Distance, Chapter 45

45

Tuesday morning,

August Twenty-ninth

Regent Plaza,

Denver, Colorado

Three months away from home, Doug walked to the Regent corporate plane, waiting for takeoff.  Attired in ‘business casual’ clothing, he was likely not to come back to Denver for at least a month.  The FDA had directed him in a half-page memo to begin a Midwest tour of facilities that were failing to meet quotas—none were Regent operations. Doug suspected that information he had provided to Adam Krusen was having a favorable effect.

Julie would be surprised by his arrival, but he did tell her in a letter that he’d be back sometime in early September. The few days extra just happened to fit into an extended Labor Day holiday that the FDA staff was more than happy to create. Of five days in a typical work week, he could count on at least a quarter of the Federal staff missing one day and perhaps two, with a bare minimum of real work getting done in the meantime.  Doug was stunned initially at the level of sloth in the administration—the few people that actually had the drive to work were quickly worn down or bought off with bonus pay…rewarding them for less actual productivity.  As the summer wore on, it was apparent that less effort was being put into recovery. The effort was going toward reward and incentive pay, the scuttlebutt was all about how the President would be ‘strengthening the nation and taking care of those troublemakers in the East.’

Doug’s two immediate superiors were decent enough men and also completely out of their depth.  Political appointees and friends of friends of Senators or some such, they were put in place after the qualified predecessors died in the first round of Guangdong flu.  Doug had requested biographies of both the Director and Deputy Director in his first few days, just to gain some background on each. Neither had a background in food, industrial production or anything related to regulation.  Both looked like they were doing their job, attending meetings, arranging for staff to handle assignments, and then reporting to their superiors.

Doug found the men easily manipulated, deferring to their staffs the heavy lifting, especially if the idea were presented for them to put forward as ‘theirs.’  Suspecting that neither knew the true nature of RNEW or Regent’s plans, he found it relatively easy to prevent incorporation of RNEW lines in non-affected plants in the West, and to limit shipments of the Regent-designed additives only to the already-affected Eastern United States. Regent, meanwhile, was struggling to find out why they were being shut down at every turn when trying to get ‘product’ to the Pacific Coast and to the troops in Mexico.   He was quite thorough in making sure that the RNEW conversations didn’t identify him in any way, including electronic communication.

Doug wouldn’t miss what Denver now represented to him; the constant role-playing, masking any vestige of his true feelings and thoughts, working late in order to avoid being entrapped in the sex-fest at The Mile, where high priced prostitutes serviced any Federal worker they could wrap their legs around....his too-close-for-comfort proximity to what he now knew as an entrenched system in full collapse.

Drinks at The Mile were free, the food excellent, and the entertainment started at a thousand dollars, and went up from there. Doug’s one and only visit to the venue was eight days into his job, when one of the Deputy Directors’ senior staff invited him along. Doug attended out of courtesy and not knowing anything about the place, and was able to make a discrete exit after the man that invited him was shown to a private room, while Doug remained in the bar area. The bar was nothing more than a parade ground where the Federal invitees could select their entertainment for the evening, or their level of perversion, or both. 

Denver International was much more shabby and crowded than his arrival visit in June.  He had been escorted into a military security checkpoint, grilled for fifteen minutes, patted down and sent through a three-dimensional scanner.  All of his luggage was searched as well, scanned, and left for him to re-pack.  His Federal security badge was logged into the system, and he was cleared for travel to the Midwest.

None of that was unexpected, as he’d heard stories about outbound travel. Federal clearance didn’t guarantee travel approval, but no Federal I.D. was as good as trying to get there on foot. No one boarded any sort of airliner without proper I.D. within a hundred miles of a Federal Zone.

The troops lined up for departure looked more worn and drawn, than the men that Doug had seen in the terminal in June. Uniforms were mismatched; backpacks dirtier and worn, and the men themselves had an attitude that spoke of fatigue.  His military escorts didn’t answer his casual question of where the men were coming from, or where they were going, just returning Doug’s question with a look that said, ‘don’t ask again.’   As he walked toward the Regent-supplied aircraft—another ‘effort to assist the Government in Recovery’—Doug noted that the aircraft being used by the Army were all in civilian livery. No military transports were visible anywhere.  He also noted that the airport security detail, instead of driving the typical Humvee were using Toyota pickup trucks with mounted machine guns.

