"Probably," Glenn replied stoically, still typing. "It wouldn't be the first time."
Tate, sensing an unfriendly tension between them, started to follow the soldiers out of camp. "Aren't you coming?" he asked Glenn.
"Nah, I'll read about it in the paper tomorrow," he said, still not looking at the reporter. Tate, unsure of what to make of the man, began following the soldiers out of camp.
Glenn leered at the pretty Palacian senioritas around him, but they hurried away. He sighed, took a swig of gin, and got back to work.
* * *
Groggy was at the head of the regiment. His thoughts were buzzing, a mixture of excitement, anticipation, and dread. He didn't know what the next day would bring, but some internal instinct told him that he could anticipate something spectacular. The quetsions of what would happen, how he would fare, how his command would fare - all were unanswerable. But at least the answer to these questions was coming in the immediate future.
He fingered a .38 caliber revolver, which had been given to him by Whalestoe earlier that day. Whalestoe said he'd recovered it from the body of Lieutenant Renard, Jenkins' pilot who had been killed by the RPG attack. Dundee didn't know why Whalestoe had given it to him of all people, but as he loved the revolver mechanism and never was able to adjust to automatic pistols, he was determined to use it, and to avenge its former owner ten times over.
Some of the men began singing a chorus of Single Ladies, which greatly amused the Colonel, though it irritated many others. The calls of "If you like it, then you should have put a ring on it!" echoed thorugh the night-time forrest. It reminded the Colonel of his first expedition and their departure from Fort Benlin. Groggy, for his part, started humming The Battle Cry of Freedom, under his breath at first, but eventually he burst out into loud song, much to the consternation of Captain Harriman and Colonel Starbuck.
1ST US INFANTRY CAMP, PALACIOS
11:00 AM
The clam that nearly ended Jenkins' life made for good eating. The lion's share of the meat found its way into the hands of Lieutenant Ackt, who of course. He created Palacio Libre stew, made up of clam, starfish, sea urchins, sea water, seaweed, and gator meat, which killed at least one man, Private Redshirt. But the rest of the soldiers had fun enough devouring the clam in their one way, straight or in a variety of specially-made chowder. They were still eating it for the better part of two days.
Among those begging for food was a small band of Palacian insurrectos. There were about thirty of them, wearing dissheveled clothing, looking dirty and exhausted from weeks - months - in the bush. At their head was Lieutenant Emma, who looked exhausted and bewildered from her weeks of leadership.
General Ale rode up to the gang of insurrectos. "Palacios Libre!" he hailed them. The insurrectos didn't respond. "Can you tell me where I can find some Russkies?"
"You want to see some Russians, you say?" Lieutenant Emma replied. "I'm Lieutenant Emma."
"You're an American?" Ale asked incredulously.
"Soldier of fortune," she replied.
"Soldier of fortune, hell, you're a Democrat!"
Emma smiled. "My men need food and clothing. They've been hiding for weeks. You give us something to eat and I'll give you information."
Ale looked around at his staff, then saw Lieutenant Ackt trying to persuade Ulysess Bunsher and Mike Prankster to eat his Palacios Stew. "See that man over there," he said, pointing to the chef. "He'll fix you up with something." The grateful insurrectos rushed over the Lieutenant, unaware of the noxious gastronomical atrocities that awaited them.
As this discussion went on, a freshly-landed journalist wandered into the camp, carrying a small suitcase in one arm and a laptop in the other. He approached a Sergeant and asked which regiment's camp it was.
Jim Tate, who had witnessed Groggy's extraordinary Florida coup de main, had requested assignment with the ballsy Colonel and his mad-cap regiment from his boss, Mr. Llewelyn, and now he had it. He was prepared to write the story of a lifetime, taking photos with his iPhone, blogging and twittering from the front lines, living the glorious life of an old-time war correspondant.
He surveyed the scene around him, finding the men remarkably relaxed, if somewhat anxious. Seated outside a tent were some of the college kids, Sergeant Falk and Kyle and Susie; the rest were. With them was now-Sergeant Beck; Angel, who struggled with her hair in the humid heat; and the Byronic Tom Weissler, alias "Teacher Tom", a hard-drinking, idealistic man in his mid-forties, whose romanticism and eloquence superceded his sensibility.
Tate smiled at this, the flower of the American intellect and idealists gathered for the cause of liberation, but was equally amused by the hardscrabble collection of gutter trash. He saw C.D., waving a machette, squaring off against the knife-wielding troublemaker Nirvana, in a manly test of strength. He saw Chill Scotsdale, chewing on a piece of clam off the blade of his knife. He saw Captain Nicholas Slick, a dodgy fellow from Connecticut, arguing with a Corporal Bill about the Kennedy Assassination and the merits of various fire arms. He saw Matt and Elizabeth, , sharing a tender moment alone under a small tree. And then he saw Sergeant Adnan leaning against a tree, staring rigidly at the collection of college kids and assorted others.
"Excuse me, Sergeant. Where can I find Colonel Dundee?" the reporter asked the Canadian.
After a pause, Adnan slowly turned to face the journalist. "Officers' meeting," he drawed. He then walked off, his eyes still focusing on the group of college kids. Tate looked after him with concern. He eagerly went around, interviewing grunts and the occasional company commander, but never came across the Colonel. He went to bed in a sleeping bag on the edge of camp.
APRIL 26TH, 2009
10:00 AM
General Jenkins sit in the officer's tent, speaking with Colonel Groggy and his staff. This was for Groggy's eyes and ears only; not even Jenkins' brigadiers were present.
He had overhead the other divisional commanders discussing strategy earlier. General Ramsay, the commander of the first division, had said to one of his brigade commanders that Jenkins' men were being kept in reserve as they were useless, while the infantry probed ahead through El Grapadura pass. He and his men were going to remain on the beachhead until the way had been cleared. At hearing this, Jenkins undertook his own initiative, and thus set the first major battle of the Palacian Campaign into action.
Jenkins gave Groggy and his officers a rough idea of the terrain and the reasons for their advance.
"Now, we don't know for sure whether or not the Russians have fortified this area." For once, Jenkins was not deliberately deceiving the Colonel; the heavy tree cover had made it impossible to do a proper aerial reconassiance, and no American ground troops had moved into the area yet. "This is your goal, Colonel - reconassiance in force, if there's anyone in your way. Just be careful."
"My men will not fail you, sir," Groggy replied, saluting. Jenkins and Captain O'Brien then departed the tent, leaving Groggy and his staff behind.
Jenkins stared at Groggy's men, still lounging and assing around like campers on a picnic. Captain O'Brien spoke up. "It feels bad. Think of many of these boys and girls have to die for..." He stopped himself, looking at his commander.
Jenkins didn't reply. He walked out of the camp, limping slightly on his right leg, still sore from his clamming. He understood his subordinates feelings, but it didn't matter. He would set his plan into the motion on the morrow, or sooner if possible.
APRIL 26TH, 2009
10:00 PM
If General Jenkins had taken the initiative on his own, Groggy did him one better. After another day of doing virtually nothing but get mosquito-bitten, Groggy decided to move. He got tacit approval from General Ale, claiming he was merely doing a reconassiance sweep; Ale only belatedly told General Jenkins, but it little matered.
Captain Holland and B Company led the advance, followed by the tough German Captain Siegel and G Company. The rest of the command snaked out of the camp on foot, slipping almost-silently into the bush. For the moment, only Captain Shaffer's K Company and the medical staff led by Lt. Jana Gladstone were being left behind, along with a few drunken Palacians.
Tate watched the command snaking out of camp. As they left, he turned and saw a middle-aged, balding man sitting on the edge of the camp, typing into a laptop with a wifi connection, some drunken Palacians standing around him.
"Hello!" Tate said, trying to break the ice. "You a reporter?"
"Of a sort," the man replied quietly.
"I'm Jim Tate of the New York Spin," Tate said, extending his hand.
"Oh." A disgusted look crept over the older man's face, and he didn't return the shake. "Eric Glenn, of the Left-Wing Rant."
"The, uh, weblog?" Tate said. Glenn merely nodded, focused on his work.
"I think Colonel Dundee has exceeded his authority, Eric," Tate said.
"Probably," Glenn replied stoically, still typing. "It wouldn't be the first time."
Tate, sensing an unfriendly tension between them, started to follow the soldiers out of camp. "Aren't you coming?" he asked Glenn.
"Nah, I'll read about it in the paper tomorrow," he said, still not looking at the reporter. Tate, unsure of what to make of the man, began following the soldiers out of camp.
Glenn leered at the pretty Palacian senioritas around him, but they hurried away. He sighed, took a swig of gin, and got back to work.
* * *
Groggy was at the head of the regiment. His thoughts were buzzing, a mixture of excitement, anticipation, and dread. He didn't know what the next day would bring, but some internal instinct told him that he could anticipate something spectacular. The quetsions of what would happen, how he would fare, how his command would fare - all were unanswerable. But at least the answer to these questions was coming in the immediate future.
He fingered a .38 caliber revolver, which had been given to him by Whalestoe earlier that day. Whalestoe said he'd recovered it from the body of Lieutenant Renard, Jenkins' pilot who had been killed by the RPG attack. Dundee didn't know why Whalestoe had given it to him of all people, but as he loved the revolver mechanism and never was able to adjust to automatic pistols, he was determined to use it, and to avenge its former owner ten times over.
Some of the men began singing a chorus of Single Ladies, which greatly amused the Colonel, though it irritated many others. The calls of "If you like it, then you should have put a ring on it!" echoed thorugh the night-time forrest. It reminded the Colonel of his first expedition and their departure from Fort Benlin. Groggy, for his part, started humming The Battle Cry of Freedom, under his breath at first, but eventually he burst out into loud song, much to the consternation of Captain Harriman and Colonel Starbuck.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Palacios
Before delving further into our exciting exploits, it may be necessary to give the reader some idea of the geographical make-up of Palacios, considering that it is merely a creation of the present author.
The island, located about forty miles off the coast of Florida, is approximately 110 miles long (North to South) by an average of 22 miles wide (2,220 square miles). It is part of the Russian West Indies, a chain of 11 small islands in the area, but none of them are of as much import at Palacios, unclaimed territory seized by Russia during the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962, with the blessing of Fidel Castro. Its city and landmark names are a hodgepodge of Russian, Spanish and even English.
The island is made up of only a few major cities: it is heavily covered by forest, swamplands and highlands. The largest city is Ciudad de Verde, or Green City, on the very southeastern tip of the island. All of the island's developed cities are on the coast; only a few small towns and villages exist in the interior.
Colonel Strelnikoff, the island's commander, is also its de facto military governor. He has under his command a total of 15,000 Russian troops, along with a roughly equal number of Cuban troops - hastily and generously deployed by the Castros before the American blockade clamped down - special forces and engineering units, his contingent of Marine and Naval personnel, and a small contingent of mostly useless native militia. In total, his forces numbered about 52,000 men, but only 32,000 or so were ready for actual operations.
