The outside world trembled with anticipation as the two superpowers prepared for all-out war. Last-ditch negotiations, with President Obama and the UN trying every possible way to bring about a cessation of hostilities, were proving fruitless. Fingers hovered over the red buttons that would bring Armageddon, armies stood awaiting orders to unleash hell, and the world's nations stood on the brink of oblivion. Americans celebrated their initial victory, with Admiral Undershaft the new God of the political Right for his accidental heroism; West Europe and Asia were ambivalent, unsure whose victory would be more advantageous to their craven political powers; Eastern Europe braced for the inevitable advance of the Russians; and Russians screamed for the blood of Americans, and the vengeance of their humiliation in the Bering Sea. President Medevev, nor Mr. Putin, were highly ambivalent; their bluster had been checkmated, but how could they respond? Was an all-out invasion of the US feasible? The only alternative was an all-out nuclear war, and no one wanted to destroy the human race. At least, not yet.
CAMP MILIUS
APRIL 16, 2009
Corporal Beck - or Corporal Delta - arose at the first trickle of dawn, just in time to hear Reverie played and watch the Stars and Stripes climb the flagpole. The last few days had been pretty routine for him, but it was proving to be hell for his assorted companions, most of whom were raw recruits, dilettantes and guys with nothing better to do.
The drill instructor was Gunnery Sergeant A.B. Mount. Mount had never served in an actual war, and physically was a scrawny wimp, but he certainly was a loud and pompous individual. The first time he greeted troopers, he had addressed them in most stentorian tones, "VERILY I SAY UNTO THEE..." before launching into a speech. "I am the man's man," he said, loudly but unconvincingly. "I'll whip you into a bunch of hardasses that could make Chuck Norris and Steven Seagal cry!" A recruit named Matt Garth snickered, but Mountyordered the trooper forward and punched him across his nose, bloodying him. There was no BSing of the Sergeant after that.
For over a week, in the hot Texas sun, they fired rifles, learned hand-to-hand combat, proper etiquette, exercised, ate MREs and other assorted crap, and generally engaged in rigorous training. Their muscles ached, their bodies were sore, as they put themselves through the stress of becoming soldiers. Mount tried to turn them into passionate killing machines, and the beast inside of each of them was slowly being unleashed - albeit, more easily in some than others.
There were still the predictable divisions within the unit. Private Naslund, who had gotten in so much trouble for striking the Colonel a week before, was the most persistent troublemaker; he was mostly a surly jerk, and he didn't seem to have many, if any, friends. He continued pestering "the college boys and their cunts", leading to another dust-up with Terry, who had been made Corporal. The Colonel would have to keep a sharp eye out on that trouble-making bastard.
The gender division was proving most problematic; in the eyes of their male colleagues, the girls simply weren't pulling their weight, and most of the men wanted them gone. Harrassment and peeping continued daily. Some of the girls appreciated the attention, but most were disgusted. Fortunately, no more rape attempts occurred, Groggy having seen that the MPs keep an eye on rowdiness. That didn't prevent certain embarrassing incidents from happening - most notably when Elizabeth, the plump, cheery girl who formed one of Pitt's "Band of Brothers", was startled by a leering gang of male recruits while bathing. Fortunately for her, her boyfriend Matt arrived and stood off the bastards, threatening to castrate them for their trouble.
Still, all this aside, they were slowly becoming a command. It would take awhile, but there was starting to be a semblance of cohesion, of a will towards a common goal and purpose. It always took time to train troops, and at the very least, when the baptism of fire came, they'd have little choice but to stick together.
Colonel Dundee visited and reviewed his troops daily, and occasionally even dined and conversed with them, but mostly he was an aloof presence, watching his men and women training impatiently. He was always there, rarely speaking, spectacles gleaming in the sunlight, his face bearing an odd look that combined anticipation and anxiety, with that Harriman girl - still bearing a Sergeant's uniform, with Captain's epaulettes hastily and unconvincingly applied to the shoulders - always standing next to him.
Today was a special day, however. The regiment was being reviewed by Major General Jenkins, who had been appointed command of the 3rd Division, Provisional XXII Corps. This was the expeditionary force, made up mostly of raw recruits and National Guardsmen, that was being organized to conquer the Russian West Indies. There were rumors of Russian guns and missiles being implaced on the island, and even with Governor Palin's house in danger of shelling, a Russian stronghold just off the coast of Florida could not be ignored. Divisional and brigade commands were still being sorted out, and the command of the corps was uncertain - whether it would go to General Ricardo Sanchez, former CentCom commander, or Josephus V. Slurry, a borderline useless old general suffering from an angry case of grouchiness, was being debated in the Pentagon.
Corporal Beck - who viewed his insignificant rank as a private joke - stood at attention. He surveyed his officers. In the center, Groggy was, as usual, twitching with barely-restrained anticipation and anxiety; Captain-Sergeant Harriman stood at his right side, a slight smirk belying her faux-seriousness; Lieutenant-Colonel Starbuck on his left, quite smart-looking in his uniform; and to either side of them, the battalion commanders, Majors Martinez and Atlas, and an assortment of junior officers behind them. Beck then turned his gaze towards the so-called soldiers standing next to him, looking their best in dress uniforms, but the horribly awkward manner in which they stood and held their rifles belied their inexperience.
These poor bastards wouldn't last a day in combat, Beck thought to himself, smirking. Even with Afghanistan and Iraq going on, the US government isn't this desperate. We'll probably spend the war cleaning latrines in Tulsa.
Then, for the first time, he saw him. A face caught his attention, flickering in the corner of his eyes. Beck tried to find it again, but was unsuccessful. He had seen a dark-complected, dark-haired man somewhere in the crowd. He'd sworn it was a face he'd seen before, but he couldn't place it.
But if it was someone Beck had seen before, it was almost certainly a bad thing.
"Ten-SHUN!" a call came, snapping the Corporal from his reverie.
Riding into camp on, of all things, a handsome white stallion, came the General. He was wearing a rough-hewn camo uniform. His hair was gray, his face intensely serious, almost cruel. Riding next to him was his aid, a fresh-faced young man, Captain O'Brien.
The soldiers presented arms in the sloppiest manner possible; one or two soldiers even dropped their weapons. Jenkins reviewed the troops, his face impassive. His eyes betrayed a mixture of disgust and humor at the sight before him. He then turned to the officers, who looked slightly more dignified and professional. He rode through the ranks, then dismounted from his horse, followed by his aide.
"Well, what do you make of 'em, Tom?" the General asked his aide.
"Not very promising, sir," came the reply.
"Ah," Jenkins said, a gleam in his cold gray eyes, "but that makes it all the easier for us two."
The Captain marched over to the regiment's assembled officers. The General looked after him, and a smile slowly crept onto his reptilian face.
* * *
3:00 PM
"You are to relocate to the headquarters of the Provisional XXII Corps," General Jenkins said. "By Sunday you need to have your regiment in Tampa and ready for departure to the RWI's at a moment's notice."
This news came as a shock to Groggy and his officers.
"General, our men have only been training for a week!" Groggy shouted anxiously.
"Well, the world might not EXIST in another week Colonel!" Jenkins retorted. Groggy and his officers couldn't argue this point.
"This whole expedition is a fucking circus," Jenkins said, "and I'm the fucking ringmaster. You're my main attraction," he said, pointing to Groggy. The Colonel wasn't sure whether to take this as an insult or not; he looked confused askance at the General, and Captain Harriman, who shrugged helplessly.
"Forgive me, sir, but shouldn't circus animals be properly trained?" Major Martinez asked, also taken aback by the analogy.
"We ain't Ringling Brothers, Major," Jenkins spit. "We're that cheap-ass travelling circus with the Bearded Lady and a three-legged goat that came to your grandpappy's hick town once a year in the summer."
Groggy couldn't disagree with the nature of this comment, bizarre though it struck him, but he was curious about how such a caricature of a human being could have two stars pinned on his shoulder. But, stranger things had indeed happened in the US Army; and he was living proof. And if something were to happen, he knew he had at least had someone other than himself to blame.
Still, his mind couldn't help wondering; why would raw recruits with barely a week of training - and fairly light training at that, barely learning how to use their weapons and wear their uniforms - be sent immediately to a probable front-line unit? The situation must be really desperate, or really crazy - or both.
The meeting broke up before too much longer. As Groggy left the tent, he looked at the General's young aid. He took a long look at the Captain's face, and there was something.
Do I know that man? Groggy asked. A thought flickered into his head, but he quickly dismissed it. No, it couldn't be. He exited the tent.
"Madness," he uttered under his breath.
"Sir?" Sergeant-Captain Harriman replied.
"Utter madness," he repeated.
* * *
Groggy had reason to be suspicious of the General. For, unbeknownst to the Colonel, he was none other than the cousin of Dave Jenkins - the treacherous, backstabbing trooper who had caused so much problems in Groggy's previous expedition, whom Groggy had been forced to summarily execute for his murderous insubordination.
Jenkins had read his cousin's correspondances and accounts of the expedition, and knew what had happened, knew all about his prospective victim. He knew Groggy's weaknesses, his ego and vanity, and all Jenkins had to do was give fuel towards this, to give him a sense of importance and let him drive himself to destruction. He wouldn't need to do much himself, just give him a shove to get things started.
And as an even crueller joke, he'd gotten the kin of Groggy's vanquished rival, Tim Tyreen O'Brien, as his personal aide-de-camp - Captain Tom O'Brien. To Jenkins' recknoning, there was going to be hell to pay, a score to settle, in the Caribbean, and it couldn't come soon enough.