“Bloody Mary sir? Should be about five minutes or so to taxi,” the steward asked. “Also, sir, that envelope in the seat next to you is for you, regarding your connection in Des Moines I believe.”

“Uh, sure. That’d be great. And thanks for this,” he replied, holding up the large packet. 

“You worked for Regent, sir?” the steward asked. 

“Yes. Volunteered to help out the FDA until things get settled,” Doug replied.  “Kind of a temporary detachment. Name’s Doug Peterson.”

“Michael Sandram, sir. Home base is Columbus.”

“How’re things back there? Been awhile since I’ve been.”

“Fine, sir,” the steward replied courteously, not giving away a thing as he poured Doug a tall drink and added a fresh celery stalk. Doug knew that fresh food like that wasn’t just a premium expense; it was all but impossible to find.  “Should be right around an hour fifteen to Des Moines, once we’re airborne, and I’ve got a nice lunch once we’re at altitude.”

“Many thanks,” Doug replied, taking the drink.  

The Pilatus single engine started up, idled for a minute or so, and the plane rolled onto the taxiway, pausing only a moment before the pilot went into his takeoff roll.

He hadn’t even noticed that the plane had leveled off at altitude, being deeply engrossed in the itinerary and his expected observations and the reasoning for the inspections.    

The large securely sealed Tyvek envelope held Doug’s FDA assignment schedule, starting on Monday, September Eleventh. Until then, he was a free man, more or less. The paperwork included instructions on obtaining a Government Services Administration vehicle in Des Moines, locations of fueling stations, lodging, and of course the lengthy list of target facilities.  He was directed to use his discretion on visiting targets on that list, none of which had been notified of his pending visit. He noted that every single fueling station, place of lodging, and cafeteria were either within Federal Zones or on military bases.  Another envelope bore a Regent watermark, and Doug kept that free from the eyes of the steward. It was the first time in a month that he’d had a Regent packet arrive confidentially.

“Mister Peterson? I have a light lunch of baked brie and baguettes, with apricot preserves and a raspberry chipotle, accompanied by a nice Merlot, if you’re interested,” the steward inquired.

“Huh?” Doug replied. “Oh, sorry. Yes, that sounds great.”

“Very well, sir. I’ll have it right up.”

The lunch was quite good, in keeping with the entire system of Federal operations, but Doug didn’t know if this was more ‘Regent’ than ‘Federal.’ The lines seemed to blur, especially as he read through the single page Regent document marked ‘Confidential’.

8-29

Doug—it is imperative that you complete the entire itinerary provided herein by September 30, although there is no specific order for completion. All courtesies typically provided under Federal employment will be provided to you at each location of course. Additional information will be forthcoming at the Des Moines plant.

Your quarterly compensation has been doubled. The Chairman is most pleased with your performance.

Doug had correctly assumed that Regent had monitored not only his FDA communications, but also that of anyone else in the Denver location...so he often used hand-written notes on legal pads or better yet, sticky notes.  He couldn’t figure out who authored this document, however, and what they were up to with this itinerary.   Regent could be controlling the target plants’ operations without outright ownership, and could’ve set up a situation where his presence would be warranted on some sort of fact-finding mission, but he couldn’t figure out what could be so important.  He was still wondering when the plane touched down in Des Moines.

“Mr. Peterson? Very nice to have you here, sir. I have your vehicle right over here,” a very pleasant young woman in the Security Service office said.  The privatized Security Service handled transportation coordination for high-profile Federal staff as well as, Doug had discovered, serving as companion security to that of the long-established Federal Protective Service.

“Thanks. Been a long day,” he said offhandedly.

“It’ll be a long night too—tornado warnings up southwest of here,” the young woman said.  “Here are your keys, you should be cleared at the gate.  Do you need a map?”

“No thanks, I know where I’m headed,” he replied.

“Your vehicle is in the second row, third from the end,” she said. Doug noticed the very dusty first row of vehicles, obviously they’d not moved for quite some time.

“What’s up with those?” he asked.