Due to the blockade, and his island's remoteness from home base, Strelnikoff has concentrated most of his forces around Green City. His main defeneses are at Forts Kurugen and Belkin, and the foreboding Molotov Heights, about eight miles northwest of the city. A small naval flotilla, made up of small craft such as torpedo boats, gunboats, and two out-of-date missile destroyers, guarded the harbor, but were easily bottled up by American naval forces.
Other than this, Strelnikoff has only a few good-sized attachments in the island. He has chosen to center his forces at the decisive point, but in doing so he effectively ceding two-thirds of the islands to the Americans and the ever-present. However, given the island's terrain, Strelnikoff's comparatively small force, and the presence of the partisans, any other tactic was unlikely to succeed.
The main American force landed on the northern shore of the island, focusing around the old Spanish towns of Guernica and Reyes. Small Marine contingents landed and seized several port cities on the west and east of the island, establishing footholds for possible future operations and linking up with insurgent forces.
The only major Russian outpost between the American forces was at El Moro, an old town about thirty miles south of the American positions, where Captain Minolov was stationed with three companies (approximately 500 men), and a battalion-sized force besieging General Cortez's partisan army at the city of Bello in the eastern Nina Hills. Strelnikoff posted small outposts throughout the island, but these rarely numbered more than a few dozen men, and could easily be bypassed or swept aside (and, as it was, were being constantly). He kept all of his heavy machine guns and artillery, other than mortars, grenade launchers and light machine guns, in his main defensive line - he simply could not afford to spare such material for anything but the decisive contest.
However, upon news of Slurry's landing, he yielded to the advice of his subordinates that he offer some resistance to the American landing before they could invest Green City. He sent north two of his four Cuban brigades, along with several Russian machine gun battalions and mortar batteries - and 50 of his best sharpshooters. Under the command of the Cuban Colonel Marquez, this 9,000-man force deployed hastily to El Grapadura, a large, heavily-wooded ravine between the Nina and Rostes hill ranges. This would be the only place the Americans could easily advance from their current position, other than hiking over the Ninas or slogging through swampland, and it was here that Marquez's men made their stand, preparing to ambush the first gringos that.
The island, located about forty miles off the coast of Florida, is approximately 110 miles long (North to South) by an average of 22 miles wide (2,220 square miles). It is part of the Russian West Indies, a chain of 11 small islands in the area, but none of them are of as much import at Palacios, unclaimed territory seized by Russia during the Cuban Missile Crisis in 1962, with the blessing of Fidel Castro. Its city and landmark names are a hodgepodge of Russian, Spanish and even English.
The island is made up of only a few major cities: it is heavily covered by forest, swamplands and highlands. The largest city is Ciudad de Verde, or Green City, on the very southeastern tip of the island. All of the island's developed cities are on the coast; only a few small towns and villages exist in the interior.
Colonel Strelnikoff, the island's commander, is also its de facto military governor. He has under his command a total of 15,000 Russian troops, along with a roughly equal number of Cuban troops - hastily and generously deployed by the Castros before the American blockade clamped down - special forces and engineering units, his contingent of Marine and Naval personnel, and a small contingent of mostly useless native militia. In total, his forces numbered about 52,000 men, but only 32,000 or so were ready for actual operations.
Due to the blockade, and his island's remoteness from home base, Strelnikoff has concentrated most of his forces around Green City. His main defeneses are at Forts Kurugen and Belkin, and the foreboding Molotov Heights, about eight miles northwest of the city. A small naval flotilla, made up of small craft such as torpedo boats, gunboats, and two out-of-date missile destroyers, guarded the harbor, but were easily bottled up by American naval forces.
Other than this, Strelnikoff has only a few good-sized attachments in the island. He has chosen to center his forces at the decisive point, but in doing so he effectively ceding two-thirds of the islands to the Americans and the ever-present. However, given the island's terrain, Strelnikoff's comparatively small force, and the presence of the partisans, any other tactic was unlikely to succeed.
The main American force landed on the northern shore of the island, focusing around the old Spanish towns of Guernica and Reyes. Small Marine contingents landed and seized several port cities on the west and east of the island, establishing footholds for possible future operations and linking up with insurgent forces.
The only major Russian outpost between the American forces was at El Moro, an old town about thirty miles south of the American positions, where Captain Minolov was stationed with three companies (approximately 500 men), and a battalion-sized force besieging General Cortez's partisan army at the city of Bello in the eastern Nina Hills. Strelnikoff posted small outposts throughout the island, but these rarely numbered more than a few dozen men, and could easily be bypassed or swept aside (and, as it was, were being constantly). He kept all of his heavy machine guns and artillery, other than mortars, grenade launchers and light machine guns, in his main defensive line - he simply could not afford to spare such material for anything but the decisive contest.
However, upon news of Slurry's landing, he yielded to the advice of his subordinates that he offer some resistance to the American landing before they could invest Green City. He sent north two of his four Cuban brigades, along with several Russian machine gun battalions and mortar batteries - and 50 of his best sharpshooters. Under the command of the Cuban Colonel Marquez, this 9,000-man force deployed hastily to El Grapadura, a large, heavily-wooded ravine between the Nina and Rostes hill ranges. This would be the only place the Americans could easily advance from their current position, other than hiking over the Ninas or slogging through swampland, and it was here that Marquez's men made their stand, preparing to ambush the first gringos that.
Thursday, April 23, 2009
Jenkins In A Jam (In a Giant CLAM!)
SOMEWHERE IN FLORIDA
APRIL 24TH, 2009
10:00 AM
General Jenkins and his entourage were preparing to depart via helicopter for the front line. But they were being hounded by Colonel Ackatsis, who was still smarting from being outfoxed by Groggy's maneuver, and whose regiment was now trapped in Florida as the machinery of war began to roll forward.
"The 1st Volunteer Infantry was supposed to be left behind as a reserve unit!" Colonel Ackatsis bellowed, his voice cracking. "Those sons-of-bitches stole our transport and flagrantly violated orders!"
"They're simply ambitious," Jenkins said with a hint of amusement and even admiration for his foe.
"Call it what you, they were supposed to stay behind!"
"Now that ain't very smart, Colonel," Jenkins said coolly. "You really think it would be good PR to have the most famous, most talked about regiment in the US Army right now left behind for their most crucial mission? Run that by Slurry and his boys and beat it with a stick."
Before the Colonel could say any more, Captain O'Brien closed the helicopter door, and soon they were flying away, over the Gulf of Mexico, their destination only a short flight away.
GUERNICA, PALACIOS
APRIL 24TH, 2009
1:00 PM
There had been no resistance whatever from the Russian forces. For whatever reason, Colonel Strelnikoff was concentrating his forces in the interior, allowing Groggy's regiment, along with several others, to quickly establish a secure beach head.
Groggy's men quickly went back to their usual routine of leisure, sloth and goofing off, taking in their new climate, which was muggy and hot yet not unpleasant. Mosquitoes weren't biting yet, and the various other horrors and hardships had yet to come creeping out of the jungle, so they regarded it as a paid vacation with automatic weapons.
Groggy and his major officers were in their respective tents, conferencing. They had been the third regiment to arrive on Palacios - the 1st and 5th Florida National Guard Regiments were there first. All were speculating why the Russians had not hit them on the beach head, but no one dared ask too loudly, lest they give Colonel Strelnikoff any ideas.
A helicopter soon hovered over the horizon. It was a sole transport helicopter, just one of dozens, if not hundreds, that had flown in that day alone. In it was no doubt a high-ranking officer - Jenkins or Ale or maybe even General Slurry. But no one really took any notice of it, and they barely heard the quiet hiss or saw the smoke trail as an RPG fluttered through the air over their camp...
* * *
Jenkins, Captain O'Brien, and their pilot, a Lieutenant Renard, were fast approaching the beachhead. They didn't even see the missle until it hit their rotor blades.
"Goddammit, what the hell's going on here?" Jenkins was able to sputter out. But the helicopter was already plunging into the briny shallows, nosefirst.
The helicopter plunged beneath the water, quickly flooding through the damaged roof. Jenkins frantically pulled his sidearm and began shooting out the windows. As dumb an idea as this was, it was the only one that seemed to make sense to the old bastard. Unfortunately, one of his shots hit Renard the pilot in the back of the head, killing him, but he was able to shoot a hole through the window, and eagerly scrambled through it.
Jenkins pushed his way out through the window. He swam through the cloud of blood, and quickly touched bottom with his right foot. He looked beside him and saw the backwash of his copter as it sunk to the bottom beside him. He saw a dark figure - Captain O'Brien, he hoped - push his way to the surface.
That was a close one, Jenkins thought to himself. He crouched down and prepard to propel himself to the surface, waiting for the impact of the copter to subside. But as he pushed himself up, he didn't move, seemingly anchored to the bottom. He tried again, and failed. Frustrated and bewildered, he looked down at his feet -
And saw, to his horror, that his foot was caught in the mouth of a five-foot long giant clam.
* * *
Privates Sven Celeton and Jeremiah "Whalestoe" Pennypacker were standing. The grizzled sailor smoked his corncob pipe as he stared out at sea, not paying much mind the approaching craft, while Celeton, a hugely built Teutonic barbarian, stared stupidly at the craft flying in.
Whalestoe tore off his shirt and jumped into the water. Before Celeton could react in any way, he heard the voice of Major Atlas resounding through the camp: "WHAT THE HELL'S GOING ON HERE!?!"
Before any of the soldiers could answer, another rocket flew into the camp, exploding a supply truck. The soldiers around it ducked for cover, and Celeton dived to the ground, rolling torwards his tent and his gun, as a spray of Kalashnikov bullets pattered into the ground around him.
"HOSTILES ON THE PERIMETER!" Atlas shouted, taking command of the situation. "FIRE AT WILL!"
The soldiers immediately jumped into action, gleefully and sloppily pumping thousands of rifle and machine gun rounds into the bushes. After a few momments the return fire subsided, but the command continued to spray their long-repressed primal bloodlust into the bushes for another long minute.
"CEASE FIRE!" Atlas finally shouted. "Cease fire!"
By this time, Groggy and the rest of his staff had emerged from the tent, taking in the chaotic scene before them. In various states of dress and consciousness, his men and women stood anxiously, fingers twitching above the triggers of their still-hot rifles. The air was thick with rifle smoke, and his ears were
Then there was a splashing sound from the water. The soldiers turned, instinctively aiming ther weapons, as a shaken and exhausted Whalestoe emerged, carrying the unconscious General Jenkins over his shoulder.
"Clam almost got him," Whalestoe announced as he flopped the General's body onto the sand. "Poor damned fool got his leg clamped down about ten feet under the surface. Fortunately I was able to cut its adductor muscles with my trusty knife."
"Then how will he give orders?" Sven asked, with a mixture of amazement and incomprehension.
"The clam, you scurvy idiot!" Whalestoe bellowed. "Cut its muscles and up the shell went. And should we try and salvage it, we'd have one hell of a dinner."
"Just keep it away from Lieutenant Ackt," one of the grunts mumbled. There was scattered laughter amongst the ranks.
"WHO THE HELL WAS RESPONSIBLE FOR SETTING UP THE PERIMETER!?!" Atlas demanded, angrily waving his pistol in the air.
Sergeant Falk rushed forward quickly. "Sir, that was my duty, sir!"