* * *
11:00 PM
The long day of pomp and pageantry, and a rare degree of leisure - only light target practice and exercises had been engaged in for the sake of the General's visit - was finally at an end. Jenkins and his aide had left around 7 o'clock, departing back to Tampa.
Beck began drifting off to sleep, towards the edge of the camp. He thought he heard footsteps creeping up beside him, but figured it was just Bunsher returning from his usual late-night excretions.
Then, he felt two strong hands grab him from behind, wrapping around his throat.
"Corporal John J. Delta," he heard a rough voice growl into his ear. "Or is it Julius J. Beck? If you are who I think you are, the shit's gonna come down on you real fast. If it weren't for those MPs over there I'd kill you right here and now."
His head held down, Beck gasped for breath, unable to speak, barely able to breathe. He tried to tilt his head, to see who his tormentor was.
"The first opportunity I get, I'm hauling your ass back to Montreal and justice," the voice continued. "And if I can't, I'll wring your scrawny neck and bury your body so far in the woods that the shitting bears won't find it."
Beck gasped, choking, feeling the strong hands around his throat. He then heard, out of the corner of his ear, one of his colleagues, either Bunsher or Aclea, stirring in their sleep. The hands let go, and Beck gasped out heavily, welcoming the rush of warm air into his throat. When he turned his head, all he saw was a tall, dark shadow disappearing into the row of tents. He turned his head to the ground and breathed heavily, gasping and wheezing until his lungs were back to normal.
So he hadn't escaped after all.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Thursday, April 9, 2009
Camp Milius
OUTSIDE SAN ANTONIO, TEXAS
APRIL 9th, 2009
7:05 PM
Groggy Dundee, Sergeant Harriman and a small group of staff officers drove in a jeep down the dirt road. The military hadn't been able to arrange a flight, for God knows what reason, so they'd spent the last ten hours driving in a small car with a jabberjaw Sergeant whom Sergeant Harriman desperately wanted to execute.
It had been a tense last few days for everyone. For Groggy, his personal hurt temporarily superceded the importance of war and country. The shock of Edith's dumping him had rendered him all the usual raw emotions - anger, sadness, shock and depression. But now that there was a job to do, something to immerse himself in, he was hoping he could move on from the hurt she'd caused. After all, he had his war to fight.
At present, one of Groggy's staffers - Captain Martinez - was trying to make a phone call. There was news of further military action somewhere, but being in this car, they were only getting sketchy reports. Groggy had left his blackberry in his apartment, and wasn't entirely sure that Edith hadn't swiped it out of spite.
Finally, they reached the entrance to the camp perimeter. An MP asked the driver for ID and waved them through. They drove on towards the camp.
Well, Groggy thought to himself, unable to speak above the din of the car engine. Let's find out what we're made of.
CAMP MILIUS, TEXAS
7:20 PM
The scene before them was something out of Matthew Brady. Hundreds of recruits, at least 700 men and women, had created a sprawling tent city in the middle of nowhere. They were barbecuing and eating, taking baths, reading newspapers or sitting around plyaing games or finding ways to divert themselves in the gleaming spring twilight. One of them had set up a TV and X-Box and was playing Halo 3. Other than a handful of uniformed and armed MPs standing guard, they could have been vacationers on a camping trip.
Groggy frowned as he dismounted from the Jeep, regarding. An MP sergeant sighted him and called out, "Camp, TEN-SHUN!" as Groggy and his entourage approached. Everyone snapped to attention instantly, some more sloppily or unwilling than others.
Groggy returned the salute stiffly. "As you were, ladies and gentlemen," Groggy said, walking with his entourage into the middle of the camp. As they walked, he surveyed the rag-tag collection of volunteers in detail. They'd need considerable training and organization to make into a cohesive unit; but that's why they were here.
"Where are our provisions?" Groggy asked Sergeant Harriman.
"They're on the way, sir," she replied. "Got about 800 M-16s from Ft. Pickens base," she noted, not mentioning the highly questionable way she had procured said weaponry.
"Well, that's a start," the Colonel replied. "Ammunition?"
"50,000 rounds."
"Well, for training that should be sufficient. For now. M-60s?"
"At least two of those."
Groggy smiled, clasping his hand on the Sergeant's shoulder. "Well, we're off to a start, anyway," he said. "You'd make a fine, if morally dubious, quartermaster." Then a thought struck him. "You're a still a Sergeant, are you not?"
"Yes, sir," Harriman said quietly. She hadn't wanted to bring it up, but her promotion ceremony had been post-poned. She was pissed off as all hell about it, but figured her Colonel had enough on his plate to worry about.
"Well, I'm naming you Acting Captain until the official commission comes in," Dundee said.
"Thank you, sir," Harriman said gratefully.
"Time to find out who's in charge of this rabble," Groggy said. "There must be an officer here somewhere..."
As he said this, Groggy felt a man bump into his chest. He looked down and saw a dark-haired young man sprawling to the ground, panting as the result of a series of blows.
"Charlie Keyes!" he proclaimed. "Nice to see you here!"
With a great deal of delighted surprised, the wounded recruit - one of Groggy's college chums - stood at attention and saluted. "Groggy!" he said. "It's been awhile. Nice to finally have you here!"
Groggy turned and saw a thin, wiry hippie-looking man standing next to him, his knuckles raw from the fight. He had a small gathering of men behind him, standing anxiously in the presence of their commanding officer.
"Who are you?" Groggy asked him tersely.
"Nirvana Naslund, sir," came the reply. Two of the other men with him stepped forward.
"What's this about, gentlemen?" the Colonel asked.
"Well, this man here started jabbering about blowing stuff up in an effort to impress me, I reckon."
"I was quoting Shaw, sir," Charlie replied. "Whatever can blow man up, can blow society up."
"You have something against educated men, Mr. Naslund?" Groggy asked.
"No, but the way he said it was what provoked me."
"How did you say it?" Groggy asked his old friend.
"With force and firmness," Charlie replied stubbornly, his eyes on Naslund.
"Like a pansy spoiling for a fight," Nirvana spit.
Groggy smiled. He then stepped between his old friend and Nirvana, smiled at the latter, and then punched him square in the face.
"DAMMIT!" Groggy screamed in pain; in the excitement of the moment he'd forgotten his bandaged fist. He looked down and saw blood spurting through his bandage. He had no time to react, though, as Nirvana tackled him, plowing his head into the Colonel's chest. Charlie, Anna and Nirvana's friends rushed forward to pull them apart. The two men, restrained by their respective parts, staggered to their feet, gasping for breath, sizing each other up.
"Striking an officer is a court-martial offense," Groggy said. "Of course, we don't have to go through all that..." He suddenly drew his pistol and aimed it at Naslund's head; his eyes went wide with terror.
"NO, COLONEL!" Charlie shouted. "Murder's even worse an offense."
"Don't I know it," Groggy muttered. "Shit, I busted my hand." He winced and tenderly held his shattered fist.
"Your hand must be made of glass, old man!" Nirvana chuckled.
"Shut your gob, recruit, or I'll shoot you myself," Sergeant Harriman shouted, producing her own sidearm.
Groggy and Nirvana regarded each other for a moment. Groggy eventually holstered his pistol. Then, still holding his bleeding hand, he turned to see a group of MPs rushing forward.
"WHAT THE HELL'S GOING ON HERE!?!" the Sergeant shouted. Two MPs brandishing M-14 rifles came behind him.
"Nothing but a soldier's fight, sir," the Colonel said hastily.
"Striking an officer is a court-martial offense, soldier!" the Sergeant yelled at Nirvana.
Groggy looked at Nirvana knowingly. "Well, the day I start being a book soldier is the day that hell freezes over," he said. Nirvana grimaced slightly.
"Sir, you really shouldn't be saying things like that to these types," the Sergeant said. "These boys have been roughing each other up regularly the past few days. Hell, we had an attempted rape the other night..."
"Well, I hope you cut off his dick," Groggy spit.
"Speaking frankly, sir, there shouldn't be any women here at all," the Sergeant said, his voice dripping with disgust. "We need to bring the toughness back into the military. Letting women join has made us soften things up. It's just sickening. Next thing you know they'll be letting fags join."
The Colonel stopped in his tracks, and turned to Sergeant Harriman. The Sergeant had continued walking a few steps, and turned and now stood facing Anna, who stood with a bemused look on her face.
"Well, Captain, what do you have to say that?" Groggy asked her. Anna said nothing; her expression of disgust said it all. The Sergeant turned back to the Colonel, flabbergasted.
"Who's the officer in charge here?" Groggy asked, breaking the ice.
"That... that would be Major Atlas, sir. He's in his tent waiting for you."
Groggy bristled. "His tent. Waiting for ME!?" He fumed with anger. "Who the hell is this fuck, George Fucking McClellan? Get his sorry ass out here now!"
"Yes, sir!" the Sergeant said. He then looked down at the Colonel's hand. "Sir, you need your hand looked at?" he asked, watching the blood drip between the Colonel's fingers.
Groggy shook his head absently and looked down. "Maybe later," he murmured. Then, holding his hand, he shooed the Sergeant away.
"No respect for superior officers at all," he muttered. "What the fuck kind of organization is this?"
Sergeant Harriman smiled. "Fort Benlin, sir?"
Groggy didn't smile. "My God, Anna, insubordination may be fine for you and me, but it won't work for these sorry fucks serving under us. We've got to breed it out of them."
"Yes, sir," came the reply.
Groggy looked around him at the camp, at the idle recruits playing and talking and eating and laughing like a bunch of school children on holiday. The innocence of the scene struck him more than anything else; he'd have to transform this polyglot hodgepodge of good-for-nothings into a crack unit of hell-raising murderers.