“Oh. Those were hybrids.  Haven’t worked since the war. Something to do with one of the onboard computers. The batteries won’t charge.”

“Huh.  Can’t fix them?”

“With what?” the young woman laughed. 

 Doug drove off in a clean but weathered Grand Cherokee, and within fifteen minutes, arrived at the Regent plant.

He fished out his Regent Performance Group I.D. at the gate, surprised by the conciliatory but superior attitude of the guards, a cursory check of the government vehicle, and escort to the corporate conference room. He knew none of the employees along the way, and few of them spoke.  There seemed to be an air of unease in the place.

His new position in the FDA didn’t allow him unrestricted plant access, even though he was “former” Regent.  The plant manager barely acknowledged him, and none of the plant workers were people he’d known—which made him wonder where his trusted staff had been sent.

The office he formerly occupied now had a new nameplate on the door; the conference room appeared to be unmolested.  An executive assistant showed Doug to his seat, brought him a chilled Pellegrino, and left.  A moment later, the flat screen across from him came to life, and Regent Columbus logged on.  Kevin Martinez was on the other end of the videoconference. 

“Mister Peterson. Good to see you.”

“Kevin, you as well,” Doug lied. “Long time since training days.”

“And I seriously doubt that you’ve had any range time lately,” the man in the wheelchair replied from across the miles. “Wondering why you’re here, no doubt.”

“No doubt,” Doug replied, taking a drink from the bottled water. “I don’t recognize anyone here. Where’d they all go?”

“From what I understand, several were transferred to other Des Moines facilities. At least two of your associates have passed on,” Martinez replied.

“What? Which…” Doug started, before Martinez continued on.

“Dowling, Robert Arthur. Professional hit outside the wire at your plant. Unusual weapon…captive bolt gun at the base of the skull.” Having toured slaughterhouses during his career, Doug was all to familiar with the old fashioned tool they used to use to destroy the cerebrum of cattle, leaving the brain stem intact for bleeding during slaughter. Hitting the base of the skull in a human however, was instant death. 

Doug felt sick to his stomach. Rob was a good man. “Jesus,” he said to himself, feeling himself go pale. “Who else?” he said almost in a whisper.

“Redmond. Francine Renee,” Martinez said quietly.

“What happened to her?” Doug asked flatly. Martinez didn’t answer.

“We need to debrief. That’s why we’re here. You won’t be going back to Denver any time soon. What you know, we need to know,” Martinez said, leaning forward. “A few of my people in Des Moines are looking after your vehicle at this time.  You’ll find that your compensation for the past several months will be residing in your vehicle, along with an a weapons package similar to the one we provided previously—take these along with you on your fact-finding trip.  Additionally, there are several packages that will be retrieved by other Regent personnel while you are on your tour. You don’t need to take any action on those items.”

“Well, I’m pleased to be paid,” Doug said sarcastically, trying to regain his destroyed composure. “What am I being paid with?”

“Kruggerands, I would suspect.  Smaller denominations would be silver rounds.”

“I don’t quite know what to say, other than thanks,” Doug said quietly.

“You’re doing pretty well financially working for the Federal Government, but it’d be pretty tough to actually find a place to spend it.  Regent’s a bit more practical with regards to portability, although again, you’ll probably find it difficult to spend at this time. Questions?”

“No, not really, but I would like to be home tonight,” Doug said, leaning back in the chair. He realized how tired he was. 

“Debrief will probably delay you to a late departure—I’d advise traveling in daylight.”

“Fair enough,” Doug replied, almost hiding his irritation. “So, what do you know? I had assumed that Regent monitored all electronic communications and voice traffic in the Denver operation.”

Martinez smiled. “We do…and much more. It’s more the nuance, the impression, the feeling for those above you. How they’ll react, what their weak spots are.”

“Regent has behavioral scientists for that. Predictive psychologists. Any corporation worth their salt does,” Doug replied.

“We do, and ours are good. There are…anomalies in any intelligence gathering operation that need to be run to ground. That’s why we’re here.”

“What sort of anomalies?” Doug asked, brow furrowed.

 “Decisions made by your superiors that go against the recommendations of their staff, for one.”