"You, college boy?" Atlas holstered his weapon, a pissed look on his face. "You're just damned lucky nobody got hurt in that shit. Get your fucking frat buddies together and form a picket line 500 yards out ASAP."
"Yes, sir!" Sergeant Falk quickly organized a squad and his men rushed hurriedly, and somewhat sheepishly, out into the woods. There they found three dead Russian troops, bodies mangled by countless bulllets from the 1st, along with countless rodents, birds, frogs, and other hapless fauna unlucky enough to have gotten in the line of fire - including an 11-foot alligator, which Lieutenant Ack eagerly set upon with a carving knife.
"He'll make Colonel, at least," the suitably impressed Groggy commented to Starbuck, Martinez and Harriman, before re-entering his camp.
Suddenly, there came the sound of more rifle fire. The camp occupants instinctively reacted, but it was quickly apparent that the fire was at distance - off to their left, and the 6th Florida's camp. After a few short minutes, it died down, only to start up again on their right.
"Probing action," the now-conscious Jenkins sputtered out on the sand. "Simple reconnassiance."
"You bastards ain't gonna get me yet," Jenkins shouted as he rose to his feet, helped by several of his soldiers. Then added, "Not while I've the Devil's work to do, by damn!" He then marched off, coughing up a mouthful of water, towards a tent nearby, followed by his adjutant.
APRIL 24TH, 2009
10:00 AM
General Jenkins and his entourage were preparing to depart via helicopter for the front line. But they were being hounded by Colonel Ackatsis, who was still smarting from being outfoxed by Groggy's maneuver, and whose regiment was now trapped in Florida as the machinery of war began to roll forward.
"The 1st Volunteer Infantry was supposed to be left behind as a reserve unit!" Colonel Ackatsis bellowed, his voice cracking. "Those sons-of-bitches stole our transport and flagrantly violated orders!"
"They're simply ambitious," Jenkins said with a hint of amusement and even admiration for his foe.
"Call it what you, they were supposed to stay behind!"
"Now that ain't very smart, Colonel," Jenkins said coolly. "You really think it would be good PR to have the most famous, most talked about regiment in the US Army right now left behind for their most crucial mission? Run that by Slurry and his boys and beat it with a stick."
Before the Colonel could say any more, Captain O'Brien closed the helicopter door, and soon they were flying away, over the Gulf of Mexico, their destination only a short flight away.
GUERNICA, PALACIOS
APRIL 24TH, 2009
1:00 PM
There had been no resistance whatever from the Russian forces. For whatever reason, Colonel Strelnikoff was concentrating his forces in the interior, allowing Groggy's regiment, along with several others, to quickly establish a secure beach head.
Groggy's men quickly went back to their usual routine of leisure, sloth and goofing off, taking in their new climate, which was muggy and hot yet not unpleasant. Mosquitoes weren't biting yet, and the various other horrors and hardships had yet to come creeping out of the jungle, so they regarded it as a paid vacation with automatic weapons.
Groggy and his major officers were in their respective tents, conferencing. They had been the third regiment to arrive on Palacios - the 1st and 5th Florida National Guard Regiments were there first. All were speculating why the Russians had not hit them on the beach head, but no one dared ask too loudly, lest they give Colonel Strelnikoff any ideas.
A helicopter soon hovered over the horizon. It was a sole transport helicopter, just one of dozens, if not hundreds, that had flown in that day alone. In it was no doubt a high-ranking officer - Jenkins or Ale or maybe even General Slurry. But no one really took any notice of it, and they barely heard the quiet hiss or saw the smoke trail as an RPG fluttered through the air over their camp...
* * *
Jenkins, Captain O'Brien, and their pilot, a Lieutenant Renard, were fast approaching the beachhead. They didn't even see the missle until it hit their rotor blades.
"Goddammit, what the hell's going on here?" Jenkins was able to sputter out. But the helicopter was already plunging into the briny shallows, nosefirst.
The helicopter plunged beneath the water, quickly flooding through the damaged roof. Jenkins frantically pulled his sidearm and began shooting out the windows. As dumb an idea as this was, it was the only one that seemed to make sense to the old bastard. Unfortunately, one of his shots hit Renard the pilot in the back of the head, killing him, but he was able to shoot a hole through the window, and eagerly scrambled through it.
Jenkins pushed his way out through the window. He swam through the cloud of blood, and quickly touched bottom with his right foot. He looked beside him and saw the backwash of his copter as it sunk to the bottom beside him. He saw a dark figure - Captain O'Brien, he hoped - push his way to the surface.
That was a close one, Jenkins thought to himself. He crouched down and prepard to propel himself to the surface, waiting for the impact of the copter to subside. But as he pushed himself up, he didn't move, seemingly anchored to the bottom. He tried again, and failed. Frustrated and bewildered, he looked down at his feet -
And saw, to his horror, that his foot was caught in the mouth of a five-foot long giant clam.
* * *
Privates Sven Celeton and Jeremiah "Whalestoe" Pennypacker were standing. The grizzled sailor smoked his corncob pipe as he stared out at sea, not paying much mind the approaching craft, while Celeton, a hugely built Teutonic barbarian, stared stupidly at the craft flying in.
Whalestoe tore off his shirt and jumped into the water. Before Celeton could react in any way, he heard the voice of Major Atlas resounding through the camp: "WHAT THE HELL'S GOING ON HERE!?!"
Before any of the soldiers could answer, another rocket flew into the camp, exploding a supply truck. The soldiers around it ducked for cover, and Celeton dived to the ground, rolling torwards his tent and his gun, as a spray of Kalashnikov bullets pattered into the ground around him.
"HOSTILES ON THE PERIMETER!" Atlas shouted, taking command of the situation. "FIRE AT WILL!"
The soldiers immediately jumped into action, gleefully and sloppily pumping thousands of rifle and machine gun rounds into the bushes. After a few momments the return fire subsided, but the command continued to spray their long-repressed primal bloodlust into the bushes for another long minute.
"CEASE FIRE!" Atlas finally shouted. "Cease fire!"
By this time, Groggy and the rest of his staff had emerged from the tent, taking in the chaotic scene before them. In various states of dress and consciousness, his men and women stood anxiously, fingers twitching above the triggers of their still-hot rifles. The air was thick with rifle smoke, and his ears were
Then there was a splashing sound from the water. The soldiers turned, instinctively aiming ther weapons, as a shaken and exhausted Whalestoe emerged, carrying the unconscious General Jenkins over his shoulder.
"Clam almost got him," Whalestoe announced as he flopped the General's body onto the sand. "Poor damned fool got his leg clamped down about ten feet under the surface. Fortunately I was able to cut its adductor muscles with my trusty knife."
"Then how will he give orders?" Sven asked, with a mixture of amazement and incomprehension.
"The clam, you scurvy idiot!" Whalestoe bellowed. "Cut its muscles and up the shell went. And should we try and salvage it, we'd have one hell of a dinner."
"Just keep it away from Lieutenant Ackt," one of the grunts mumbled. There was scattered laughter amongst the ranks.
"WHO THE HELL WAS RESPONSIBLE FOR SETTING UP THE PERIMETER!?!" Atlas demanded, angrily waving his pistol in the air.
Sergeant Falk rushed forward quickly. "Sir, that was my duty, sir!"
"You, college boy?" Atlas holstered his weapon, a pissed look on his face. "You're just damned lucky nobody got hurt in that shit. Get your fucking frat buddies together and form a picket line 500 yards out ASAP."
"Yes, sir!" Sergeant Falk quickly organized a squad and his men rushed hurriedly, and somewhat sheepishly, out into the woods. There they found three dead Russian troops, bodies mangled by countless bulllets from the 1st, along with countless rodents, birds, frogs, and other hapless fauna unlucky enough to have gotten in the line of fire - including an 11-foot alligator, which Lieutenant Ack eagerly set upon with a carving knife.
"He'll make Colonel, at least," the suitably impressed Groggy commented to Starbuck, Martinez and Harriman, before re-entering his camp.
Suddenly, there came the sound of more rifle fire. The camp occupants instinctively reacted, but it was quickly apparent that the fire was at distance - off to their left, and the 6th Florida's camp. After a few short minutes, it died down, only to start up again on their right.
"Probing action," the now-conscious Jenkins sputtered out on the sand. "Simple reconnassiance."
"You bastards ain't gonna get me yet," Jenkins shouted as he rose to his feet, helped by several of his soldiers. Then added, "Not while I've the Devil's work to do, by damn!" He then marched off, coughing up a mouthful of water, towards a tent nearby, followed by his adjutant.
Departure!
APRIL 23RD, 2009
TAMPA, FLORIDA
11:15 AM
News of the imminent departure spread through the camps like wildfire. Their excitement was of a decidedly stupid nature: they'd get to see the fighting almost immediately, with only a minimum of training and drill, but that also meant that they would likely be killed without a moment's notice, or at the least prove incompetent soldiers. Under such circumstances, a baptism of fire would likely drown the lot of them. But they celebrated, hooting and hollering, all the same.
Groggy, on the other hand, was not amused. He was in a state of absolute panic, and was demanding an audience with Generals Ale and Jenkins. As eager as he'd been to go to the front lines and fight, he was smart enough to realize that jumping straight into combat with his men as they were was simply suicide.
Jenkins, of course, had not bothered to tell Groggy that his regiment was supposed to be left behind. But he'd be damned if he'd allow orders to delay his satisfaction, and as he chowed down on a stew served up by Lieutenant Ack and swilled a large gallon of rum, he couldn't help but enjoy watching his subordinate and unwitting victim squirm.
"WHERE'S MY RUM!?!" Captain Harriman shouted, looking at the flask.
"Rum is for heroes, Captain," Jenkins said between chews. "You prove yourself a hero, you can drink out of my jug."
"She proved herself well enough in Mexico, sir," Groggy said impatiently.
"Be that as it may," Jenkins continued, "this is my tent." He then took a long, hard swig, much to Harriman's consternation.
"Our departure is in two hours! Why weren't we informed!?" Groggy demanded, his voice high and frantic.
"Well, it's been said by my friend Gary Busey that getting there is half the battle," Jenkins said with a pompous air of faux-profundity. "What the hell's in this stew?" he said to Lieutenant Ack. The chef leaned forward with pride, but his Colonel interrupted him.
"Where must we go first?" Groggy asked frantically.
"To the transports," Jenkins said. "Boats, planes, helicopters, whatever. But there aren't enough of 'em, so you want to swim to Palacios?" He turned back to Ackt. "Mmm, this is nice and crunchy. What is this?"
Groggy and Joe Starbuck rolled their eyes impatiently at their commanding officer. Anna stared angrily at the General's rum flask, but Captain O'Brien met her eyes with a steely glare, preventing her from making a move.
"Ack's new stew," the cook said proudly. "Porcupine, water mocassin, gator, saw grass, tomaters, and some cayenne peppers for flavor."
"Porcupine? Where'd you get that here in Florida?"
"I'm resourceful," Ack said, chuckling to himself.
Groggy cleared his throat and shot the Lieutenant a look which said: Shut the fuck up.