But for now, he had to ask a more immediate question:
"Where the hell are my officers?"
APRIL 9th, 2009
7:05 PM
Groggy Dundee, Sergeant Harriman and a small group of staff officers drove in a jeep down the dirt road. The military hadn't been able to arrange a flight, for God knows what reason, so they'd spent the last ten hours driving in a small car with a jabberjaw Sergeant whom Sergeant Harriman desperately wanted to execute.
It had been a tense last few days for everyone. For Groggy, his personal hurt temporarily superceded the importance of war and country. The shock of Edith's dumping him had rendered him all the usual raw emotions - anger, sadness, shock and depression. But now that there was a job to do, something to immerse himself in, he was hoping he could move on from the hurt she'd caused. After all, he had his war to fight.
At present, one of Groggy's staffers - Captain Martinez - was trying to make a phone call. There was news of further military action somewhere, but being in this car, they were only getting sketchy reports. Groggy had left his blackberry in his apartment, and wasn't entirely sure that Edith hadn't swiped it out of spite.
Finally, they reached the entrance to the camp perimeter. An MP asked the driver for ID and waved them through. They drove on towards the camp.
Well, Groggy thought to himself, unable to speak above the din of the car engine. Let's find out what we're made of.
CAMP MILIUS, TEXAS
7:20 PM
The scene before them was something out of Matthew Brady. Hundreds of recruits, at least 700 men and women, had created a sprawling tent city in the middle of nowhere. They were barbecuing and eating, taking baths, reading newspapers or sitting around plyaing games or finding ways to divert themselves in the gleaming spring twilight. One of them had set up a TV and X-Box and was playing Halo 3. Other than a handful of uniformed and armed MPs standing guard, they could have been vacationers on a camping trip.
Groggy frowned as he dismounted from the Jeep, regarding. An MP sergeant sighted him and called out, "Camp, TEN-SHUN!" as Groggy and his entourage approached. Everyone snapped to attention instantly, some more sloppily or unwilling than others.
Groggy returned the salute stiffly. "As you were, ladies and gentlemen," Groggy said, walking with his entourage into the middle of the camp. As they walked, he surveyed the rag-tag collection of volunteers in detail. They'd need considerable training and organization to make into a cohesive unit; but that's why they were here.
"Where are our provisions?" Groggy asked Sergeant Harriman.
"They're on the way, sir," she replied. "Got about 800 M-16s from Ft. Pickens base," she noted, not mentioning the highly questionable way she had procured said weaponry.
"Well, that's a start," the Colonel replied. "Ammunition?"
"50,000 rounds."
"Well, for training that should be sufficient. For now. M-60s?"
"At least two of those."
Groggy smiled, clasping his hand on the Sergeant's shoulder. "Well, we're off to a start, anyway," he said. "You'd make a fine, if morally dubious, quartermaster." Then a thought struck him. "You're a still a Sergeant, are you not?"
"Yes, sir," Harriman said quietly. She hadn't wanted to bring it up, but her promotion ceremony had been post-poned. She was pissed off as all hell about it, but figured her Colonel had enough on his plate to worry about.
"Well, I'm naming you Acting Captain until the official commission comes in," Dundee said.
"Thank you, sir," Harriman said gratefully.
"Time to find out who's in charge of this rabble," Groggy said. "There must be an officer here somewhere..."
As he said this, Groggy felt a man bump into his chest. He looked down and saw a dark-haired young man sprawling to the ground, panting as the result of a series of blows.
"Charlie Keyes!" he proclaimed. "Nice to see you here!"
With a great deal of delighted surprised, the wounded recruit - one of Groggy's college chums - stood at attention and saluted. "Groggy!" he said. "It's been awhile. Nice to finally have you here!"
Groggy turned and saw a thin, wiry hippie-looking man standing next to him, his knuckles raw from the fight. He had a small gathering of men behind him, standing anxiously in the presence of their commanding officer.
"Who are you?" Groggy asked him tersely.
"Nirvana Naslund, sir," came the reply. Two of the other men with him stepped forward.
"What's this about, gentlemen?" the Colonel asked.
"Well, this man here started jabbering about blowing stuff up in an effort to impress me, I reckon."
"I was quoting Shaw, sir," Charlie replied. "Whatever can blow man up, can blow society up."
"You have something against educated men, Mr. Naslund?" Groggy asked.
"No, but the way he said it was what provoked me."
"How did you say it?" Groggy asked his old friend.
"With force and firmness," Charlie replied stubbornly, his eyes on Naslund.
"Like a pansy spoiling for a fight," Nirvana spit.
Groggy smiled. He then stepped between his old friend and Nirvana, smiled at the latter, and then punched him square in the face.
"DAMMIT!" Groggy screamed in pain; in the excitement of the moment he'd forgotten his bandaged fist. He looked down and saw blood spurting through his bandage. He had no time to react, though, as Nirvana tackled him, plowing his head into the Colonel's chest. Charlie, Anna and Nirvana's friends rushed forward to pull them apart. The two men, restrained by their respective parts, staggered to their feet, gasping for breath, sizing each other up.
"Striking an officer is a court-martial offense," Groggy said. "Of course, we don't have to go through all that..." He suddenly drew his pistol and aimed it at Naslund's head; his eyes went wide with terror.
"NO, COLONEL!" Charlie shouted. "Murder's even worse an offense."
"Don't I know it," Groggy muttered. "Shit, I busted my hand." He winced and tenderly held his shattered fist.
"Your hand must be made of glass, old man!" Nirvana chuckled.
"Shut your gob, recruit, or I'll shoot you myself," Sergeant Harriman shouted, producing her own sidearm.
Groggy and Nirvana regarded each other for a moment. Groggy eventually holstered his pistol. Then, still holding his bleeding hand, he turned to see a group of MPs rushing forward.
"WHAT THE HELL'S GOING ON HERE!?!" the Sergeant shouted. Two MPs brandishing M-14 rifles came behind him.
"Nothing but a soldier's fight, sir," the Colonel said hastily.
"Striking an officer is a court-martial offense, soldier!" the Sergeant yelled at Nirvana.
Groggy looked at Nirvana knowingly. "Well, the day I start being a book soldier is the day that hell freezes over," he said. Nirvana grimaced slightly.
"Sir, you really shouldn't be saying things like that to these types," the Sergeant said. "These boys have been roughing each other up regularly the past few days. Hell, we had an attempted rape the other night..."
"Well, I hope you cut off his dick," Groggy spit.
"Speaking frankly, sir, there shouldn't be any women here at all," the Sergeant said, his voice dripping with disgust. "We need to bring the toughness back into the military. Letting women join has made us soften things up. It's just sickening. Next thing you know they'll be letting fags join."
The Colonel stopped in his tracks, and turned to Sergeant Harriman. The Sergeant had continued walking a few steps, and turned and now stood facing Anna, who stood with a bemused look on her face.
"Well, Captain, what do you have to say that?" Groggy asked her. Anna said nothing; her expression of disgust said it all. The Sergeant turned back to the Colonel, flabbergasted.
"Who's the officer in charge here?" Groggy asked, breaking the ice.
"That... that would be Major Atlas, sir. He's in his tent waiting for you."
Groggy bristled. "His tent. Waiting for ME!?" He fumed with anger. "Who the hell is this fuck, George Fucking McClellan? Get his sorry ass out here now!"
"Yes, sir!" the Sergeant said. He then looked down at the Colonel's hand. "Sir, you need your hand looked at?" he asked, watching the blood drip between the Colonel's fingers.
Groggy shook his head absently and looked down. "Maybe later," he murmured. Then, holding his hand, he shooed the Sergeant away.
"No respect for superior officers at all," he muttered. "What the fuck kind of organization is this?"
Sergeant Harriman smiled. "Fort Benlin, sir?"
Groggy didn't smile. "My God, Anna, insubordination may be fine for you and me, but it won't work for these sorry fucks serving under us. We've got to breed it out of them."
"Yes, sir," came the reply.
Groggy looked around him at the camp, at the idle recruits playing and talking and eating and laughing like a bunch of school children on holiday. The innocence of the scene struck him more than anything else; he'd have to transform this polyglot hodgepodge of good-for-nothings into a crack unit of hell-raising murderers.
But for now, he had to ask a more immediate question:
"Where the hell are my officers?"
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Edith
APRIL 4TH, 2009
PITTSBURGH, PENNSYLVANIA
10:45 PM
Edith Barlow sat on her bed, playing with her hair nervously. She was ready Livy's Early History of Rome, indulging in her field of interest and expertise as she waited for the meeting she had been planning - and dreading - for the last few weeks.
She had been dating Groggy Dundee for a few months now. They'd met at a history conference in Washington, when she had no idea of his military rank or personal history. They got caught up in a conversation afterwards, discussing the content of the conference and eventually getting down to small talk. She found him somewhat charming, and was extremely flattered by his attention. She agreed to see him, and in the blink of an eye, it seemed they were inseperable.
At first, they were quite content and happy with the relationship. They were certainly of equal - or reasonably close - intelligence, they found the other reasonably attractive, and it seemed a relationship of equals. Whether it was love or mere affection is hard to say, but it was the same for all intents and purposes. They rented an apartment together, lived together, made love and slept together. They were a couple, enjoyed each other's company, and as Groggy nursed his wounded pride and Edith struggled to find a teaching job, they provided much comfort to each other. For Groggy especially, having a female in his life for the first time in such a capacity provided him with a rock to weigh anchor on, to stabilize his life and, for once, to grab onto something more than just his pride and vanity and megalomania.