Doug chuckled. “You ever work for someone that came to the completely wrong conclusion after being handed all the right data?”

“Sure.”

“The Director and Deputy Director don’t really have any idea of what the FDA does…what its’ responsibilities are. It’s not a stretch to think that they are being influenced by other Cabinet-level political appointees in a direction other than what might be predicted; or what might be logical based on data provided to them.  They barely grasp the fact that our food production as a nation is a tiny fraction of what it was a year ago, because it doesn’t impact them directly in any way. You have any idea what kind of food we eat out there?” Doug asked, before realizing the answer. “Of course you do. Sorry. The FDA, and the vast majority of the departments out there, every single department head for certain, is completely out of touch with reality. You realize this, don’t you?” Doug asked.

“There are things that Regent can influence, and things that we cannot, at this time. You’re saying that you think that they’re being influenced by someone else, outside of their staff, and making the decisions they’re making?”

“That’s what I think.  There’s only so much I can do within the framework I work in. I can’t exactly require the use of Regent product in certain parts of the country over the objections of my superiors, especially when they think that the East, being more populated than the West, needs it more.”

Doug and Martinez’ conference lasted the better part of three hours. Doug provided a handful of undocumented observations on his superiors as well as several other department heads and two Cabinet members. Regent would likely find a way to use the information as leverage.  Doug learned inadvertently through the conversation that Regent was invested heavily in the revolts in the Northeast, when Martinez mentioned casually of Regent’s efforts to “distract and destabilize current leadership models.” Doug didn’t react to that statement outwardly, but was shocked to learn that Regent would do such a thing. A moment later, he realized that he shouldn’t have been surprised at all.

At the conclusion of the conference call, one of the Regent executive assistants directed Doug to a guest suite, not far from his old apartment, and provided him the concierge menu for room service, implying that he was to stay in his quarters.   The armed security guards at the entry to the production area would prevent any informal tour of the working floor.

Plainly this was no longer ‘friendly territory.’

Wednesday morning,

August Thirtieth

Des Moines, Iowa

Six a.m. came and Doug rose quickly, eager to get on the road to Julie. After a hot shower, he packed, stowed his computer, and one of the Regent staff delivered his breakfast to his room.  He noted the exceptionally subservient attitude immediately, finally realizing that aside from the guards, the entire staff was probably co-opted by RNEW.  He wondered just what kind of quality and production levels they were maintaining, with minds as sharp as butter knives.

By seven, Doug was ready to leave, but hoped to get a glimpse of the production workers on First Shift.  He was surprised to learn that the plant manager had not yet arrived, and that the guards were not disposed to let Doug enter, despite Federal credentials. Rather than making an issue of it, he decided to simply enter it in his FDA report, which Regent would no doubt read before any of his superiors, and see what corrective action would be taken to put up the appearance of open and honest environments for inspection by Federal Regulators.

The Cherokee was freshly washed and vacuumed, and the cargo area held the standard FDA road kit and the rest of the area was filled with boxes with Regent logos.  The lot attendant provided Doug recommended driving routes to his Regent-provided home, and a sealed, unmarked envelope.  In the passenger foot well, a fairly large backpack was stowed, and an M-4 rifle in a slipcase. He didn’t bother to open the envelope until he had cleared the facility gates and found a quiet, abandoned Ameri-Mart parking lot.

“Doug—product in the boxes is Preferred. Noted that you’d not cashed any of your Regent pay. Payroll is in the satchel in your car. With the anticipated reval of the dollar, Regent pays E Branch in gold and silver at the rate of $20/oz gold, $1.40/oz of silver. You ought to be able to buy anything you want paying with metal. Prices vary widely across the region—you’ll need to negotiate. Prices in paper are ridiculous—you’d need a truck to carry this much cash.

There’s four months’ payroll here, one hundred and twelve ounces of gold and the remaining fractions in silver.

Stay sharp. Sorry about your friends.—K. Martinez.”

For the first time, Doug realized that Martinez might have been responsible for Rob and Francine’s death. ‘Professional hit,’ he’d said about Rob's death, and no details at all on Francine.  

What did they know that got them killed?