"Sir, we can't just move an entire regiment out of camp, to transport and into a combat zone in six hours!" Joe Starbuck interjected, his voice as frantic as Jenkins' was impassive.
"Well, you've got to, Colonel Starbuck," Jenkins replied. "Don't say 'can't' in my presence, you don't have my authorization."
"We aren't properly trained, properly equipped, let alone prepared to move," Groggy said, helpfully rattling off his own inadequacies for Jenkins.
"Well, you're here on special appointment of the President, and so am I, Colonel," Jenkins said pointedly, sticking his subordinate's ambition back in his own face. "Your boys need to set an example but getting there first and kicking the Russkies' ass before those pansy-ass National Guard pricks with their weekend warrior bullshit can turn off their PS3's and waddle ashore to claim the glory." He then paused for breath after unspooling that doozy of a sentence, and inhaling a whole chunk of tomato in the process.
"You're on transport with the 71st New York," General Ale said. "But there's only room for one regiment, and it better be yours."
Of course, Groggy thought. The one whose Colonel's daughter I fucked. That only makes sense...
"You need to get to your transport planes right now," Jenkins said impatiently, testily chewing another nibble of Ack's indigestible codswallop.
"General Jenkins, we don't have access to any planes," Starbuck said anxiously.
Jenkins swallowed a bite and looked Starbuck in the eye. "COMMANDEER SOME!" he shouted.
As if struck by lightning, Groggy and his officers sprang into action. Groggy and Starbuck rushed immediately out of the tent, while Captain Harriman lingered long enough to knock Jenkins' jug over, spilling. Captain O'Brien angrily rose up and chased her out of the tent, but Jenkins just looked after them, amused. Everything was going according to plan. Then he coughed up something sharp onto the table, and saw that it was, of all things, a porcupine quill. He looked angrily at Lieutenant Ack, who just smiled stupidly at the general.
* * *
JOHNSON AIR BASE
1:00 PM
The 71st New York was assembling on the tarmac, lined up in perfect formation. A cadre of journalists and reporters, among them the ambitious Jim Tate of Llewelyn's New York Spin, were on hand to cover the event. They praised the bravery of these citizen-soldiers, watching with maudlin sentimentality as Colonel Ackatsis hugged his daughter Liz and his wife Tess, and as the little brother of one of the soldiers gave a flower to his brother. It was stuff Fox News and Hugh Llewelyn masturbated to every night.
As this, they didn't notice the "advance guard" of the 1st Volunteer Regiment hovering around the edge of the tarmic. About a dozen men, led by now-Sergeant Delta/Beck, were preparing to move in and seize the transports from under the noses of their intended.
"Aren't we waiting for Dundee's boys?" one of Ackatsis's officers asked, as the Colonel broke off his embrace.
"Nah, didn't you hear?" he answered. "They're being left behind."
"Alright, so it's just us?" the officer asked.
"Affirmative." He gave his daughter and wife one last kiss, then turned back to his men.
As he said this, Beck drew his side arm, and with two other men, Brewer and Buckley, he snuck up on the pilot of the first plane. He knocked on the cockpit door and the pilot opened it.
"Excuse me sir," Beck said in an officious voice, "These planes are being transferred to the 1st Volunteer Infantry."
"Sorry, Sergeant, I was told the 1st Volunteer Regiment was being left behind."
"Well," Beck said, cocking and aiming his sidearm, "You have new orders."
The pilot, bewildered, rose his hands above his head as Beck climbed into the co-pilot's seat. "Just fly when I say fly," he told the pilot calmly, sticking his gun into the pilot's ribs. He then turned back and nodded, signalling for the rest of his team to replicate his action.
By this time, the 71st was finally ready to board. "71st, prepare to board by Company," the sonorious Sergeant Major shouted.
At this, there was a shrill whistle, and to the shock and consternation of all concerned, 780 hell-raising madcaps frog-marched double-time across the tarmac, eagerly leaping into the three transport planes.
"Hey! Hey!" Ackatsis could only cry out impotently as he watched Groggy executed his coup de main. One of Ackatsis's aides rushed up to the Colonel, saluting.
"What the hell is going on here?" Ackatsis demanded.
"Sir, we don't know," the officer reported. "The MPs... there were too many of them to stop."
"What do we do, shoot the bastards?" Ackatsis angrily cried. "I'm gonna shoot that fucking Dundee, anyway," he muttered, gritting his teeth, hand reaching towards his pistol.
Jim Tate, the journalist, had his finger slip on the camera at just the perfect moment. The picture came out, showing the 71st perfectly assembled just as Groggy's hellions burst onto the scene behind him. It was sure-fire Pulitzer material. And now, instead of taking more pictures, he simply watched the anarchic, most unmilitary behavior unfolding with a mixture of awe and admiration.
The crowd behaved with a mixture of shock and indignation, except for Liz Ackatsis, who just smiled at her beau's brave action. She spotted the Colonel, the last man aboard the first plane, just it began to take off, and her slight smile turned into a broad grin.
"THESE ARE MY PLANES, DUNDEE!" the enraged Ackatsis shouted, waving his pistol. Two of his aides rushed forward to restrain him.
"Take off, now!" Beck shouted to the pilot of the first plane.
Groggy's men poked their heads and guns through the doors of the planes. "You want to make something of it?" Dan taunted from the second plane, pointing an M-60 at the crowd of Guardsmen and laughing maniacally.
"You're finished, Dundee!" Ackatsis shouted. "FINISHED!"
Groggy's men were less than civil in celebrating their victory. Just as the plane's engines came to life, one of his men unzipped their jeans and took a long piss on the tarmac below them. Several others pulled down their pants and mooned the Guardsmen en masse. Groggy just stood in the doorway of his plane, beaming with a mixture of pride and disbelief, as the plane took off. Once they were safely above the ground, the shouts of the Colonel and his men still echoing through the air, he climbed safely aboard and closed the door, turning to Captain Harriman, who was missing a strand of hair from her tussle with Captain O'Brien.
"Now THAT'S what I call decisiveness!" Groggy said excitedly. A broadly grinning Harriman could only salute in agreement.
TAMPA, FLORIDA
11:15 AM
News of the imminent departure spread through the camps like wildfire. Their excitement was of a decidedly stupid nature: they'd get to see the fighting almost immediately, with only a minimum of training and drill, but that also meant that they would likely be killed without a moment's notice, or at the least prove incompetent soldiers. Under such circumstances, a baptism of fire would likely drown the lot of them. But they celebrated, hooting and hollering, all the same.
Groggy, on the other hand, was not amused. He was in a state of absolute panic, and was demanding an audience with Generals Ale and Jenkins. As eager as he'd been to go to the front lines and fight, he was smart enough to realize that jumping straight into combat with his men as they were was simply suicide.
Jenkins, of course, had not bothered to tell Groggy that his regiment was supposed to be left behind. But he'd be damned if he'd allow orders to delay his satisfaction, and as he chowed down on a stew served up by Lieutenant Ack and swilled a large gallon of rum, he couldn't help but enjoy watching his subordinate and unwitting victim squirm.
"WHERE'S MY RUM!?!" Captain Harriman shouted, looking at the flask.
"Rum is for heroes, Captain," Jenkins said between chews. "You prove yourself a hero, you can drink out of my jug."
"She proved herself well enough in Mexico, sir," Groggy said impatiently.
"Be that as it may," Jenkins continued, "this is my tent." He then took a long, hard swig, much to Harriman's consternation.
"Our departure is in two hours! Why weren't we informed!?" Groggy demanded, his voice high and frantic.
"Well, it's been said by my friend Gary Busey that getting there is half the battle," Jenkins said with a pompous air of faux-profundity. "What the hell's in this stew?" he said to Lieutenant Ack. The chef leaned forward with pride, but his Colonel interrupted him.
"Where must we go first?" Groggy asked frantically.
"To the transports," Jenkins said. "Boats, planes, helicopters, whatever. But there aren't enough of 'em, so you want to swim to Palacios?" He turned back to Ackt. "Mmm, this is nice and crunchy. What is this?"
Groggy and Joe Starbuck rolled their eyes impatiently at their commanding officer. Anna stared angrily at the General's rum flask, but Captain O'Brien met her eyes with a steely glare, preventing her from making a move.
"Ack's new stew," the cook said proudly. "Porcupine, water mocassin, gator, saw grass, tomaters, and some cayenne peppers for flavor."
"Porcupine? Where'd you get that here in Florida?"
"I'm resourceful," Ack said, chuckling to himself.
Groggy cleared his throat and shot the Lieutenant a look which said: Shut the fuck up.
"Sir, we can't just move an entire regiment out of camp, to transport and into a combat zone in six hours!" Joe Starbuck interjected, his voice as frantic as Jenkins' was impassive.
"Well, you've got to, Colonel Starbuck," Jenkins replied. "Don't say 'can't' in my presence, you don't have my authorization."
"We aren't properly trained, properly equipped, let alone prepared to move," Groggy said, helpfully rattling off his own inadequacies for Jenkins.
"Well, you're here on special appointment of the President, and so am I, Colonel," Jenkins said pointedly, sticking his subordinate's ambition back in his own face. "Your boys need to set an example but getting there first and kicking the Russkies' ass before those pansy-ass National Guard pricks with their weekend warrior bullshit can turn off their PS3's and waddle ashore to claim the glory." He then paused for breath after unspooling that doozy of a sentence, and inhaling a whole chunk of tomato in the process.
"You're on transport with the 71st New York," General Ale said. "But there's only room for one regiment, and it better be yours."
Of course, Groggy thought. The one whose Colonel's daughter I fucked. That only makes sense...
"You need to get to your transport planes right now," Jenkins said impatiently, testily chewing another nibble of Ack's indigestible codswallop.
"General Jenkins, we don't have access to any planes," Starbuck said anxiously.
Jenkins swallowed a bite and looked Starbuck in the eye. "COMMANDEER SOME!" he shouted.
As if struck by lightning, Groggy and his officers sprang into action. Groggy and Starbuck rushed immediately out of the tent, while Captain Harriman lingered long enough to knock Jenkins' jug over, spilling. Captain O'Brien angrily rose up and chased her out of the tent, but Jenkins just looked after them, amused. Everything was going according to plan. Then he coughed up something sharp onto the table, and saw that it was, of all things, a porcupine quill. He looked angrily at Lieutenant Ack, who just smiled stupidly at the general.
* * *
JOHNSON AIR BASE
1:00 PM
The 71st New York was assembling on the tarmac, lined up in perfect formation. A cadre of journalists and reporters, among them the ambitious Jim Tate of Llewelyn's New York Spin, were on hand to cover the event. They praised the bravery of these citizen-soldiers, watching with maudlin sentimentality as Colonel Ackatsis hugged his daughter Liz and his wife Tess, and as the little brother of one of the soldiers gave a flower to his brother. It was stuff Fox News and Hugh Llewelyn masturbated to every night.
As this, they didn't notice the "advance guard" of the 1st Volunteer Regiment hovering around the edge of the tarmic. About a dozen men, led by now-Sergeant Delta/Beck, were preparing to move in and seize the transports from under the noses of their intended.
"Aren't we waiting for Dundee's boys?" one of Ackatsis's officers asked, as the Colonel broke off his embrace.