But Edith found Groggy less and less appealing as time went on. The warmth that had originally been there was fading. Even if she enjoyed talking to him on an intellectual level, it was becoming less satisfying as time went on. As the field of conversational topics became more and more narrow, she found them coming back more and more to one thing - Groggy Dundee. And her initial affection wore off as a result.
What really alarmed her, however, was his political views. Edith was a stout pacifist, due to a combination of religion and generational cynicism - watching Iraq through high school and college certainly disillusioned her of the idea that war was an acceptable course of action. Groggy's bellicose essays were one thing - he was entitled to his opinion, certainly, as repugnant as it may be. If nothing else, it put bread on the table. But to actually provoke a war with another country - that was something else entirely. And that war had actually come, that men had blown each other to steal - he was revelling in it! The man she was sleeping with! There wasn't a thing that could be more appalling to her.
And why? Not even for some cause like patriotism or freedom, but, Edith became convinced, his own personal vainglory. The fact that he could be a hero excited him; he was like a little boy with a cap gun. Had his previous military service taught him nothing, or was he a maniac who enjoyed killing?
Edith may have been no great scholar of philosophy or politics. But she knew that war was hell, and was farsighted enough to see that any war between two major superpowers was not going to be fun for anyone involved. The events of the last few weeks were enough to convince her that she needed to end her relationship. It was only a question of time
* * *
Groggy came home a few minutes later. He seemed tired, but still animated by excitement. He'd be shipping out to inspect his new recruits in a few days. He took off his uniform, kissed Edith, and sat down on the bed beside her.
They engaged in small talk for awhile, then Edith finally decided to break the ice: "Groggy? We need to talk."
Groggy's heart sank; he knew what this meant. He had, in his heart of heart, suspected what was coming for a long time. Every day he'd had with her was a blessing, and he had been dreading this conversation
"I think..." Edith hesitated, struggling to find the words. "I think we need to be done with each other."
The words hit Groggy's heart like a ten-inch shell, destroying it. But the devastation was not apparent on his face; he remained impassive, unsure of what he'd just heard.
"I've been trying to support you in all this," Edith continued, her voice a bit shaky, "I've been trying to be happy for you, but I just find this all appalling. I mean, you were CELEBRATING the day that you heard about the sea battle off Alaska..."
"As would any patriotic American," Groggy interjected.
"But even before that, your columns, your writings, your speeches - you've been wanting this war!" Edith persisted. "And why?"
Groggy didn't know what to say to this. "Because I feel it necessary."
"Where you see glory and excitement, I see sons and daughters maimed and torn to shreds." Edith looked plaintively into her boyfriend's eyes, hoping he'd see the light. "I see fire and death and destruction. What do you see? Do you think war's a game? After all you've been through? How could you do that?"
"It's just human nature," Groggy answered, his voice a mixture of confusion and. He was completely caught off-guard, not by Edith's decision, but by the evident reason for it. "Better to fight it out, to let out the bad blood now and again." He added, with a hint of self-righteousness, "Especially regarding a bastard like Putin."
"And how many people will you kill for the sake of a happy tomorrow?" Edith demanded. "How many will be left to enjoy it?"
There was no answer, and a heavy silence pervaded the room.
"And why do you want this? That's the real question." Edith didn't want to say any more, but she felt compelled to. "Is it so you can wear this uniform? So you can be a hero? How many people have to die for the sake of Groggy Dundee's ego?"
Groggy's face was now a rictus of barely constrained anger. He looked about to strike Edith. And it terrified her; she suddenly felt frightened of this man whom she had shared her life with for the last few months.
"Well, if that's the way you feel," he said evenly, "then okay." That's all he said. His voice was calm, but his eyes betrayed a mixture of anger, betrayal and sadness.
Edith felt terrible for what she'd said, but she couldn't take it back now. "I'm going." She immediately got up, reaching for her coat. Groggy sat on the bed, his eyes lowered to the blanket, as she got herself ready. "I'll be staying in a hotel. I'll come back for my things tomorrow."
"Okay," Groggy answered hollowly.
Edith didn't want to say anymore; she was on the verge of tears herself. But before leaving, Edith gave him one last parting shot, which prevented the affair from ending with any good faith:
"You're lucky we aren't all dead right now. Russia has nuclear weapons, you know."
She then exited before Groggy could answer, and slammed the door behind her.
Groggy waited a few minutes, staring blankly at a wall, his face contorted with hidden fury, then began furiously pounding the bed, his pillow, like a child in a temper tantrum. His ebullience immediately turned to anger, then to frustration and sadness - and then all three at once. Just when everything was going according to plan, the greatest part of his life - his better half - walks on him. Groggy could only see his side of things - how dare she! How dare she at this time!
Groggy then punched a mirror, shattering it. This stopped his rampage; he stood in the room, panting, catching his breath and calming himself down. Then he felt a twinge of pain, and saw the blood trickling down his hand, glass shards embedded in his skin. He walked back over to the bed and sat down, tenderly holding his injured hand, and wept for almost half an hour.
PITTSBURGH, PENNSYLVANIA
10:45 PM
Edith Barlow sat on her bed, playing with her hair nervously. She was ready Livy's Early History of Rome, indulging in her field of interest and expertise as she waited for the meeting she had been planning - and dreading - for the last few weeks.
She had been dating Groggy Dundee for a few months now. They'd met at a history conference in Washington, when she had no idea of his military rank or personal history. They got caught up in a conversation afterwards, discussing the content of the conference and eventually getting down to small talk. She found him somewhat charming, and was extremely flattered by his attention. She agreed to see him, and in the blink of an eye, it seemed they were inseperable.
At first, they were quite content and happy with the relationship. They were certainly of equal - or reasonably close - intelligence, they found the other reasonably attractive, and it seemed a relationship of equals. Whether it was love or mere affection is hard to say, but it was the same for all intents and purposes. They rented an apartment together, lived together, made love and slept together. They were a couple, enjoyed each other's company, and as Groggy nursed his wounded pride and Edith struggled to find a teaching job, they provided much comfort to each other. For Groggy especially, having a female in his life for the first time in such a capacity provided him with a rock to weigh anchor on, to stabilize his life and, for once, to grab onto something more than just his pride and vanity and megalomania.
But Edith found Groggy less and less appealing as time went on. The warmth that had originally been there was fading. Even if she enjoyed talking to him on an intellectual level, it was becoming less satisfying as time went on. As the field of conversational topics became more and more narrow, she found them coming back more and more to one thing - Groggy Dundee. And her initial affection wore off as a result.
What really alarmed her, however, was his political views. Edith was a stout pacifist, due to a combination of religion and generational cynicism - watching Iraq through high school and college certainly disillusioned her of the idea that war was an acceptable course of action. Groggy's bellicose essays were one thing - he was entitled to his opinion, certainly, as repugnant as it may be. If nothing else, it put bread on the table. But to actually provoke a war with another country - that was something else entirely. And that war had actually come, that men had blown each other to steal - he was revelling in it! The man she was sleeping with! There wasn't a thing that could be more appalling to her.
And why? Not even for some cause like patriotism or freedom, but, Edith became convinced, his own personal vainglory. The fact that he could be a hero excited him; he was like a little boy with a cap gun. Had his previous military service taught him nothing, or was he a maniac who enjoyed killing?
Edith may have been no great scholar of philosophy or politics. But she knew that war was hell, and was farsighted enough to see that any war between two major superpowers was not going to be fun for anyone involved. The events of the last few weeks were enough to convince her that she needed to end her relationship. It was only a question of time
* * *
Groggy came home a few minutes later. He seemed tired, but still animated by excitement. He'd be shipping out to inspect his new recruits in a few days. He took off his uniform, kissed Edith, and sat down on the bed beside her.
They engaged in small talk for awhile, then Edith finally decided to break the ice: "Groggy? We need to talk."
Groggy's heart sank; he knew what this meant. He had, in his heart of heart, suspected what was coming for a long time. Every day he'd had with her was a blessing, and he had been dreading this conversation
"I think..." Edith hesitated, struggling to find the words. "I think we need to be done with each other."
The words hit Groggy's heart like a ten-inch shell, destroying it. But the devastation was not apparent on his face; he remained impassive, unsure of what he'd just heard.
"I've been trying to support you in all this," Edith continued, her voice a bit shaky, "I've been trying to be happy for you, but I just find this all appalling. I mean, you were CELEBRATING the day that you heard about the sea battle off Alaska..."
"As would any patriotic American," Groggy interjected.
"But even before that, your columns, your writings, your speeches - you've been wanting this war!" Edith persisted. "And why?"
Groggy didn't know what to say to this. "Because I feel it necessary."
"Where you see glory and excitement, I see sons and daughters maimed and torn to shreds." Edith looked plaintively into her boyfriend's eyes, hoping he'd see the light. "I see fire and death and destruction. What do you see? Do you think war's a game? After all you've been through? How could you do that?"
"It's just human nature," Groggy answered, his voice a mixture of confusion and. He was completely caught off-guard, not by Edith's decision, but by the evident reason for it. "Better to fight it out, to let out the bad blood now and again." He added, with a hint of self-righteousness, "Especially regarding a bastard like Putin."
"And how many people will you kill for the sake of a happy tomorrow?" Edith demanded. "How many will be left to enjoy it?"
There was no answer, and a heavy silence pervaded the room.
"And why do you want this? That's the real question." Edith didn't want to say any more, but she felt compelled to. "Is it so you can wear this uniform? So you can be a hero? How many people have to die for the sake of Groggy Dundee's ego?"