Remnant, Chapter 45

45

Tuesday

December Fifth

22:00 Hours

Stress cracks, battle damage and worn parts were common on all of the line equipment we were working on.  I’d introduced myself to the ‘lead wrench’ in the Transportation Company, who was under my command but hadn’t had the chance to meet personally. At first, he was under the impression that I was there to take charge, and as such, was a little more stiff and formal than he might have been otherwise.  Once I told him that I was there to work, and where could he use a hand, he softened up a bit and we discussed things that I had experience with. It was a little like a job interview, with the boss being interviewed by the employee. Short interview, fortunately. There was a lot of equipment to get through.

A half-hour of warm-up on the arc welder and I was back up to creating decent welds on heavy steel. It was rare, pre-War, that I’d had enough ‘practice’ to keep my skills up.  Hobbyist-level repairs didn’t lend themselves to honing anything close to expertise or speed.

The Transportation Company used some Third Washington’s repair equipment, but had salvaged much more equipment in Grand Island--the arc welder that I was using and the light-reactive helmet were an example.  Towed generators were moved up from the rail siding, fueled up and we were in business.

I was tasked with frame repairs and reinforcements on civilian-type trucks used by every unit in the fight.  Better-skilled men were working on tank hydraulic systems problems, electronics and optics systems failures, and replacing reactive armor.  A half-dozen of our newer Abrams went up against a single new T-90 Russian tank under command of a skilled tank commander, and five came back damaged.  The sixth was destroyed and her crew killed.  They fared better against the German and French armor in the field, according to the tankers, anyway.

Three and a half hours into some real labor, I was called back to reality.

“Colonel, sir? That Texan General’s looking for you,” Master Sergeant Cramer said after he saw me finish up a frame weld.

“Damn.  Just when I was getting back into my stride,” I said.

“She’s over there, sir.”

“Got it. Thanks, Dean. Maybe I’ll have the chance to get back down here sometime.”

“Anytime, Colonel. You’ve got a good hand with that stick.”

“Thanks,” I said as General Garcia approached.

“Hiding in the garage,” Garcia said with a smirk. “You men are all alike. Any chance to pick up a wrench.”

“Good to get some work done, General. Been a while since I’ve been able to do something mechanical. I’d forgotten how much I like to weld.”

“Need a few minutes of your time, Colonel. You had dinner yet?”

“No, ma’am. Wasn’t that hungry. Sounds good now though.”

“Meet me in the mess in ten.”

“Will do, General,” I said.

The mechanics had a wash-station of sorts, including some very Third World quality plumbing into an electric hot-water heater.  I made myself moderately presentable and headed over to the Lone Star mess tent.

The weather had really begun to turn, with low clouds coming in from the north along with the cold.  The wind hadn’t kicked up too much, but it was no night to be without shelter.

General Garcia was seated with a half-dozen of her senior staff, and rose to join me in the chow line when I entered the tent. We were served a couple slices of bread, beef stew, and canned peaches, and had a pot of coffee waiting for us at the table.  By the time we were headed back to the table, her staff had left.

“General, what’s up, other than the obvious?”

“Honestly, I need someone with some mileage on them to talk to. I’m fifteen years older than the next oldest person in this command. They aren’t exactly the minds I need to vent to,” she said. “My orders go against my grain, Colonel. We want back in the fight and we’re being told to hold fast.”

I thought about that for a moment. “No major military engagement in modern times has been successfully fought in winter weather, General.  Not to get out of line, but your troops could use some rest.  The equipment over in that bus barn is a bunch of patchwork repairs that are wrapped around powerplants that are way overdue for replacement, let alone simple maintenance,” I said, not enjoying the stew. It was awful.

“You agree with Austin and San Antonio then? When we’re this close?”

“I’m not a career soldier, General. However, what I see are tired men and well-worn equipment, poor real-time intelligence, unfavorable weather, and a thin and precarious supply line that could be disrupted by a single IED under a rail bridge or in a culvert.  Substantial gains have been made at the cost of a significant percentage of the men and women under your command and the command of allied units. Significant percentages, General. Fifteen, twenty, twenty-five percent. Unsustainable losses against an overwhelming enemy force,” I said.  Not what she wanted to hear.