"Nah, didn't you hear?" he answered. "They're being left behind."
"Alright, so it's just us?" the officer asked.
"Affirmative." He gave his daughter and wife one last kiss, then turned back to his men.
As he said this, Beck drew his side arm, and with two other men, Brewer and Buckley, he snuck up on the pilot of the first plane. He knocked on the cockpit door and the pilot opened it.
"Excuse me sir," Beck said in an officious voice, "These planes are being transferred to the 1st Volunteer Infantry."
"Sorry, Sergeant, I was told the 1st Volunteer Regiment was being left behind."
"Well," Beck said, cocking and aiming his sidearm, "You have new orders."
The pilot, bewildered, rose his hands above his head as Beck climbed into the co-pilot's seat. "Just fly when I say fly," he told the pilot calmly, sticking his gun into the pilot's ribs. He then turned back and nodded, signalling for the rest of his team to replicate his action.
By this time, the 71st was finally ready to board. "71st, prepare to board by Company," the sonorious Sergeant Major shouted.
At this, there was a shrill whistle, and to the shock and consternation of all concerned, 780 hell-raising madcaps frog-marched double-time across the tarmac, eagerly leaping into the three transport planes.
"Hey! Hey!" Ackatsis could only cry out impotently as he watched Groggy executed his coup de main. One of Ackatsis's aides rushed up to the Colonel, saluting.
"What the hell is going on here?" Ackatsis demanded.
"Sir, we don't know," the officer reported. "The MPs... there were too many of them to stop."
"What do we do, shoot the bastards?" Ackatsis angrily cried. "I'm gonna shoot that fucking Dundee, anyway," he muttered, gritting his teeth, hand reaching towards his pistol.
Jim Tate, the journalist, had his finger slip on the camera at just the perfect moment. The picture came out, showing the 71st perfectly assembled just as Groggy's hellions burst onto the scene behind him. It was sure-fire Pulitzer material. And now, instead of taking more pictures, he simply watched the anarchic, most unmilitary behavior unfolding with a mixture of awe and admiration.
The crowd behaved with a mixture of shock and indignation, except for Liz Ackatsis, who just smiled at her beau's brave action. She spotted the Colonel, the last man aboard the first plane, just it began to take off, and her slight smile turned into a broad grin.
"THESE ARE MY PLANES, DUNDEE!" the enraged Ackatsis shouted, waving his pistol. Two of his aides rushed forward to restrain him.
"Take off, now!" Beck shouted to the pilot of the first plane.
Groggy's men poked their heads and guns through the doors of the planes. "You want to make something of it?" Dan taunted from the second plane, pointing an M-60 at the crowd of Guardsmen and laughing maniacally.
"You're finished, Dundee!" Ackatsis shouted. "FINISHED!"
Groggy's men were less than civil in celebrating their victory. Just as the plane's engines came to life, one of his men unzipped their jeans and took a long piss on the tarmac below them. Several others pulled down their pants and mooned the Guardsmen en masse. Groggy just stood in the doorway of his plane, beaming with a mixture of pride and disbelief, as the plane took off. Once they were safely above the ground, the shouts of the Colonel and his men still echoing through the air, he climbed safely aboard and closed the door, turning to Captain Harriman, who was missing a strand of hair from her tussle with Captain O'Brien.
"Now THAT'S what I call decisiveness!" Groggy said excitedly. A broadly grinning Harriman could only salute in agreement.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
The Go-Ahead
APRIL 19TH, 2009
TAMPA, FLORIDA
10:45 PM
Groggy lay awake in bed, thinking. Out the open window he could still hear light music playing on the lawn below, the hardiest of the officers engaging in one last dance before it became too.
He looked beside him and saw Liz, the young College Republican, sleeping peacefully, cradling her head in his right arm, a cherubic look of innocence painted on her face. The irony of the phrase College Republicans always amused him, and this beautiful, petite girl melting into his arms was the embodiment of such hypocrisy.
The Colonel had of course enjoyed his brief liaison with this girl, the warm flesh and tangled limbs of intercourse, as any living being would. But it just brought his mind back to Edith. Carnal relations were one thing, but a romance of the heart was something else entirely. And how he pined for Edith, even with a warm body beside him and the second great adventure of his life before him.
Sooner or later, you'll have to move on, Groggy told himself. And he took what momentary solace he could in the arms of this beautiful girl, running his hands through her gossamer, brown hair, pressing her close to his chest. And the thought that, just twenty-four hours from now, Edith would be the least of his concerns.
APRIL 22ND, 2009
WASHINGTON, DC
10:30 AM
It had been decided. After weeks of planning, the course of war was finally set.
President Obama had done everything he could to avert war, but he couldn't help but be prepared for it. Secretary Gates and several of his generals had tried to convince the President that giving the Russians a "bloody nose". No offensive operations elsewhere, no other provocatory actions - but the liberation of the Russian West Indies was now imperative.
It was a hope, of course, with no certainty attached to it, but America had causus belli in the Caribbean which they lacked elsewhere. And Obama was merely following the footsteps of his predecessors JFK and Reagan and Clinton, who opted for cautious half-measures rather than knock-out blows. After all, something had to be done, but when confronting Russia, it might not be best to go all the way.
"The Russians have been completely unable to reinforce this garrison or impede our movement in any way," Admiral Talleyrand said to the President. "Intelligence from CIA, NSA and our guerilla allies indicate no major troop movements on Palacios within the last two weeks. They remain mostly concentrated around Fort Kurugen and Mesa Verde."
"And not one attempt has been made by the Russians to sortie our ships, our air bases, or any other targets," Secretary Gates added. "Although, there are rumors of Cuban involvement."
"Maybe they're just stupid. Or lazy," Obama said, contemplating the meaning of this. "Or that they don't have any missiles or rockets at all."
Secretary Clinton leaned forward eagerly. "Or, that they don't take us seriously."
Obama looked wearily at his rival-turned-Secretary of State. "You're setting me up, aren't you?" he asked, his voice low and grave.
Clinton shrugged in mock astonishment. "I have no idea what you might mean, Mr. President," she said, struggling to keep her voice at an even tone.
Obama lowered his head into his hands. He closed eyes, thinking of guidance. He'd done everything possible to avert war, but it was rushing towards him like a freight train. There was nothing he could do, and the only thing he could do was get it over with, as quickly and painlessly as possible.
"Alright, you sons of bitches," he said, looking at the assembled brass. "Do it."
At Obama's admission of defeat, the room bristled with scarcely-contained excitement. Secretary Clinton jumped to her feet and pulled out a piece of paper, which she handed eagerly to Admiral Talleyrand. "Pass this along, Admiral," she said, not even trying to hide her excitement. The Admiral walked over to the communications over.
"Richard, send this," the Admiral dictated to a junior officer. "Defense Department to XXII Corps," he read, the officer repeating the message in code through a secure phone line. "Commence offensive operations against RWI immediately."
War had finally begun.
TAMPA, FLORIDA
10:45 PM
Groggy lay awake in bed, thinking. Out the open window he could still hear light music playing on the lawn below, the hardiest of the officers engaging in one last dance before it became too.
He looked beside him and saw Liz, the young College Republican, sleeping peacefully, cradling her head in his right arm, a cherubic look of innocence painted on her face. The irony of the phrase College Republicans always amused him, and this beautiful, petite girl melting into his arms was the embodiment of such hypocrisy.
The Colonel had of course enjoyed his brief liaison with this girl, the warm flesh and tangled limbs of intercourse, as any living being would. But it just brought his mind back to Edith. Carnal relations were one thing, but a romance of the heart was something else entirely. And how he pined for Edith, even with a warm body beside him and the second great adventure of his life before him.
Sooner or later, you'll have to move on, Groggy told himself. And he took what momentary solace he could in the arms of this beautiful girl, running his hands through her gossamer, brown hair, pressing her close to his chest. And the thought that, just twenty-four hours from now, Edith would be the least of his concerns.
APRIL 22ND, 2009
WASHINGTON, DC
10:30 AM
It had been decided. After weeks of planning, the course of war was finally set.
President Obama had done everything he could to avert war, but he couldn't help but be prepared for it. Secretary Gates and several of his generals had tried to convince the President that giving the Russians a "bloody nose". No offensive operations elsewhere, no other provocatory actions - but the liberation of the Russian West Indies was now imperative.
It was a hope, of course, with no certainty attached to it, but America had causus belli in the Caribbean which they lacked elsewhere. And Obama was merely following the footsteps of his predecessors JFK and Reagan and Clinton, who opted for cautious half-measures rather than knock-out blows. After all, something had to be done, but when confronting Russia, it might not be best to go all the way.
"The Russians have been completely unable to reinforce this garrison or impede our movement in any way," Admiral Talleyrand said to the President. "Intelligence from CIA, NSA and our guerilla allies indicate no major troop movements on Palacios within the last two weeks. They remain mostly concentrated around Fort Kurugen and Mesa Verde."
"And not one attempt has been made by the Russians to sortie our ships, our air bases, or any other targets," Secretary Gates added. "Although, there are rumors of Cuban involvement."
"Maybe they're just stupid. Or lazy," Obama said, contemplating the meaning of this. "Or that they don't have any missiles or rockets at all."
Secretary Clinton leaned forward eagerly. "Or, that they don't take us seriously."
Obama looked wearily at his rival-turned-Secretary of State. "You're setting me up, aren't you?" he asked, his voice low and grave.
Clinton shrugged in mock astonishment. "I have no idea what you might mean, Mr. President," she said, struggling to keep her voice at an even tone.
Obama lowered his head into his hands. He closed eyes, thinking of guidance. He'd done everything possible to avert war, but it was rushing towards him like a freight train. There was nothing he could do, and the only thing he could do was get it over with, as quickly and painlessly as possible.
"Alright, you sons of bitches," he said, looking at the assembled brass. "Do it."
At Obama's admission of defeat, the room bristled with scarcely-contained excitement. Secretary Clinton jumped to her feet and pulled out a piece of paper, which she handed eagerly to Admiral Talleyrand. "Pass this along, Admiral," she said, not even trying to hide her excitement. The Admiral walked over to the communications over.
"Richard, send this," the Admiral dictated to a junior officer. "Defense Department to XXII Corps," he read, the officer repeating the message in code through a secure phone line. "Commence offensive operations against RWI immediately."
War had finally begun.
Monday, April 20, 2009
Tampa - Soldiers' Camp
While their officers partied and planned, the grunts of the 1st US Volunteer Infantry enjoyed a peaceful night together. Tampa was at least a preferable change of scenery from San Antonio, although it was just as warm and even muggier. And other than light drills, they had little to do but relax and engage in leisure activities. If nothing else, it was a nice break from
The men - and women - of the regiment fraternized amongst each other openly, most of their prejudices and earlier divisions forgotten for the moment. They were overseen by a handful of junior officers, including Captain Rick Holland, commander of D Company, a tough, hard-nosed veteran of Afghanistan. He was one of the more no-nonsense gentlemen in the 1st, and thus wouldn't be having a fun time at the party anyway - even if he'd been invited.