Groggy's face was now a rictus of barely constrained anger. He looked about to strike Edith. And it terrified her; she suddenly felt frightened of this man whom she had shared her life with for the last few months.
"Well, if that's the way you feel," he said evenly, "then okay." That's all he said. His voice was calm, but his eyes betrayed a mixture of anger, betrayal and sadness.
Edith felt terrible for what she'd said, but she couldn't take it back now. "I'm going." She immediately got up, reaching for her coat. Groggy sat on the bed, his eyes lowered to the blanket, as she got herself ready. "I'll be staying in a hotel. I'll come back for my things tomorrow."
"Okay," Groggy answered hollowly.
Edith didn't want to say anymore; she was on the verge of tears herself. But before leaving, Edith gave him one last parting shot, which prevented the affair from ending with any good faith:
"You're lucky we aren't all dead right now. Russia has nuclear weapons, you know."
She then exited before Groggy could answer, and slammed the door behind her.
Groggy waited a few minutes, staring blankly at a wall, his face contorted with hidden fury, then began furiously pounding the bed, his pillow, like a child in a temper tantrum. His ebullience immediately turned to anger, then to frustration and sadness - and then all three at once. Just when everything was going according to plan, the greatest part of his life - his better half - walks on him. Groggy could only see his side of things - how dare she! How dare she at this time!
Groggy then punched a mirror, shattering it. This stopped his rampage; he stood in the room, panting, catching his breath and calming himself down. Then he felt a twinge of pain, and saw the blood trickling down his hand, glass shards embedded in his skin. He walked back over to the bed and sat down, tenderly holding his injured hand, and wept for almost half an hour.
Friday, April 3, 2009
The Man From the North
APRIL 3RD, 2009
ARIZONA
3:00 PM
Oblivious to the news of war with Russia, a passenger train scuttled through the Arizona countryside. The train had only about six passengers, an elderly couple sleeping, a nervous, shifty-looking businessman, an crotchety old man bitching about his lumbago, a handsome teenaged boy jamming to his i-Pod, and a stranger dressed in a dark trenchcoat.
He was a quiet man, none too imposing, his Arab heritage evident in his skin and face. He wore a brown hat low over his face as he read the day's newspaper, words of bravado and saber-rattling by American and Russian leaders, with the hapless President and the impotent UN caught in the middle trying to avoid catastrophe. It didn't concern him a great deal, although a war between two countries neighboring his ought to. He had a mission to complete.
He was Sergeant Adam Adnan of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, Special Investigations Branch. He'd spent the last ten years as an undercover detective, investigating and busting some of Canada's toughest criminals. He was a loose cannon cop at times, engaging in violent and reckless behavior - he was one of the few Canadian detectives who insisted on carrying a firearm at all - but was nonetheless one of the most successful on the force. He was always getting special jobs, tracking some bastard for horse rustling, arms trafficking, or occasionally a murderer, across national boundaries if necessary.
Now he was on the trail of the sole survivor of a gang of thugs that had held up Pierre's Palace in Montreal. He remembered the bloodbath all too well, having been there investigating a forgery case. He was on the roulette floor when the shooting started, and exchanged gunfire with the criminals as they tried to escape. He had watched helplessly as his partner, Tim Watson, fell riddled with machine gun bullets, but managed to clip one of the robbers in the leg in retaliation.
He only knew the man's name, Beck, and a general description. And he'd received word that he was in Arizona or thereabouts. And there being a war on now, Adnan had a decent idea of what his query might be up to...
APRIL 3RD, 2009
PRESCOTT, ARIZONA
5:15 PM
Beck sweated profusely as he walked towards the train station. It was an incredibly hot day - almost 100 degrees, maybe more than that - and a long one.
"Come on, John," shouted one of his companions, Ulysess H. Bunsher. "Train's leavin'."
Beck had agreed to volunteer with his newfound companions. They were alright, although not exactly the most intelligent or hygenic or photogenic or sane bunch of individuals. Bunsher and Aclea and Mike and Steve and Sy were their names. They'd all wanted to join the elite 1st Volunteer Infantry, being formed by Colonel Dundee - not just a National Guard unit. "I wanna see actual action," Bunsher had said, thinking the Guard units would just be used for garrison duty and such - or perhaps even rotated to Iraq. And with a Russian war on the horizon, that was the last place any of them wanted to be.
Now they stood on a train platform in Prescott, Arizona, waiting to load onto a military train with about a hundred other would-be recruits. There were a dozen uniformed National Guardsmen standing at attention on the platform, and others were helping load the train with supplies and baggage. Their destination was Camp Milius, in San Antonio, Texas, where the regiment's polyglot recruits would consolidate, train, and hopefully congeal into a single unit.
"Watch your head!" a corporal barked, and Beck ducked a crate of ammunition was carried past him by two brawny soldiers. He marvelled at the scene of chaos around him. He had known wars and conflict and fighting, but he had never seen a circus anything like this before. People excited for war, volunteer armies mobilizing, being shipped by trains - it was something out of another century. Volunteer armies didn't exist anymore, merely professional and conscript ones. This was something else entirely.
He had read the same papers, seen the same news stories as everyone. The Russian Pacific Squadron had been trounced by Admiral Undershaft and his American ships. Now there was indignation and anger and backtracking and sabre-rattling and hem-hawing, but it was clear that war was no long avoidable. Beck was unphased by all this, any vestiges of patriotism having drained out of his veins ages ago, but he was curious - curious why and all of his colleagues were still alive, why the war had not turned into a nuclear shooting match. Guess the Russians - and the President - weren't as insane as everyone had thought.
God bless President Obama, Beck thought as he stepped on the train. He landed heavily on his injured leg, and winced. He scooted into a pew next to Bunsher, who let off one of his legendary farts. The rest of his companions cackled, but Beck just grimaced, staring out the window as the train slowly pulled out of the station.
Well, one problem solved, Beck thought, sighing and looking out the window. He'd escaped Canada, escaped the law. And now he just had to fight - something he'd done more than just about any human being since Atilla and Tamurlane. And as cramped as that cabin was, as smelly as Bunsher's ass gas may have been, he had cheated death, evaded capture, yet again. He closed his eyes and fell into a restless sleep. It was a long ride to San Antonio, but at that moment, Beck couldn't have cared less.
* * *
6:00 PM
The second train rolled in Prescott station shortly thereafter. Now the station was mostly abandoned, except for a few bystanders and two National Guardsmen standing at attention on the platform.
Adnan exited from the train, trenchcoat flapping in the slight breeze, his brown eyes scouring the station. He coughed as he inhaled the first hint of dry desert dust, and turned to one of the soldiers.
"Corporal," he said in a surprisingly high-pitched voice, flavored with Canadian accent, "When did the last train leave here?"
"About forty minutes ago, sir," came the reply.
"Who was it? National Guard troops?"
"No, sir. Recruits for the 1st Volunteer Infantry Regiment."
"1st Volunteer Infantry?" Adnan was surprised; he didn't know what the hell that was.
He thought for a moment; this threw a spanner in the works, temporarily put him off his game. But he quickly regrouped; he'd remembered hearing something this regiment, about the crazy Major who'd invaded Mexico and was now urging war with Russia.
"Where are they headed?" he asked the Corporal.
"I believe it was San Antonio, sir," the soldier replied.
San Antonio. Well, it was hours more of train riding and tracking, something he wasn't really in the mood for after the last few days. But it's a start. Beck isn't THAT smart, if he's joining the most famous new regiment in the United States Army. It won't be long now, he thought with a grin.
As Adnan pondered this, he saw a formation of F-16's screech overhead, leaving a trail of smoke behind them. And then an Apache gunship ominously flew overhead, its deadly arsenal just visible in the late-afternoon sky.
No, it won't be long at all.
ARIZONA
3:00 PM
Oblivious to the news of war with Russia, a passenger train scuttled through the Arizona countryside. The train had only about six passengers, an elderly couple sleeping, a nervous, shifty-looking businessman, an crotchety old man bitching about his lumbago, a handsome teenaged boy jamming to his i-Pod, and a stranger dressed in a dark trenchcoat.
He was a quiet man, none too imposing, his Arab heritage evident in his skin and face. He wore a brown hat low over his face as he read the day's newspaper, words of bravado and saber-rattling by American and Russian leaders, with the hapless President and the impotent UN caught in the middle trying to avoid catastrophe. It didn't concern him a great deal, although a war between two countries neighboring his ought to. He had a mission to complete.
He was Sergeant Adam Adnan of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, Special Investigations Branch. He'd spent the last ten years as an undercover detective, investigating and busting some of Canada's toughest criminals. He was a loose cannon cop at times, engaging in violent and reckless behavior - he was one of the few Canadian detectives who insisted on carrying a firearm at all - but was nonetheless one of the most successful on the force. He was always getting special jobs, tracking some bastard for horse rustling, arms trafficking, or occasionally a murderer, across national boundaries if necessary.
Now he was on the trail of the sole survivor of a gang of thugs that had held up Pierre's Palace in Montreal. He remembered the bloodbath all too well, having been there investigating a forgery case. He was on the roulette floor when the shooting started, and exchanged gunfire with the criminals as they tried to escape. He had watched helplessly as his partner, Tim Watson, fell riddled with machine gun bullets, but managed to clip one of the robbers in the leg in retaliation.
He only knew the man's name, Beck, and a general description. And he'd received word that he was in Arizona or thereabouts. And there being a war on now, Adnan had a decent idea of what his query might be up to...