“Don’t get me wrong. These bastards need killing more than anyone in recent memory. I just think that the opportunity will present itself on our time, when we’re ready, and that a pinch of patience will pay off. They’re on the run. That doesn’t necessarily mean that it’s good for us to keep chasing them.”

“If we sit here, we lose the advantage.”

“If you pursue them without adequate force, you suicide, General, and even with these thirty-thousand odd troops, you’re pushing three-to-one on the downside of the equation. That doesn’t spell ‘win’ to me. There will be time, soon enough, to get back underway. Get these other Guard C.O’s together, get them up to speed on what all of these units have seen and what the S.A.’s doing. God knows I haven’t seen anything come through Command about anything like a plan to move east from here. Makes me wonder if they know who is where, and with what.”

She nodded, looking with tired eyes at the tabletop.

“Angela, you need to get some rest yourself.  Pushing yourself too hard does not equate to good decision-making.  Get a commander-level briefing going for tomorrow afternoon.  We may have Command communications back up by then; we might even have some sort of battle plan, who knows. You’ll know though, better than San Antonio or Austin, what these forces are capable of against the S.A. in the field conditions we have now, or will have in the next few days.  Ten or twenty-mile gains are done for until this weather lets up. The men can’t handle it, the equipment can’t either, and we could be walking over the top of a field of IED’s and never know it until things go boom.  It’s down to one to five miles, my guess, on cleared ground, until the weather breaks or until we have travel paths established.”

“You’re probably right. It pisses me off though.”

“Don’t be George Patton. Didn’t end well for him, General.”

“No it did not,” she said, pausing, and it appeared to me, finding herself in the uncomfortable position of realizing that she was probably wrong to continue pressing for the current pursuit of the S.A.

“General, do you ever ponder how your own decision-making process works?” I asked.

“I gather information and analyze it and decide. Why do you ask?”

“A logical process. But is the information you gather, factual, or predictive?  The reason I ask is that if it’s predictive, it’s not necessarily factual. I had a fair amount of time to ponder this, laid up after an accident. I did a little introspection into my own decision making process. It was seriously flawed. Here’s why,” I said.

“If it has happened, it’s fact. If it hasn’t happened, it’s a prediction and not a fact. Weeding out what has happened from what hasn’t isn’t easy but it is necessary. At least half of what my own decision making process was based on wasn’t based on fact. It was based on ‘feel’…on ‘emotion’….or on ‘prediction.’  I suppose I knew it was wrong, but it felt right. I had that answer all along, but I cannot for the life of me remember where I learned it or whom I learned it from. But I did learn it, years ago, along with remembering the key to the whole thing: Once you learn what the facts are, you need to give yourself enough time to let them sink in and only then can you make a decision.  Austin can’t do that for you. Neither can the big brains in San Antonio. You need to make your own decisions, here. You shouldn’t need to question your superiors, if they’re using a sound decision making process, but they’re probably not. They’re probably not trained to do so. That makes your lobbying effort—and I hate that phrase—that much more critical to the prosecution of the war. You need to make the case for pursuit—or not—on facts.  Until you’re ready to do that, you need some rest.  You cannot make decisions when you’re mentally unready to do so.”

“Colonel, you sound like my ex,” she said, taking a drink from her coffee cup.

“As long as I’m not on the receiving end of a cast-iron frypan,” I said. I noticed the winds picking up outside.  “General, if you don’t need anything else, I’d like to get back to my unit.”

“Thank you, Colonel. Dismissed.”

And so we waited, to learn the facts, and how to fight a war based on facts.

Tuesday,

December Nineteenth

1130 Hours

For two solid weeks, Grand Island was the receiving zone for United States ground forces, and Third Washington was tasked with reestablishing potable water, temporary power, and helping feed and house the masses of troops.  We had staged sixty-five thousand troops out of Grand Island, almost all of them arriving by rail, and then within a few days, dispersed them across a two hundred mile long front, mostly by truck. During this time, we were unmolested by the S.A., and found nine civilians alive within five miles of Grand Island. All had been in hiding; all were part of the Resistance. Unlike other towns we’d been through and heard of, there was no sudden influx of civilians after the city was back in United States control.