C.D., the man with the machette, had set up an X-Box and was playing Grand Theft Auto 4 and Halo on it. Several of the college students, most notably Kyle and Susie, were heavily engaged in these games.
Around a campfire sat a small group of individuals, including Charlie and Terry - now both Sergeants - Elizabeth, Matt and Dan, Beck (or Delta), Bunsher and Steven, Whalestoe and Sven, Chill Scotsdale, Miles Truelove, and Lieutenant Ack, a mincing, self-possessed little officer who had appointed himself regimental cook. Even though the regiment had a ready supply of MREs and food graciously supplied by patriotic citizens, he insisted that he was a gourmet chef, and kept rustling up the most unappetizing meals. Early in San Antonio, he had whipped together a quick stew out of thorn bushes, tarantulas and tobasco sauce; everyone who ate it died. Ever since then, the regiment had been weary of Ack's cooking, but he insisted on serving dishes of snake, spider, pheasant and anything else crawing or flying within his line of sight.
"Did you see the welcome we got coming down here?" Bunsher mused. "All these people turning out to see us off, waving flags and givin' us food and sweets and beer. It's like we're heroes already."
"We are heroes," Charlie declared. "We're fighting for a higher purpose than some rich oil man's profits. We're fighting for democracy, for freedom-"
"I second that," Dan - Corporal Walker - cut in. "We need to re-establish our military might. Certainly we've got a bad black eye from Iraq. Time for us to prove ourselves the conquer.
"You aren't fighting a war for Bush anymore," Truelove said cynically. "There won't be any democracy this time, just plain old American hegemony."
"Hege-what?" Chill asked.
"Somebody's been reading Noam Chomsky," Beck uttered under his breath.
Truelove ignored the remark and turned to his colleagues. "Tell me, why are you so eager for this war? Are you so eager to be shot, to have your young bodies torn to shreds before you've even properly come, to kill and maim thousands of men and women and snuff out your own lives before you're even of drinking age? And for what?"
There was a long, contemplative pause as those assembled pondered this. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire, the dim sound of dance music drifting from the Shafter hotel, and Lieutenant Ack shovelling his latest ambiguous creations into bowls.
"Well, it's better than Pitt," Terry replied.
"Here here!" Elizabeth said, raising a glass coffee in toast.
"Hell, I'm WELL past drinkin' age!" Bunsher replied, farting and burping.
Truelove turned to Beck. "Why are you here, John?" he asked.
Beck was silent, his eyes on the ground, pondering his response. "I've nothing better to do," he answered quietly, flashing the Corporal a look of contempt.
"Well, grub's ready," Ack interrupted. He started passing around bowls, but was disappointed when everyone turned his food down. Except Bunsher, who devoured his bowl and then passed gas with the force of an F5 tornado.
A petite, cheery red-haired girl walked by at this moment.
"Hey Angel," Truelove called to her. The girl walked over, smiling.
"Why is it that you're with us? Are you excited about the prospect of killing your fellow man?"
"Oh no, I detest violence," Angel said with disgust.
"Well, then quite funny to find you in the military, isn't it?" Truelove sneered. Charlie rephrased the question more gently. "Private Zamarry, why are you with us?"
"Because I don't abide genocide," Angel replied. "I went to Palacios a few summers ago on vacation, and I got to see firsthand what the Russians are doing. It's a beautiful island, with great people - but now they're all being killed for no reason. If I'm going to die for a cause, it might as well be for the freedom of my fellow man."
"I will drink to that," Dan murmured. "And to the United States of America."
"To President Obama," Charlie continued.
"Don't even go there," Dan warned.
At just this moment, Adnan - now a Sergeant Major - walked up to the campfire, having overheard the commotion.
"What are you doin' here, Canuck?" Bunsher asked. "This toast is for Americans only."
"Oh, come now, Bunsher," Charlie replied, "this toast is for all freedom-loving men of the world!"
"Why are you here, Canuck?" Steve continued. "This ain't your war, it's ours."
Adnan ignored the slur and smiled. He then glimpsed Beck sitting at the edge of the file, and his smile faded instantly.
"Because I have a job to do," he mumbled. Then he stalked off into the darkness, with Beck looking after him nervously, subconsciously fingering his handgun.
Miles' face still registered disgust and bewilderness at the patriotism, the bigotry, the foolhardy idealism and nationalism of his colleagues. "You realize that we fail in this in even the slightest way, all of us will be killed?" he bellowed.
"Yes," Terry answered, "and the whole world will probably go to war."
Charlie stood up and rose his coffee cup, offering a toast. "Gentlemen, if we failed and are killed, I certainly hope that the world DOES go to war!"
Everyone assembled raised their cups or bottles high, clinking them in a toast.
"The world at war," Dan mused, staring dreamily into the night sky.
"A world war?" Beck replied, finally adding his voice to the conversation. "Now THAT would be something to go out on..."
The men - and women - of the regiment fraternized amongst each other openly, most of their prejudices and earlier divisions forgotten for the moment. They were overseen by a handful of junior officers, including Captain Rick Holland, commander of D Company, a tough, hard-nosed veteran of Afghanistan. He was one of the more no-nonsense gentlemen in the 1st, and thus wouldn't be having a fun time at the party anyway - even if he'd been invited.
C.D., the man with the machette, had set up an X-Box and was playing Grand Theft Auto 4 and Halo on it. Several of the college students, most notably Kyle and Susie, were heavily engaged in these games.
Around a campfire sat a small group of individuals, including Charlie and Terry - now both Sergeants - Elizabeth, Matt and Dan, Beck (or Delta), Bunsher and Steven, Whalestoe and Sven, Chill Scotsdale, Miles Truelove, and Lieutenant Ack, a mincing, self-possessed little officer who had appointed himself regimental cook. Even though the regiment had a ready supply of MREs and food graciously supplied by patriotic citizens, he insisted that he was a gourmet chef, and kept rustling up the most unappetizing meals. Early in San Antonio, he had whipped together a quick stew out of thorn bushes, tarantulas and tobasco sauce; everyone who ate it died. Ever since then, the regiment had been weary of Ack's cooking, but he insisted on serving dishes of snake, spider, pheasant and anything else crawing or flying within his line of sight.
"Did you see the welcome we got coming down here?" Bunsher mused. "All these people turning out to see us off, waving flags and givin' us food and sweets and beer. It's like we're heroes already."
"We are heroes," Charlie declared. "We're fighting for a higher purpose than some rich oil man's profits. We're fighting for democracy, for freedom-"
"I second that," Dan - Corporal Walker - cut in. "We need to re-establish our military might. Certainly we've got a bad black eye from Iraq. Time for us to prove ourselves the conquer.
"You aren't fighting a war for Bush anymore," Truelove said cynically. "There won't be any democracy this time, just plain old American hegemony."
"Hege-what?" Chill asked.
"Somebody's been reading Noam Chomsky," Beck uttered under his breath.
Truelove ignored the remark and turned to his colleagues. "Tell me, why are you so eager for this war? Are you so eager to be shot, to have your young bodies torn to shreds before you've even properly come, to kill and maim thousands of men and women and snuff out your own lives before you're even of drinking age? And for what?"
There was a long, contemplative pause as those assembled pondered this. The only sounds were the crackling of the fire, the dim sound of dance music drifting from the Shafter hotel, and Lieutenant Ack shovelling his latest ambiguous creations into bowls.
"Well, it's better than Pitt," Terry replied.
"Here here!" Elizabeth said, raising a glass coffee in toast.
"Hell, I'm WELL past drinkin' age!" Bunsher replied, farting and burping.
Truelove turned to Beck. "Why are you here, John?" he asked.
Beck was silent, his eyes on the ground, pondering his response. "I've nothing better to do," he answered quietly, flashing the Corporal a look of contempt.
"Well, grub's ready," Ack interrupted. He started passing around bowls, but was disappointed when everyone turned his food down. Except Bunsher, who devoured his bowl and then passed gas with the force of an F5 tornado.
A petite, cheery red-haired girl walked by at this moment.
"Hey Angel," Truelove called to her. The girl walked over, smiling.
"Why is it that you're with us? Are you excited about the prospect of killing your fellow man?"
"Oh no, I detest violence," Angel said with disgust.
"Well, then quite funny to find you in the military, isn't it?" Truelove sneered. Charlie rephrased the question more gently. "Private Zamarry, why are you with us?"
"Because I don't abide genocide," Angel replied. "I went to Palacios a few summers ago on vacation, and I got to see firsthand what the Russians are doing. It's a beautiful island, with great people - but now they're all being killed for no reason. If I'm going to die for a cause, it might as well be for the freedom of my fellow man."
"I will drink to that," Dan murmured. "And to the United States of America."
"To President Obama," Charlie continued.
"Don't even go there," Dan warned.
At just this moment, Adnan - now a Sergeant Major - walked up to the campfire, having overheard the commotion.
"What are you doin' here, Canuck?" Bunsher asked. "This toast is for Americans only."
"Oh, come now, Bunsher," Charlie replied, "this toast is for all freedom-loving men of the world!"
"Why are you here, Canuck?" Steve continued. "This ain't your war, it's ours."
Adnan ignored the slur and smiled. He then glimpsed Beck sitting at the edge of the file, and his smile faded instantly.
"Because I have a job to do," he mumbled. Then he stalked off into the darkness, with Beck looking after him nervously, subconsciously fingering his handgun.
Miles' face still registered disgust and bewilderness at the patriotism, the bigotry, the foolhardy idealism and nationalism of his colleagues. "You realize that we fail in this in even the slightest way, all of us will be killed?" he bellowed.
"Yes," Terry answered, "and the whole world will probably go to war."
Charlie stood up and rose his coffee cup, offering a toast. "Gentlemen, if we failed and are killed, I certainly hope that the world DOES go to war!"
Everyone assembled raised their cups or bottles high, clinking them in a toast.
"The world at war," Dan mused, staring dreamily into the night sky.
"A world war?" Beck replied, finally adding his voice to the conversation. "Now THAT would be something to go out on..."
Sunday, April 19, 2009
Tampa - Officer's HQ
APRIL 19TH, 2009
TAMPA, FLORIDA
4:00 PM
It was an immaculate day at the general operational HQ of the Provisional XXII Corps, the Shafter Hotel. The hotel's lawn swarmed with officers and their ladies, aides, cooks, servants, maids, journalists and other various flotsam, taking in the beautiful, 70 degree sunny day, marred only by a bit of humidity that caused perspiration in all present. Otherwise, however, it was an ideal occasion.
Colonel Dundee, accompanied as always by Captain Harriman - her commission was finally official - and Lt. Colonel Starbuck, grand-standed before a horde of reporters. Like a preening peacock, he was showing off his feathers, boasting the glories of his new command to the press and anyone who would listen to his ranting.
"I have the greatest regiment of ragtag ragamuffins ever assembled!" he boasted. "We have tough guys, Internet losers, educated college students, cowpunchers, Indians, homosexuals closeted and otherwise, drunks, women, teachers, sailors, policemen, and even Canadian, British and other international volunteers - all men of the world who love freedom. Due to the very incongruity of its nature I've no doubt we could whip Caesar's Tenth Legion! We'd make General Lee sit down and cry in his garden. We could rout Genghis Khan and make Atilla the Hun run at the very sight of us!"
