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.