General Garcia and her Lone Star troops had left Grand Island on December Tenth, accompanied by troops from Georgia and Arizona, and fifteen thousand Regular Army troops. They headed to Manhattan, Kansas, and would be joined by our First Washington….we hadn’t heard a single word of where they had been since we’d left Spokane. We assumed they would progress east toward Topeka, and after that, it was anyone’s guess. Thousands more headed north, toward Sioux City, Fort Dodge, and Minneapolis, with tens of thousands of men headed to Lincoln and eventually to Omaha.   It appeared, although it was never stated, that the U.S. strategy was to put the classic ‘pincer’ grip around the S.A., backing them up against the Mississippi, and eventually eliminate them.  That might work, if forces in the east could capture and hold the eastern side of the river, and then sweep up north.  It wouldn’t be long before we left Grand Island for the East.

Our communications were marginally better with new equipment and some serious jury-rigging on the part of our communications teams. In fact, they were pushing the equipment to its’ limit, sometimes with great success.  Our short-lived cell-phone experiment was over, until the EMP-damaged equipment could be replaced, along with the satellite network. We were getting by on not quite six hours rest in twenty-four.  I was usually getting by on less than that. 

We had no real idea on when an ‘offensive’ might start, the communications between Command and our units was cryptic, probably for good reason.  Grand Island’s supply stockpiles followed the troops out, to be re-staged down the line. The supply yard was dwindling daily.  I wasn’t really minding the relatively monotonous work. It didn’t involve getting shot at.

“Sir, patrol contact, due east, friendly dismounts coming in,” Private Ayers said, passing a slip of paper to Captain McGowan.

“Colonel, that’s a Ranger unit,” Gerry McGowan said. “One of ours. From Spokane.”

“Mike Amberson’s unit?” I asked. I noticed my heart rate had increased.

“Sure could be sir.  We’ll know in a half-hour. They’re on foot—we’ll get some wheels out there to bring them in,” Gerry said, signaling one of his assistants to get transport on the way.

“Do it,” I said.  I hadn’t heard anything about Mike’s unit either, since we’d pulled out of Spokane back in November.   “How many men, Mr. Ayers?”

“Seventy, sir, plus one civilian,” he said.  A Ranger company could vary in size, but should be almost two hundred men.

“Kittrick: Get medical ready, and figure out billeting. Gerry, get your intel group together for debriefing, Mr. Ayers, I suspect we’re going to need to get these Rangers direct contact with command. Work it out.  Questions?”

“No, sir,” I heard in unison.

“Good. Mr. Ayers, pull up a map in your spare time and get it on my monitor showing where the Rangers made contact.”

“Done, sir. Fifty clicks out, near the town of York, between Interstate Eighty and U.S. Thirty Four. Coming overland, sir.”

“Easy Three’s patrol point?”

“Yes, sir. Outer edge of the patrol limit, Colonel,” he said. Everything east of that point was no-man’s land. The S.A. still held Lincoln, and Omaha, that much at least, we knew.  

Communications during their return trip in was mostly directed to medical, requesting medevac of several seriously wounded men.  The helos that we might normally have had in Grand Island however, were three hours away, shuttling gear to other units.

It took almost two hours to return the Rangers back to Grand Island, which were among the longest hours I’d ever spent.

1330 Hours

“Gerry, direct the inbound traffic straight to Med Two on Charlie; Med one on Dog,” I said. “Corpsmen and surgical ready?”

“Yes, sir.  Doctor Willitson is prepped and ready. Remaining troops will head into the receiving cars for eval.”

“I’m heading out to meet them,” I said, grabbing my parka and helmet.

Outside, Sergeant Major Travis met me at the entry stairs. “Colonel, good to see you.”

“You as well, Chet. Been a couple of days.”

“Northern perimeter rotation. Not much to look at up there though, sir.”

“Your men ready in receiving?”

“Yes, sir. Food, showers, clothing, the works.”

“Outstanding.  Thanks,” I said.

“I expect these men will need it, Colonel. Any idea on what they saw for action?”

“Not a one. Rangers are behind-the-lines guys most of the time, I understand. I expect they created some havoc,” I said as I heard them approach from the southeast. “Here they come.”