Groggy's boasting didn't phase Captain Harriman at all, but Joe was dumbfounded. As long as he'd known Groggy, he'd always sensed the egotism brimming just underneath the surface. Now Groggy was in the lime-light, at the front line of a real war, not just an ego exercise, and he took the opportunity to act like a clown. He never ceased to be baffled by his old friend and superior, and today was no exception. He knew he and the other officers had a duty to keep him in line, and off the deep end - Mexico had taught him that much. He just hoped he would remember when the time came, and that the Majors would be intelligent enough to recognize their duty as such.
After the interview concluded, Groggy talked with Joe. "Colonel, what do you make of all this?"
"You did well, sir," he said tactfully.
"Let me ask you something," he said, taking his subordinate aside. "Do you really think our boys are ready for front line combat duty?"
Joe stared at him. He didn't answer, but the look of consternation in his eyes indicated an answer in the negative.
"I agree," Groggy said. Lauren approached, wearing a pretty tan dress, and took Joe's arm.
"You certainly are enthusiastic, Colonel," she said.
"I have faith in my men, and my officers," the Colonel replied, looking thankfully at Joe. He turned and signalled for Captain Harriman to approach him.
"Captain," he said, "you have done fine work requisitioning our supplies so far. I don't know what the hell these gentlemen have planned, but I think we're gonna be on the road. Do we have any transports?"
"No, sir," the Captain replied.
"Shit. Well, we'll need some of those, and we need to find some skilled drivers to go along with them."
"Do they need skill?" Harriman answered.
"By God, Captain, be serious!" Groggy said. This statement baffled Anna, but she listened anyway. "This is a modern army and a real war, not just an unauthorized foree against some shitfaced redskin bucks. We need to give some semblance of competence."
"All evidence to the contrary, sir," Anna replied.
Groggy grimaced; he was amused by the truth the of the remark, but at the same time he didn't feel he could take it with his usual humor. Had something come over him? Or did his heretofore glory-clouded brain actually appreciate the gravity of the situation?
"See what you can do," the Colonel continued. "I want you to go ask the Quatermaster where you can get some trucks and personal careers. And what you do after that" - he looked around conspiratorially - "is your business."
Anna smiled and saluted. "Yes, sir." She then departed, but did not leave.
I can only hope she stays sober enough to get the cars, Groggy thought to himself.
He walked over to see his brother, now-Captain Grenouille, who was sipping a large glass of Kool Aid. After his escape from the French POW camp, he had bartered and bribed his way across the border into the US. He barely managed to escape the situation with life and dignity intact, and had resigned from the Army immediately thereafter, trying to go into civil engineering and architecture. However, when war broke out and a company command was offered, he felt obliged by ties of blood - if not patriotism - to agree.
As he chatted with his brother, Groggy couldn't help but notice a young girl, probably high school or college age, staring at him. She smiled when he caught sight of her, and he quickly averted his eyes, turning back to his brother.
"I didn't exactly have the greatest experience serving under you last time," Grenouille said with huge understatement.
"Well, this time it's official," Groggy answered quietly.
"Well, a brother is a brother, and a promotion is a promotion," Grenouille said. Groggy leaned forward to embrace him, but Grenouille simply saluted and walked off, quickly engaging another young officer in conversation. Groggy was upset by his brother's evident coldness, but he could hardly blame him after what he'd been through in Mexico.
* * *
6:00 PM
General Jenkins was waiting impatiently, along with the other divisional and brigade commanders, for General Slurry to arrive. He had supposedly been arriving by helicopter, but he was almost an hour late for the meeting. Whereas it was tolerably warm, even pleasant, outside, it was sweltering inside the makeshift headquarters, as the air conditioners were broken, and the body heat of two dozen men only exacerbated circumstances.
To pass the time, Jenkins conversed with his aide in treachery, Captain O'Brien, and Brigadier General O.O. Ale, who commanded his Second Brigade - that which included Groggy's 1st Volunteer Regiment. Ale was an eccentric individual, as most men in this army were, claiming he was the descendent of a line of Scottish warlords, generals and politicians, and that he himself had fought in every American conflict from Dominica in 1964 to the latest war in Iraq. This spotty but charming old man would have to play the role of intermediary in Jenkins' schemes to bring down Groggy, an unknowing pawn in his grand scheme.
A Sergeant shouted for attention, and all officers sprung to their feet as General Slurry finally entered, followed by two junior officers. Pot-bellied, with thinning silver hair and wearing dorky sunglasses, he was a less-than-imposing figure, and looked out-of-place in a uniform. One perusal of his appearance convinced Jenkins that he was dealing with a useless amateur. Sure, he'd been in the Army for years, but Slurry had never seen combat - he'd somehow shuffled from desk job to desk job, pushing pencils and taking notes, and attained the rank of Brigadier General. Only now, he had three stars on his shoulder instead of just one - he was a corps commander.
God bless the professional Army, Jenkins thought. He himself had served in Vietnam, Grenada, and Desert Storm, had been wounded twice, but now found himself subordinate to a bumbling ignoramus whose thirty years of paper cuts and lumbago from lifting crates of staples earned him the right to a Purple Heart and a corps command.
Slurry ordered everyone to be seated, and the briefing of the situation began at once. Everything was a mess - supplies were backed up all up and down the Eastern Seaboard, the units allegedly taking part in the expedition were distributed all through. It was all a scene of disastrous chaos, rank incompetence of the worst sort. But there was even worse news forthcoming.
"Secretary Gates gave me specific orders which are of importance to you," Slurry said, as a deep, hacking cough escaped from his face. "The corps is being reconstituted. I'm only taking 50,000 men with me to the Caribbean. That means two divisions of you are either being left behind or diverted elsewhere." He coughed again, and a young Lieutenant rushed forward with a handkerchief.
The divisional and brigade commanders looked at each other in consternation. Some had reasons of pride to be upset; Jenkins had his Machiavellian scheme.
"Generals Howe and Longstreet, your divisions are both made up of National Guard units. You are being reassigned to the Eastern Department to await further orders. General Ramsey, your regular division is going."
Jenkins audibly sighed with relief as he heard this. He looked conspiratorially at the Captain. The plan was still a go.
"Jenkins," Slurry said. "Your division is to be significantly reduced in strength."
Jenkins was surprised. "How do you mean, sir?"
"Just what I said," Slurry continued. "Your troop is a polyglot amalgamation of National Guard troops, regulars, volunteers. Now we could use some of these for PR purposes, but we need rid of the ones who will only be an encumbrance to our operations."
"I was given this divisional command by the specific orders of the President," Jenkins protested, engaging in more than a bit of hyperbole. It seemed rather beside the point anyway, a feeble weasing rather than.
"Well, we want as few incompetent men as possible. Your volunteer regiments are going to be left behind. You'll have to swallow your pride, but you're only going with two brigades."
That's not what Jenkins cared about all, of course, but he couldn't tell a corps commander he was waging a private vendetta against a junior officer. As he sat there, he tuned out General Slurry's further address and began thinking of a way to subvert him. There had to be a way to get around this. Had to...
* * *
Outside, the sun began to set, but the socializing went on as before. Officers talked, walked the grounds with their wives, lounged on porches, drinking lemonade and beer and iced tea and soda. The air was heavy with humidity and early-evening mist, but fortunately it was just comfortably warm.
Groggy walked restlessly about the grounds, thinking. Whatever excitement and bonhomme he gave off publically, in private he was immensely concerned about the situation. As eager as he was to redeem himself and achieve his glory in the field, he had no illusions. He wasn't suspicious of Jenkins' scheming, merely baffled by the rapidity of everything. Clearly the fact that Russia was not launching nuclear weapons indicated that there was no particular rush. What the hell could it all be leading up to?
He watched as General Jenkins and his young aide emerged from the hotel, engrossed in conversation. He didn't know why, but he already some feeling of suspicion about these gentlemen. He stared at the aide again, sure he knew the Captain from somewhere. It couldn't be Tim's relative, could it? That just wouldn't happen...
"Excuse me, Colonel." A gruff voice burst into his thoughts, preventing his suspicions from becoming solid. He turned and saw a tall, middle-aged officer in a splendid dress uniform standing next to him. "I'm Colonel Ackatsis of the 71st New York regiment. We're a National Guard unit."
Groggy saluted. "How do you do, Colonel? I know your regiment very well, by reputation of course. Two tours in Iraq?"
"Three, actually." Ackatsis smiled somewhat uneasily. "Erm... I have to say I found your expedition to Mexico quite... interesting. Not sure I would have done it that way, but..."
"It needed to be done," Groggy said tersely. "The troubles with the French were a complication."
"Well, anyway, we're in a brigade together, sir," Ackatsis continued, "and..." He turned as a girl came up beside him. "Ah yes, my daughter wanted to meet you sir. Her name's Liz."
Groggy turned and saw... yes, it was the girl from earlier. He was instantly smitten by her looks. She was fair small and petite, but with long, fine brown hair and green eyes, wearing a black suit jacket and blouse. And she had an excited look on her young face, indicating a degree of interest.
"She goes to the University of Florida," Ackatsis said.
"I'm President of the College Republicans," Liz said softly, a nervous, beaming smile on her face.
Groggy felt a smile creeping over his own face. "What year are you?" he asked.
"Junior," she replied.
Colonel Ackatsis kept talking, but Groggy and Liz's eyes were locked, checking each other out. It may not have exactly been love at first sight, but mutual interest certainly; and all of Groggy's military thoughts and worries evaporated at the presence of a beautiful, interested girl overtook his masculine ego.
Liz's father was distracted by one of his officers,
"What are you studying at Florida?" Groggy asked.
"English Literature, right now," Liz said, running a hand through her hair. "Although I'm considering a History minor."
"History was always my favorite subject," Groggy continued.
"Yeah, it's fascinating." Liz twirled a lock of her hair in her fingers.
Whatever thoughts were flashing through Liz's head were immaterial to chemical impulse. She was a college student, and Republican or not, hormones and the allure of an older, distinguished, heroic man in uniform was too strong for her to resist. Groggy was anything but the ideal masculine man, but he certainly wasn't going to tell her that.
Groggy looked around, and saw Liz's father on the far end of the lawn, engaged in discussion with a Major. He then grabbed Liz's arm and began pulling her towards the hotel.
Liz could hardly believe it. "Where are we going?" she asked breathlessly.
"Inside," Groggy replied.
Liz didn't want to say anything more; the both of them were swept up by the situation, and soon were hurrying up the stairs to Groggy's hotel room.
TAMPA, FLORIDA
4:00 PM
It was an immaculate day at the general operational HQ of the Provisional XXII Corps, the Shafter Hotel. The hotel's lawn swarmed with officers and their ladies, aides, cooks, servants, maids, journalists and other various flotsam, taking in the beautiful, 70 degree sunny day, marred only by a bit of humidity that caused perspiration in all present. Otherwise, however, it was an ideal occasion.
Colonel Dundee, accompanied as always by Captain Harriman - her commission was finally official - and Lt. Colonel Starbuck, grand-standed before a horde of reporters. Like a preening peacock, he was showing off his feathers, boasting the glories of his new command to the press and anyone who would listen to his ranting.
