Remnant, Chapter 42

42

Sunday

December Third

We’d departed early, earlier than I might have liked.  I’d hoped to attend the first worship service in North Platte since July, not long after they were occupied by the forces that became the S.A.  Services would be held in several locations, but none of the churches, temples, stake centers, or worship centers were left.  Charlie and Dog Six left at 0700, in the near dark, in blowing snow.  I’d been up since 0430, and took forty-five minutes to get back into physical conditioning in one of the crew cars.  Weights, a couple spinning machines and treadmills helped burn off some of the pent up energy as well as keeping….or in my case, obtaining, increased physical ability.  Breakfast was coffee, some biscuits, and more coffee, taken at my station in the command car.

A half hour out of North Platte, we received a radio signal—coded—that S.A. units remained active in the area ahead of us, despite the area being overrun with Marine and Army units.  It would seem that the S.A. filled the vacuum after the U.S. units passed through, and pushed further East. Without stable support and ‘occupying’ forces, the S.A. just melted away, and then moved back in.  Within a half-hour, were barely moving.

“Colonel, track report coming in from up line,” Greg Shand said. “Still decoding.”

“Thanks, Captain.”

“Sir, we’re also getting some chatter on the S.A. frequencies. Trying to get it cleaned up.”

“Let me know when you have something. Anything from our friends from Texas?  They were in Grand Island yesterday, correct?”

“Yes, sir. Expect they’re still there.  Weather’s ugly.  The Texans and the Marine units are bogged down on one side of the storm front, the S.A. main force is on the other.” 

“Sir, we’ve got a blocked track ahead,” Private Kittrick said.

“How far out?” I asked as I stretched my side. Ribs still hurt.

“Town called Cozad.  The auger unit cleared to that point and is returning.  Said they also took some small arms fire as they reversed.”

“Distance to Cozad, Mister Martin,” I asked.

“Fourteen point two miles, sir.  Auger unit will be parked on a siding at Gothenburg.”

“Gothenburg status,” Captain Shand asked one of the other techs.

“Marines report six hours ago said no one alive, sir, within five miles. And IED’s all over the place.”

“Affirmative, sir.  Remote sensing coming on line, should have a sat picture any second now,” Corporal Martin said as the screen flashed white and then went to the ‘blue screen of death.’ “Holy crap!  Comm failure on the sat link.  Kittrick, Get Dog Six to verify uplink status.”

“What’s going on?” I asked as everyone scrambled.

“Bird just died, sir.  S.A. just took out the satellite,” Kittrick replied, and then waited for confirmation. “Confirm that, sir. Central U.S. satellite is down…..Sir, San Antonio reports Air Force is tracking multiple launches from S.A. territories.  Have to be anti satellite missiles. Dog Six confirms and is tied into Air Force tracking radar.”

“Get the word out to all units ahead. Now,” Shand ordered.  “While we can.”

“Yes, sir,” Kittrick said.

“Martin, get a status update to both trains. Might be warm up ahead,” I said.  “Tell the engineers to park us five miles outside of Cozad until we’re ready to proceed in.”

“Yes, sir. Could be losing comms with Command pretty quick, Colonel.”

“Things have been going a little too well, Captain.  Counteroffensive had to happen sooner or later. Looks like sooner. Gents, get every position of U.S. forces downloaded to the protected server.  They pop an EMP this gear’s in a world of hurt.”

“Done, Colonel.  Automatic trigger and isolated, protected data storage,” Kittrick said. “Western U.S. satellite down. Dammit. Inbounds heading toward Eastern satellite…..one point five minutes max.”

“Kittrick, where are they launching from?”

“Detroit region, sir.  Can’t tell for sure. Two different profiles. Mid U.S. satellite was definitely an airborne launch due to the speed of intercept.  Other two were ground launch for sure.”

Nothing that I’d read or seen spoke of anywhere near this kind of capability. If anything, I thought that Command had overstated the case, hammering on the lack of technological sophistication of the S.A.

“Any other ballistic lauches?”

“Can’t tell sir. All satellites within line of site and single point relay are gone.”

“AWAC’s?”

“None in range sir. Preservation of assets, I believe the Air Force is calling it.”

“So U.S. forces could be on the receiving end of a ballistic missile attack and we’d have zero warning,” I said.

“Afraid so, sir,” Kittrick replied.

“Charlie Six, I want you putting together a work around for distance communications with the field units.  Dog Six on analysis of the attack pattern and communications options with Command,” Greg Shand ordered, “With the Colonel’s approval.”

“Don’t wait for me,” I said. “We don’t have time.”

Ten minutes later, we were in mid-conversation with both Austin and San Antonio, when the signal went dead.