APRIL 3RD, 2009
PRESCOTT, ARIZONA
5:15 PM
Beck sweated profusely as he walked towards the train station. It was an incredibly hot day - almost 100 degrees, maybe more than that - and a long one.
"Come on, John," shouted one of his companions, Ulysess H. Bunsher. "Train's leavin'."
Beck had agreed to volunteer with his newfound companions. They were alright, although not exactly the most intelligent or hygenic or photogenic or sane bunch of individuals. Bunsher and Aclea and Mike and Steve and Sy were their names. They'd all wanted to join the elite 1st Volunteer Infantry, being formed by Colonel Dundee - not just a National Guard unit. "I wanna see actual action," Bunsher had said, thinking the Guard units would just be used for garrison duty and such - or perhaps even rotated to Iraq. And with a Russian war on the horizon, that was the last place any of them wanted to be.
Now they stood on a train platform in Prescott, Arizona, waiting to load onto a military train with about a hundred other would-be recruits. There were a dozen uniformed National Guardsmen standing at attention on the platform, and others were helping load the train with supplies and baggage. Their destination was Camp Milius, in San Antonio, Texas, where the regiment's polyglot recruits would consolidate, train, and hopefully congeal into a single unit.
"Watch your head!" a corporal barked, and Beck ducked a crate of ammunition was carried past him by two brawny soldiers. He marvelled at the scene of chaos around him. He had known wars and conflict and fighting, but he had never seen a circus anything like this before. People excited for war, volunteer armies mobilizing, being shipped by trains - it was something out of another century. Volunteer armies didn't exist anymore, merely professional and conscript ones. This was something else entirely.
He had read the same papers, seen the same news stories as everyone. The Russian Pacific Squadron had been trounced by Admiral Undershaft and his American ships. Now there was indignation and anger and backtracking and sabre-rattling and hem-hawing, but it was clear that war was no long avoidable. Beck was unphased by all this, any vestiges of patriotism having drained out of his veins ages ago, but he was curious - curious why and all of his colleagues were still alive, why the war had not turned into a nuclear shooting match. Guess the Russians - and the President - weren't as insane as everyone had thought.
God bless President Obama, Beck thought as he stepped on the train. He landed heavily on his injured leg, and winced. He scooted into a pew next to Bunsher, who let off one of his legendary farts. The rest of his companions cackled, but Beck just grimaced, staring out the window as the train slowly pulled out of the station.
Well, one problem solved, Beck thought, sighing and looking out the window. He'd escaped Canada, escaped the law. And now he just had to fight - something he'd done more than just about any human being since Atilla and Tamurlane. And as cramped as that cabin was, as smelly as Bunsher's ass gas may have been, he had cheated death, evaded capture, yet again. He closed his eyes and fell into a restless sleep. It was a long ride to San Antonio, but at that moment, Beck couldn't have cared less.
* * *
6:00 PM
The second train rolled in Prescott station shortly thereafter. Now the station was mostly abandoned, except for a few bystanders and two National Guardsmen standing at attention on the platform.
Adnan exited from the train, trenchcoat flapping in the slight breeze, his brown eyes scouring the station. He coughed as he inhaled the first hint of dry desert dust, and turned to one of the soldiers.
"Corporal," he said in a surprisingly high-pitched voice, flavored with Canadian accent, "When did the last train leave here?"
"About forty minutes ago, sir," came the reply.
"Who was it? National Guard troops?"
"No, sir. Recruits for the 1st Volunteer Infantry Regiment."
"1st Volunteer Infantry?" Adnan was surprised; he didn't know what the hell that was.
He thought for a moment; this threw a spanner in the works, temporarily put him off his game. But he quickly regrouped; he'd remembered hearing something this regiment, about the crazy Major who'd invaded Mexico and was now urging war with Russia.
"Where are they headed?" he asked the Corporal.
"I believe it was San Antonio, sir," the soldier replied.
San Antonio. Well, it was hours more of train riding and tracking, something he wasn't really in the mood for after the last few days. But it's a start. Beck isn't THAT smart, if he's joining the most famous new regiment in the United States Army. It won't be long now, he thought with a grin.
As Adnan pondered this, he saw a formation of F-16's screech overhead, leaving a trail of smoke behind them. And then an Apache gunship ominously flew overhead, its deadly arsenal just visible in the late-afternoon sky.
No, it won't be long at all.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
The First Blow
APRIL 2ND, 2009
BERING SEA, OFF ALASKA
3:15 AM
Lieutenant James Clancy was on duty on the destroyer USS Kershaw when a radar officer rushed in the helm. "Sir, we have something. It looks like we're approaching a large fleet of warships, potentially hostile."
Clancy dutifully reported to the bridge. He couldn't believe his eyes - it looked like a whole fleet was coming their way. He could make out what looked like - two aircraft carriers? A group of destroyers? This couldn't be good, even if it was just a false alarm.
"Go wake the Captain," he shouted to a Midshapman. He kept a wary eye on the radar screen.
Outside, there was a sea of fog, so thick the moon couldn't be seen through it. And yet the radar's image was clear as day: two air craft carriers, four destroyers and two battle ships or cruisers.
"It might just be fog patches," the tired Captain groaned sleepily.
"Maybe. Or it could be the Russian Pacific Squadron," the Lieutenant replied tersely.
This got the Captain's attention. "Relay a message to Admiral Undershaft and put the crew on alert."
WASHINGTON, DC
4:08 AM
The President was roused from bed by a phone call. "Yes?" he answered groggily, just returned from his trip to London and really not in a mood to talk to anyone.
"Mr. President, it's Director Panetta." Obama recognized the voice of his CIA director on the other end of the line.
"What's going on, Leon?" the President asked.
"I'm not entirely sure just yet, but war may have just been declared."
The words made the President's blood run cold. He knew he had to act - immediately. What had happened? What was happening? It wasn't anything that could wait. He kissed Michelle on the cheek, then threw on his pants and rushed out of the room.
SITUATION ROOM
4:30 AM
"So far, the reports are very sketchy, Mr. President," Admiral Tom Talleyrand exclaimed, "but we believe that elements of the United States Pacific Fleet under Admiral Undershaft engaged the Russian Pacific Squadron in the Bering Sea."
"What happened?" Obama asked, still groggy despite having drank two cups of coffee. He had managed to assemble his staff, the Secretary of Defense, and a few other officials, but otherwise the room was surprisingly empty for what was evidentally a crisis situation.
"We don't know, sir," the Admiral replied. "There was a heavy fog, lots of mangled communications, but it seems the two fleets bumped into each other and someone started shooting."
"Who the hell started shooting?" Obama demanded. "My God! Aren't these sailors under strictest orders not to fire unless express orders are given? In this situation? What the hell happened?"
"We really can't say, sir," a junior officer commented from down the table. "We aren't getting any clear reports out of what happened, who initiated the action, or even what happened."
The weight of this sunk in. Obama sat there, completely taken in by the fact that his country was on the brink of annihilation - and for the moment, he didn't even know how or why.
"When can we get concrete information?" Obama asked.
"As it comes in," the officer replied. "The fleet's communication seems to have been damaged during the action. All we have are snippets."
A tall black man in a dark suit entered the room, carrying a file folder. He showed it to Secretary Gates and Director Panetta, and then hurried it down the table to the President. The President's blood froze as he saw the pictures.
In the midst of a sea of fog, the photograph clearly showed a military action - planes and ships in action, some smoking, some on fire, some sinking. Through the photographs, it wasn't evident who had won - but it was clear that there had been a battle.
"My God," Obama whispered, his voice resonating the gravity of the situation. "We're at war."
NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK
6:45 AM
"My God, we're at WAR!" Hugh Lewelyn exclaimed, slamming his fist onto the table. He had been beaten to the story by Reuters, CNN, and the Associated Press, but he really couldn't give a damn. He was watching on CNN, the image of smoking and shattered Russian warships sinking into the cold war, the triumphant American vessels.
"What a victory! What a glorious event!" the tycoon hooted.
"Hugh, the children are still asleep," his wife Elizabeth scolded.
Hugh ignored her - as usual - and picked up the phone, dialing frantically. "Kid!" he shouted into the phone, contacting. "Watching CNN?"
"Hugh, you're the only one who could be excited by something like this," the voice at the end replied with mock disdain.
"Nonsense, Kid. Any red-blooded, patriotic American would be proud to see the pride of the Russian Navy reduced to smouldering hulks..."
"Spare me the purple prose, Hugh. What do you want?"
"The pictures have been given to me, now we have our war," Lewelyn said ecastatically. "Now, to business. Start cranking out atrocity stories as soon as you get your laptop turned on. Our pigeon needs to take off as soon as it can!"
"People will be thinking about things bigger than the West Indies," Kid noted.
"Fair enough, Kid," Lewelyn said impatiently. "The Bering Sea today, comprehensive overview of affairs tomorrow - THEN the Russian West Indies."
"How many casualties, Hugh?" Kid asked.
"Not one American killed, and only eight injured."
"Well, that's certainly great news."
"And an entire squadron at the bottom of the sea!"
"Well, that certainly IS a statement!"
"Get to work, Kid," Lewelyn said. The incoming call light flashed. "Will call you later." He switched over to his other line. "Hello?"
"You are a scoundrel, Hugh," said the feminine voice at the other end of the line, "wholly devoid of conscience."
Hugh smiled, having heard the words before. "I have no idea what you might mean, Madame Secretary." Then he hung up. There was work to do, real work, and Queen-making would have to wait.
BERING SEA, OFF ALASKA
3:15 AM
Lieutenant James Clancy was on duty on the destroyer USS Kershaw when a radar officer rushed in the helm. "Sir, we have something. It looks like we're approaching a large fleet of warships, potentially hostile."