"I have the greatest regiment of ragtag ragamuffins ever assembled!" he boasted. "We have tough guys, Internet losers, educated college students, cowpunchers, Indians, homosexuals closeted and otherwise, drunks, women, teachers, sailors, policemen, and even Canadian, British and other international volunteers - all men of the world who love freedom. Due to the very incongruity of its nature I've no doubt we could whip Caesar's Tenth Legion! We'd make General Lee sit down and cry in his garden. We could rout Genghis Khan and make Atilla the Hun run at the very sight of us!"
Groggy's boasting didn't phase Captain Harriman at all, but Joe was dumbfounded. As long as he'd known Groggy, he'd always sensed the egotism brimming just underneath the surface. Now Groggy was in the lime-light, at the front line of a real war, not just an ego exercise, and he took the opportunity to act like a clown. He never ceased to be baffled by his old friend and superior, and today was no exception. He knew he and the other officers had a duty to keep him in line, and off the deep end - Mexico had taught him that much. He just hoped he would remember when the time came, and that the Majors would be intelligent enough to recognize their duty as such.
After the interview concluded, Groggy talked with Joe. "Colonel, what do you make of all this?"
"You did well, sir," he said tactfully.
"Let me ask you something," he said, taking his subordinate aside. "Do you really think our boys are ready for front line combat duty?"
Joe stared at him. He didn't answer, but the look of consternation in his eyes indicated an answer in the negative.
"I agree," Groggy said. Lauren approached, wearing a pretty tan dress, and took Joe's arm.
"You certainly are enthusiastic, Colonel," she said.
"I have faith in my men, and my officers," the Colonel replied, looking thankfully at Joe. He turned and signalled for Captain Harriman to approach him.
"Captain," he said, "you have done fine work requisitioning our supplies so far. I don't know what the hell these gentlemen have planned, but I think we're gonna be on the road. Do we have any transports?"
"No, sir," the Captain replied.
"Shit. Well, we'll need some of those, and we need to find some skilled drivers to go along with them."
"Do they need skill?" Harriman answered.
"By God, Captain, be serious!" Groggy said. This statement baffled Anna, but she listened anyway. "This is a modern army and a real war, not just an unauthorized foree against some shitfaced redskin bucks. We need to give some semblance of competence."
"All evidence to the contrary, sir," Anna replied.
Groggy grimaced; he was amused by the truth the of the remark, but at the same time he didn't feel he could take it with his usual humor. Had something come over him? Or did his heretofore glory-clouded brain actually appreciate the gravity of the situation?
"See what you can do," the Colonel continued. "I want you to go ask the Quatermaster where you can get some trucks and personal careers. And what you do after that" - he looked around conspiratorially - "is your business."
Anna smiled and saluted. "Yes, sir." She then departed, but did not leave.
I can only hope she stays sober enough to get the cars, Groggy thought to himself.
He walked over to see his brother, now-Captain Grenouille, who was sipping a large glass of Kool Aid. After his escape from the French POW camp, he had bartered and bribed his way across the border into the US. He barely managed to escape the situation with life and dignity intact, and had resigned from the Army immediately thereafter, trying to go into civil engineering and architecture. However, when war broke out and a company command was offered, he felt obliged by ties of blood - if not patriotism - to agree.
As he chatted with his brother, Groggy couldn't help but notice a young girl, probably high school or college age, staring at him. She smiled when he caught sight of her, and he quickly averted his eyes, turning back to his brother.
"I didn't exactly have the greatest experience serving under you last time," Grenouille said with huge understatement.
"Well, this time it's official," Groggy answered quietly.
"Well, a brother is a brother, and a promotion is a promotion," Grenouille said. Groggy leaned forward to embrace him, but Grenouille simply saluted and walked off, quickly engaging another young officer in conversation. Groggy was upset by his brother's evident coldness, but he could hardly blame him after what he'd been through in Mexico.
* * *
6:00 PM
General Jenkins was waiting impatiently, along with the other divisional and brigade commanders, for General Slurry to arrive. He had supposedly been arriving by helicopter, but he was almost an hour late for the meeting. Whereas it was tolerably warm, even pleasant, outside, it was sweltering inside the makeshift headquarters, as the air conditioners were broken, and the body heat of two dozen men only exacerbated circumstances.
To pass the time, Jenkins conversed with his aide in treachery, Captain O'Brien, and Brigadier General O.O. Ale, who commanded his Second Brigade - that which included Groggy's 1st Volunteer Regiment. Ale was an eccentric individual, as most men in this army were, claiming he was the descendent of a line of Scottish warlords, generals and politicians, and that he himself had fought in every American conflict from Dominica in 1964 to the latest war in Iraq. This spotty but charming old man would have to play the role of intermediary in Jenkins' schemes to bring down Groggy, an unknowing pawn in his grand scheme.
A Sergeant shouted for attention, and all officers sprung to their feet as General Slurry finally entered, followed by two junior officers. Pot-bellied, with thinning silver hair and wearing dorky sunglasses, he was a less-than-imposing figure, and looked out-of-place in a uniform. One perusal of his appearance convinced Jenkins that he was dealing with a useless amateur. Sure, he'd been in the Army for years, but Slurry had never seen combat - he'd somehow shuffled from desk job to desk job, pushing pencils and taking notes, and attained the rank of Brigadier General. Only now, he had three stars on his shoulder instead of just one - he was a corps commander.
God bless the professional Army, Jenkins thought. He himself had served in Vietnam, Grenada, and Desert Storm, had been wounded twice, but now found himself subordinate to a bumbling ignoramus whose thirty years of paper cuts and lumbago from lifting crates of staples earned him the right to a Purple Heart and a corps command.
Slurry ordered everyone to be seated, and the briefing of the situation began at once. Everything was a mess - supplies were backed up all up and down the Eastern Seaboard, the units allegedly taking part in the expedition were distributed all through. It was all a scene of disastrous chaos, rank incompetence of the worst sort. But there was even worse news forthcoming.
"Secretary Gates gave me specific orders which are of importance to you," Slurry said, as a deep, hacking cough escaped from his face. "The corps is being reconstituted. I'm only taking 50,000 men with me to the Caribbean. That means two divisions of you are either being left behind or diverted elsewhere." He coughed again, and a young Lieutenant rushed forward with a handkerchief.
The divisional and brigade commanders looked at each other in consternation. Some had reasons of pride to be upset; Jenkins had his Machiavellian scheme.
"Generals Howe and Longstreet, your divisions are both made up of National Guard units. You are being reassigned to the Eastern Department to await further orders. General Ramsey, your regular division is going."
Jenkins audibly sighed with relief as he heard this. He looked conspiratorially at the Captain. The plan was still a go.
"Jenkins," Slurry said. "Your division is to be significantly reduced in strength."
Jenkins was surprised. "How do you mean, sir?"
"Just what I said," Slurry continued. "Your troop is a polyglot amalgamation of National Guard troops, regulars, volunteers. Now we could use some of these for PR purposes, but we need rid of the ones who will only be an encumbrance to our operations."
"I was given this divisional command by the specific orders of the President," Jenkins protested, engaging in more than a bit of hyperbole. It seemed rather beside the point anyway, a feeble weasing rather than.
"Well, we want as few incompetent men as possible. Your volunteer regiments are going to be left behind. You'll have to swallow your pride, but you're only going with two brigades."
That's not what Jenkins cared about all, of course, but he couldn't tell a corps commander he was waging a private vendetta against a junior officer. As he sat there, he tuned out General Slurry's further address and began thinking of a way to subvert him. There had to be a way to get around this. Had to...
* * *
Outside, the sun began to set, but the socializing went on as before. Officers talked, walked the grounds with their wives, lounged on porches, drinking lemonade and beer and iced tea and soda. The air was heavy with humidity and early-evening mist, but fortunately it was just comfortably warm.
Groggy walked restlessly about the grounds, thinking. Whatever excitement and bonhomme he gave off publically, in private he was immensely concerned about the situation. As eager as he was to redeem himself and achieve his glory in the field, he had no illusions. He wasn't suspicious of Jenkins' scheming, merely baffled by the rapidity of everything. Clearly the fact that Russia was not launching nuclear weapons indicated that there was no particular rush. What the hell could it all be leading up to?
He watched as General Jenkins and his young aide emerged from the hotel, engrossed in conversation. He didn't know why, but he already some feeling of suspicion about these gentlemen. He stared at the aide again, sure he knew the Captain from somewhere. It couldn't be Tim's relative, could it? That just wouldn't happen...
"Excuse me, Colonel." A gruff voice burst into his thoughts, preventing his suspicions from becoming solid. He turned and saw a tall, middle-aged officer in a splendid dress uniform standing next to him. "I'm Colonel Ackatsis of the 71st New York regiment. We're a National Guard unit."
Groggy saluted. "How do you do, Colonel? I know your regiment very well, by reputation of course. Two tours in Iraq?"
"Three, actually." Ackatsis smiled somewhat uneasily. "Erm... I have to say I found your expedition to Mexico quite... interesting. Not sure I would have done it that way, but..."
"It needed to be done," Groggy said tersely. "The troubles with the French were a complication."
"Well, anyway, we're in a brigade together, sir," Ackatsis continued, "and..." He turned as a girl came up beside him. "Ah yes, my daughter wanted to meet you sir. Her name's Liz."
Groggy turned and saw... yes, it was the girl from earlier. He was instantly smitten by her looks. She was fair small and petite, but with long, fine brown hair and green eyes, wearing a black suit jacket and blouse. And she had an excited look on her young face, indicating a degree of interest.
"She goes to the University of Florida," Ackatsis said.
"I'm President of the College Republicans," Liz said softly, a nervous, beaming smile on her face.
Groggy felt a smile creeping over his own face. "What year are you?" he asked.
"Junior," she replied.
Colonel Ackatsis kept talking, but Groggy and Liz's eyes were locked, checking each other out. It may not have exactly been love at first sight, but mutual interest certainly; and all of Groggy's military thoughts and worries evaporated at the presence of a beautiful, interested girl overtook his masculine ego.
Liz's father was distracted by one of his officers,
"What are you studying at Florida?" Groggy asked.
"English Literature, right now," Liz said, running a hand through her hair. "Although I'm considering a History minor."
"History was always my favorite subject," Groggy continued.
"Yeah, it's fascinating." Liz twirled a lock of her hair in her fingers.
Whatever thoughts were flashing through Liz's head were immaterial to chemical impulse. She was a college student, and Republican or not, hormones and the allure of an older, distinguished, heroic man in uniform was too strong for her to resist. Groggy was anything but the ideal masculine man, but he certainly wasn't going to tell her that.
Groggy looked around, and saw Liz's father on the far end of the lawn, engaged in discussion with a Major. He then grabbed Liz's arm and began pulling her towards the hotel.
Liz could hardly believe it. "Where are we going?" she asked breathlessly.
"Inside," Groggy replied.
Liz didn't want to say anything more; the both of them were swept up by the situation, and soon were hurrying up the stairs to Groggy's hotel room.
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