Fifteen corpsmen appeared just as the Humvees pulled in next to the two medical cars on Charlie Six, and another dozen or more further west of us at Dog Sixes’ med car. The wounded, several on  stretchers, were quickly carried straight into the surgical car. At least twenty more men were ‘walking wounded’, and taken across the tracks to the main receiving area for new troops.  At least two corpsmen attended each, some holding IV bags.  I noted that one of our troops led a civilian woman over to the evaluation area.

I was looking for Mike’s familiar form, finally finding him coming out of the surgical car. He’d helped carry one of his stretcher-bound men in.

“Mike, good to see you,” I said.  He was almost unrecognizable through the grime and dried blood, and his face was now filled with deep lines. I could not imagine what he must have gone through. It hadn’t been a month yet.

“You too, Rick,” he said, taking off his banged up helmet. He had a field dressing on his head, above his left ear.

“Let’s get you over to receiving and get some warm food. And get that head looked at.”

“That and a shot of Scotch,” he said.

‘Thousand yard stare,’ I thought to myself.   “I can do that, too. We’re working on getting you a comm link to Command. I expect you’ll have a long debrief.”

“I expect so.”

Mike didn’t say a word as we headed to receiving.  Inside, his men were being swarmed over by corpsmen, food piled in front of them and hot drinks by the gallon. Coffee was not on the menu. No point in caffeine-loading before stand-down.

“We had a hundred eighty men going in,” he said numbly, standing and looking over his men, the unblinking, unfocused stare all too apparent. “Seventy coming back, one probably brain-dead. Probably lose two more due to blood loss.”

“Over here, Mike. Get some hot food,” I said, directing him to a small table out of the way, as one of the men brought a heaping plate of something appearing to be stroganoff.

“Thanks,” he said, disassociated from most of what was going on in the room, focusing on the plate in front of him. I’d seen post-traumatic stress before. I’d had it myself.  I was wondering if Mike would be dealing with that, or if this was just extreme fatigue. Gerry McGowan joined us, silently. Mike was halfway through his plate, and me through a cup of non-caffeine tea, before he spoke.

“Started out pretty solid. Inserted behind the lines on a low flying C-130, dropped us at little strip near Osceola, south of Des Moines. Found out the S.A. was a hundred fifty miles away at best.  Split up into teams, found a substantial resistance force already in place, damned near every farm. Good couple of weeks. Then the shit hit the fan. One of the resistance cells was S.A. infiltrators, reported everything that unit was doing up their chain of command. Started hunting us down, chasing us further west. Twenty thousand S.A. against us. Half of my men were gone in a week. Thought we were doing well to come back with what we did.”

“You probably were,” I said.

“You met any of them yet?” Mike asked, referring to the S.A. obviously. “I mean, spoken with them?”

“Uh, no. We’ve been shot at a few times. Never face to face.”

“Their line soldiers.   They’re messed up. Seriously. They’re absolutely remorseless. No conscience whatsoever. No care to consequence of action, except to kill absolutely everything in front of them. One of our corpsmen thought they were drugged or something. A couple of their wounded were left behind and we interrogated them before they died. Normally, you gotta understand…they kill their seriously wounded. It’s as if they didn’t feel pain. Then we captured a few more before we figured out that they let us catch them as bait. Used trackers on ‘em.  That really narrowed the hunt.”

“Mike, this isn’t your fault,” I said.

“I know that, Rick. But I don’t get why they let us go.”

“They let you go?” I asked, incredulous.

“Yeah. We were literally out of ammunition. Among our men I’ll bet there’s not five magazines with anything in them. After that, we’re down to knives and rocks. They just melted away one night and were gone. We were holed up for the last stand, figuring hand to hand and that’s it,” he said, finishing his plate and going after another placed in front of him as if it were the first. “They were gone come morning. Tens of thousands of them, just gone. I don’t get it.”

“I doubt anyone would, sir,” McGowan said. “Colonel Amberson, when you’re ready, I’d like to get a more in-depth debrief from you and your men.  I believe that our communications crews will have a secure link patched through to San Antonio around fifteen-hundred, depending on the satellite, sir.”

“Sure. That’s fine,” Mike said. “Whatever.”