Clancy dutifully reported to the bridge. He couldn't believe his eyes - it looked like a whole fleet was coming their way. He could make out what looked like - two aircraft carriers? A group of destroyers? This couldn't be good, even if it was just a false alarm.
"Go wake the Captain," he shouted to a Midshapman. He kept a wary eye on the radar screen.
Outside, there was a sea of fog, so thick the moon couldn't be seen through it. And yet the radar's image was clear as day: two air craft carriers, four destroyers and two battle ships or cruisers.
"It might just be fog patches," the tired Captain groaned sleepily.
"Maybe. Or it could be the Russian Pacific Squadron," the Lieutenant replied tersely.
This got the Captain's attention. "Relay a message to Admiral Undershaft and put the crew on alert."
WASHINGTON, DC
4:08 AM
The President was roused from bed by a phone call. "Yes?" he answered groggily, just returned from his trip to London and really not in a mood to talk to anyone.
"Mr. President, it's Director Panetta." Obama recognized the voice of his CIA director on the other end of the line.
"What's going on, Leon?" the President asked.
"I'm not entirely sure just yet, but war may have just been declared."
The words made the President's blood run cold. He knew he had to act - immediately. What had happened? What was happening? It wasn't anything that could wait. He kissed Michelle on the cheek, then threw on his pants and rushed out of the room.
SITUATION ROOM
4:30 AM
"So far, the reports are very sketchy, Mr. President," Admiral Tom Talleyrand exclaimed, "but we believe that elements of the United States Pacific Fleet under Admiral Undershaft engaged the Russian Pacific Squadron in the Bering Sea."
"What happened?" Obama asked, still groggy despite having drank two cups of coffee. He had managed to assemble his staff, the Secretary of Defense, and a few other officials, but otherwise the room was surprisingly empty for what was evidentally a crisis situation.
"We don't know, sir," the Admiral replied. "There was a heavy fog, lots of mangled communications, but it seems the two fleets bumped into each other and someone started shooting."
"Who the hell started shooting?" Obama demanded. "My God! Aren't these sailors under strictest orders not to fire unless express orders are given? In this situation? What the hell happened?"
"We really can't say, sir," a junior officer commented from down the table. "We aren't getting any clear reports out of what happened, who initiated the action, or even what happened."
The weight of this sunk in. Obama sat there, completely taken in by the fact that his country was on the brink of annihilation - and for the moment, he didn't even know how or why.
"When can we get concrete information?" Obama asked.
"As it comes in," the officer replied. "The fleet's communication seems to have been damaged during the action. All we have are snippets."
A tall black man in a dark suit entered the room, carrying a file folder. He showed it to Secretary Gates and Director Panetta, and then hurried it down the table to the President. The President's blood froze as he saw the pictures.
In the midst of a sea of fog, the photograph clearly showed a military action - planes and ships in action, some smoking, some on fire, some sinking. Through the photographs, it wasn't evident who had won - but it was clear that there had been a battle.
"My God," Obama whispered, his voice resonating the gravity of the situation. "We're at war."
NEW YORK CITY, NEW YORK
6:45 AM
"My God, we're at WAR!" Hugh Lewelyn exclaimed, slamming his fist onto the table. He had been beaten to the story by Reuters, CNN, and the Associated Press, but he really couldn't give a damn. He was watching on CNN, the image of smoking and shattered Russian warships sinking into the cold war, the triumphant American vessels.
"What a victory! What a glorious event!" the tycoon hooted.
"Hugh, the children are still asleep," his wife Elizabeth scolded.
Hugh ignored her - as usual - and picked up the phone, dialing frantically. "Kid!" he shouted into the phone, contacting. "Watching CNN?"
"Hugh, you're the only one who could be excited by something like this," the voice at the end replied with mock disdain.
"Nonsense, Kid. Any red-blooded, patriotic American would be proud to see the pride of the Russian Navy reduced to smouldering hulks..."
"Spare me the purple prose, Hugh. What do you want?"
"The pictures have been given to me, now we have our war," Lewelyn said ecastatically. "Now, to business. Start cranking out atrocity stories as soon as you get your laptop turned on. Our pigeon needs to take off as soon as it can!"
"People will be thinking about things bigger than the West Indies," Kid noted.
"Fair enough, Kid," Lewelyn said impatiently. "The Bering Sea today, comprehensive overview of affairs tomorrow - THEN the Russian West Indies."
"How many casualties, Hugh?" Kid asked.
"Not one American killed, and only eight injured."
"Well, that's certainly great news."
"And an entire squadron at the bottom of the sea!"
"Well, that certainly IS a statement!"
"Get to work, Kid," Lewelyn said. The incoming call light flashed. "Will call you later." He switched over to his other line. "Hello?"
"You are a scoundrel, Hugh," said the feminine voice at the other end of the line, "wholly devoid of conscience."
Hugh smiled, having heard the words before. "I have no idea what you might mean, Madame Secretary." Then he hung up. There was work to do, real work, and Queen-making would have to wait.
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
Rumors of War
As war fever swept the country, President Obama tried desperately to find a way to avert conflict. The idea of the United States and Russia engaging was simply ludicrous, not to mention a serious threat to the future of the world. The world's two biggest nuclear arsenals engaging in a military showdown could very well lead to Armageddon, as two previous generations had lived with day in and day out. And even taking nukes OFF the table... What of Eastern Europe and the Caucusus? What of Afghanistan? What of Siberia, just across the fog and ice of the Bering Strait from Alaska (and Sarah Palin's house)? How would North Korea and China and Cuba and al-Qaeda react? The Russian West Indies were a mere echo of a decayed empire, and the tiniest flyspeck in the greater scheme of humanity.
No, war with Russia would be suicide for humanity, and certainly the young President couldn't stomach the idea. Besides, with the US military engaged in two wars in the Middle East, with troops spread out across Europe and Africa and Korea and elsewhere, it was simply a ludicrous prospect.
But wars rarely respond to logic, and with unscrupulous men trying to profit on the fog of war and the turmoil of nations, Obama was largely a dupe, a puppet in the grand scheming of financiers, media moguls, bitter political rivals, military power players, an all-too-eager adversary - and the unavoidable Hands of Fate. It was Oliver Stone's wet dream come to life, and barring nuclear Armageddon, he would make a factually inaccurate but critically-acclaimed account of the build-up to war.
* * *
The Russians, eager to expand on the political capital they had gained in quashing Georgia, happily provided the game's next moves. The Eastern Pacific Squadron, led by Admiral Zaharoff, was dispatched from Vladivostok and turned their engines north, engaging in "exercises" in the Beaufort Sea and Bering Strait - within sight of the Alaskan coast. The Russian Eighth Army, under General Antipov, was dispatched to Siberia, while other army groups massed on the borders of the former Eastern Bloc. The Defense Department immediately instituted a Def Con 4 alert in response, with American forces in Europe bracing for imminent attack. Nuclear subs were on the prowl, in the North and Baltic Seas, the Pacific, and even the Atlantic Ocean, ready for the order to push a button that would initiate oblivion.
The United Nations was no help; the usual round of bickering and arguing amounted to nothing, and the fact that Russia was of course on the UN Security Council made the situation even harder to redress. Even so, France and China sided with Russia, and a condemnation of Russia's aggressive actions failed by a 10-3 vote (with Russia and Peru abstaining).
And all across the United States, and not just in Groggy's skull, volunteers mobilized and citizens panicked. Army Reserve Units and National Guard regiments were activated, ready for immediate use. All available man power was shifted to potential trouble spots - Alaska, the Middle East, Germany, Poland. 80% of the Alaskan National Guard was deployed for action, ready to defend their state from a much larger and well-equipped Russian Army staring just across the fog of the strait. Missile bases, submarines, air and naval units. Civilians prepared for Armageddon; kids watched new duck and cover films with crappy CGI animation and narrated by Snoop Dawg and Tom Hanks.
In this climate, the Russian West Indies virtually ceased to be a concern at all; wouldn't a bombing run be enough to keep the Russians there under control? On the other hand, having a Russian military base so close to the United States mainland might not be a good idea; and contingency plans were drawn up for their invasion.
A Marine landing was first contemplated, if bombing failed to reduce the islands, but there were not enough Marines available - virtually all of the combat-ready units were deployed in Iraq! With the Russian bear breathing down the Bering back-door, the Russian West Indies must be considered a sideshow anyway, in the greater scheme of things. But an expedition was forming, as more and more volunteer units formed. It was clear that these men and women, with little experience or training or cohesion, would be the most likely to see action in any such expedition; and God help them, if anything resembling a cohesive Russian defense force existed on Palacios or the other islands. Lieutenant Colonel Strelnikoff may not have been Marshal Zhukov, but he had enough men to make any such.
But for now, the focus was on avoiding war, not fighting it. But even as President Obama tried to steer the country towards peaceful shores, events beyond his immediate control suddenly exploded - and war was no longer a rumor or a fear, but a state of being.
No, war with Russia would be suicide for humanity, and certainly the young President couldn't stomach the idea. Besides, with the US military engaged in two wars in the Middle East, with troops spread out across Europe and Africa and Korea and elsewhere, it was simply a ludicrous prospect.
But wars rarely respond to logic, and with unscrupulous men trying to profit on the fog of war and the turmoil of nations, Obama was largely a dupe, a puppet in the grand scheming of financiers, media moguls, bitter political rivals, military power players, an all-too-eager adversary - and the unavoidable Hands of Fate. It was Oliver Stone's wet dream come to life, and barring nuclear Armageddon, he would make a factually inaccurate but critically-acclaimed account of the build-up to war.
* * *
The Russians, eager to expand on the political capital they had gained in quashing Georgia, happily provided the game's next moves. The Eastern Pacific Squadron, led by Admiral Zaharoff, was dispatched from Vladivostok and turned their engines north, engaging in "exercises" in the Beaufort Sea and Bering Strait - within sight of the Alaskan coast. The Russian Eighth Army, under General Antipov, was dispatched to Siberia, while other army groups massed on the borders of the former Eastern Bloc. The Defense Department immediately instituted a Def Con 4 alert in response, with American forces in Europe bracing for imminent attack. Nuclear subs were on the prowl, in the North and Baltic Seas, the Pacific, and even the Atlantic Ocean, ready for the order to push a button that would initiate oblivion.
The United Nations was no help; the usual round of bickering and arguing amounted to nothing, and the fact that Russia was of course on the UN Security Council made the situation even harder to redress. Even so, France and China sided with Russia, and a condemnation of Russia's aggressive actions failed by a 10-3 vote (with Russia and Peru abstaining).
And all across the United States, and not just in Groggy's skull, volunteers mobilized and citizens panicked. Army Reserve Units and National Guard regiments were activated, ready for immediate use. All available man power was shifted to potential trouble spots - Alaska, the Middle East, Germany, Poland. 80% of the Alaskan National Guard was deployed for action, ready to defend their state from a much larger and well-equipped Russian Army staring just across the fog of the strait. Missile bases, submarines, air and naval units. Civilians prepared for Armageddon; kids watched new duck and cover films with crappy CGI animation and narrated by Snoop Dawg and Tom Hanks.
In this climate, the Russian West Indies virtually ceased to be a concern at all; wouldn't a bombing run be enough to keep the Russians there under control? On the other hand, having a Russian military base so close to the United States mainland might not be a good idea; and contingency plans were drawn up for their invasion.
A Marine landing was first contemplated, if bombing failed to reduce the islands, but there were not enough Marines available - virtually all of the combat-ready units were deployed in Iraq! With the Russian bear breathing down the Bering back-door, the Russian West Indies must be considered a sideshow anyway, in the greater scheme of things. But an expedition was forming, as more and more volunteer units formed. It was clear that these men and women, with little experience or training or cohesion, would be the most likely to see action in any such expedition; and God help them, if anything resembling a cohesive Russian defense force existed on Palacios or the other islands. Lieutenant Colonel Strelnikoff may not have been Marshal Zhukov, but he had enough men to make any such.
But for now, the focus was on avoiding war, not fighting it. But even as President Obama tried to steer the country towards peaceful shores, events beyond his immediate control suddenly exploded - and war was no longer a rumor or a fear, but a state of being.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Groggy Gets His Colonelcy
MARCH 30TH, 2009
ARLINGTON, VIRGINIA
12:00 PM
There was a small crowd of about two dozen men and women, servicemen, Congressmen, friends and family (and a girlfriend) assembled for the ceremony. Major Groggy Dundee was dressed in his Sunday best, wearing his dress uniform, neatly pressed and starched by the finest $2 laundromat. He stood at attention onstage.
With a deep, pompous voice of officialdom, Major General James Teague Walsh proclaimed, "Colonel Dundee, you are a gallant soldier and have errantly come of good stock, but be idle, dissolute, and unprincipled. You use the law and chain of command when you see fit, and you discard them when you do not. You are an adverse influence upon your men and your fellow officers. And despite all of your bravery and talents, I'm sure you will come to no good."
With an air of unprincipled but showy haughtiness, the Major replied: "General Walsh may think me failure and send me to the Devil, but know this - I would go to the Devil to defend my regiment and my country." Then he saluted the General, received his new epaulets, and stood at attention as the audience applauded.
And thus Major Dundee, United States Army became Colonel Groggy Dundee, United States Volunteers, and was officially commissioned as commander of the 1st United States Volunteer Infantry Regiment.
* * *
MARCH 31ST, 2009
WASHINGTON, DC
8:00 PM
Groggy burst into the crowded reception room with Edith Barlow in tow. Elated by his promotion, by his recent string of good fortune, he was an ebullient whirlwind, and he was eager not only to elicit praise - always a goal of an egomaniac - but also to get things underway. Too much talk and delay were making him mad with anticipation, and Edith was bearing the brunt of it.
The two enlisted Marines at the door sloped arms as Dundee entered, but he breezed past them, dressed in his new Colonel's uniform, his hair freshly cut. Edith wore a beautiful black Vera Wang dress, her Irish face and brown hair glowing.
Colonel Dundee engaged in a whirlwind of handshaking. He met two Congressmen, Senator Bob Casey, and several military officers, shaking their hands vigorously and greeting all of them. It was all Edith could do to keep up; she'd never seen Groggy so excited, at least not since the first night they slept together.
"Oh, Joe!" Dundee called out across the room, waving frantically as he sighted his old friend Joe Starbuck. Starbuck was now a Captain, and had served a tour in Iraq since returning from Mexico. He was far from the young shavetail he'd been during the Charriba expedition; now he was a seasoned officer whose computing skills were being put to the best of use by the Army.
Captain Starbuck stood at attention, but he was quickly put at ease by his old friend and commander, whose broad smile disarmed his formality. At Joe's side was his fiancee, Lauren.
"Delighted to see you here, Captain Starbuck!" Groggy said rapidly. "It's been awhile."
"It has indeed, Colonel!" Joe said. The two old friends shook hands, as their escorts greeted each other.
After formalities were exchanged, Groggy went straight to business. "Captain, how would you feel to be catapulted up the ranks a bit?"
"Sir?" Joe seemed surprised.
"I need a Lieutenant Colonel for my new regiment," Groggy continued. "Someone I've worked with, someone I can trust, someone with experience."
"And that's me?" Joe replied, his voice a mixture of surprise and flattery.
"Of course it's you!" Groggy said, with the elation and vigor of a heavily caffeinated ten year old. "Who's been my oldest and longest lasting friend? Who saved my ass in Mexico and then at the court martial? Why, you're more fit to lead the regiment than I am!" He added in sotto voice, "Don't let that get around."
Joe looked at his fiancee and smiled. "Pretty sure it's a well-known fact, Colonel," Lauren replied, staring into her fiancee's eyes.
"And your technical skills and abilities make you even more valuable than before," Groggy continued, now on a roll.
"It's Mexico all over again," Joe said with a smile of reminiscence.
"No, this time it's legal," Groggy said. Edith smiled uneasily at this. "We'll have proper arms, proper uniforms, proper everything."
Groggy suddenly looked across the room and spotted a thin-haired man. "SENATOR SPECTER!" he shouted, rushing across the room, stumbling and knocking over a waiter on the way.
"Oh, for God sake's Joe, help me," Edith said, dragging the Colonel and his afianceed after the Colonel. She knew she couldn't keep Groggy in line by herself.
Senator Arlen Specter, accompanied by his wife and a strikingly-dressed red-haired woman, rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Ladies, brace yourselves," he warned wearily. "Groggy!"
The Colonel stepped forward and shook Senator's hand. "Delighted to see you, Senator!" Groggy said. "It's been too long - since the 2004 campaign, hasn't it?"
"Well, you've been busy in that time, haven't you Groggy?" Specter said wryly.
"This is my girlfriend, Edith Barlow, and I believe you know Captain Starbuck," he continued.
"This is Frau Janina Heinrich, wife of the German Ambassador," Senator Specter replied.
After greeting her in his butchered, fragmented German, he returned his attention to the Senator.
"Senator, we must not allow cowardice and complacency to blind us towards the threat," Groggy lectured. As he spoke, his vigorous hand motions knocked a flower off the shoulder of Frau Heinrich's shoulder.
"Colonel, look what you've done!" the Senator said, aghast, as Groggy continued ranting. Captain Starbuck pinned it
"So, are you in the fight, Senator?" Groggy demanded.
"The people of Germany think you should approach the situation with prudence," Frau Heinrich opined.
"You mean the same people who tried to block our invasion of Iraq because their government and military had illicit dealings with Saddam's government?" Groggy demanded.
Specter was shocked. "Groggy! Some respect, please!"
"Why should I respect this lady's viewpoint when she's a hypocrite?" Groggy continued. "You'll beg my pardon, madam."
"Oh, surely," Nina answered coolly.
"Thank God YOU'RE not President, Groggy, or we'd be at war with half the world!" Specter continued.
"The President? He has the backbone of a Twinkie!" Groggy stated. He'd used the phrase before, but the shocked indignation on the Senator's face was worth it. "And that goes for the United Nations as well! They won't do a damned thing to stand in the way of any major power and you know it, Senator."
"Well, that's certainly true," Frau Heinrich sneered at him.
There was a long, awkward pause. Then the Senator answered, "Well, perhaps Russia will see this side of common sense. Come on, ladies!" He then hastily excused himself and his party,
"Goodbye, Senator!" Groggy called after them. Edith grabbed insistently at his arm. "You know, Joe, this sort of crap might be appropriate for some navel-gazing professors and crooked kraut-eating Kraut businessmen, but we shall not let that effect us or our way of thinking."
"Very good, Groggy," Edith said.
"I believe I've convinced the Senator," Groggy continued.
Edith dragged him away. "Excuse us, Joe."
"I believe he will join the fight!" Groggy called. Captain Starbuck just looked up to the ceiling for guidance, then turned to Lauren.
"Does he realize he's mad?" Lauren asked.
"God knows it's never bothered him before," Joe said, exhausted. The two then went over to a buffet table.
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