“Gone, sir. Not sure we can get them back,” Martin said, fiddling with his computer, as the other techs scrambled as signals disappeared.

A few moments, later, Kittrick stated, “We’re in the dark, sirs. Systems operational, no data out there to collect.”

“Alert all battalion commanders,” I said.  “Things will be interesting when we hit Cozad.  Bet on it.”

Signals officers from Dog Six prepared the attack analysis against U.S. communications systems, and had it ready for a hurried Brigade briefing at nine-hundred hours. All Brigade commanders were attending either in person or electronically.

The outlook wasn’t favorable.

All civilian and military bands were affected, with multiple small EMP detonations in near space. Hardened military satellites were destroyed through direct impact, with airborne launched anti-sat weapons and several small ballistic missiles.

None of those capabilities were in the capability models created by the Department of Defense. The airborne launch alone proved that the S.A. had high-altitude fighter or other high performance aircraft capable of launching a missile able to target a satellite. The ballistic capability of course proved that they had the ability to drop a nuclear  weapon wherever they pleased, assuming advanced targeting capability.

Charlie Six signals teams were testing on-board communications gear, finding no faults, and testing the typical battalion communications gear.  Thus far, everything was working. The secondary communications suite was trying to communicate with anyone not aboard either train. 

“We’re not quite back in the stone-age, Colonel. We can see it from there, though,” Captain McGowan said.

“Last knowns of U.S. forces. Major Ryder?” I asked.

“Marines are inbound to Grand Island after a detour up north, numbering thirty eight hundred six, down from forty-four hundred. Lone Star is in and around Grand Island, fielding forty-three nineteen, sir.”

“Between them, they’ve lost twelve hundred men. They’re down thirteen percent in less than ten days,” I said.

“Affirmative, sir.  No counts on the New Mexico or Arizona units. They’re south of us. Haven’t heard from them since oh three hundred.”

“Georgia. Where’re the Bulldogs?” I asked.

“Due south of Grand Island. Town by the name of Hastings.  They’re down to thirteen hundred and twenty, Colonel.”

“Down about two hundred since Sterling.  Between the units that you’ve listed, and the known killed-in-action, we’re out of men in a few weeks….or days. All these units have been doing is a harassing campaign as the S.A. retreats. We need reinforcing units. NOW,” I said.  “There is not one damned reason that the S.A. couldn’t mop us up right now. All right. Last known on the S.A. forces…Major, headcount.”

Gerry was hesitant to answer. “Well in excess of fifty-thousand, sir.  Probably closer to seventy-five thousand. At least forty-thousand are split between Omaha and Kansas City, with the balance in the field against U.S. forces as they pull back east, sir.”

“So our units are down thirteen or more percent, fighting the stragglers,” I said.  That comment was met with silence.  “We continue on like this, and we’re done.  We need serious manpower in this area and we have nothing.”

“Recommendation, Colonel?”  Third Battalion commander, Lt. Colonel Hugh Epstein forwarded.

“Absolutely, Colonel Epstein,” I said.

“If we can find a means to communicate to the other Guard and Regular Army units, we need to consolidate in defensive points and stay there, until the U.S. can muster enough manpower to counter the S.A.  There’s more men out there, they’re just in the wrong place.  In light of our communications breakdowns, continued movement east without reliable intel is suicide, sir.”

“Thanks, Colonel,” I said. “Can’t really argue with that.  Once we hit Cozad, we’ll have some time to plan while we figure out how to clear the tracks.  Battalion commanders, expect an update on comms enhancements as soon as we get some news. In the meantime, First and Second Battalions, we’re five miles from Cozad and we’re taking Charlie Six in first. Dog Six hangs back a country mile in reserve.  First and Second will deploy as soon as we approach the blockage, barring something unforeseen. You will secure the area and we will assess the damage to the tracks.  If Cozad is anything like what the Marines said about Gothenburg, there probably aren’t any civilians left, or left alive. And probably IED’s as well as hostiles. Saddle up. Dismissed.” I said and the video feeds to the other railcars went dark.

“All right, communications boys, let’s have you work some magic,” I said to the staff in the communications suite.  “Sergeant Travis, double our crews in the defensive cars.  I want a dispersal map for First and Second with real-time positions plotted on the last satellite maps we have, uplink feeds from platoon leaders and leaders on up to battalion level. Got it?”

“Yes, sir. No problem,” Private Briggs replied.

“You say that now, Briggs. Shooting hasn’t started yet.”

At eleven-thirty hours, Charlie Six began the advance into Cozad.  The Defensive cars were fully manned and weapons-free, and both assigned battalions were in full gear ready to deploy.  

Within a half-mile of our intended stopping point, both the engineers and the communications teams said that they could see the blockage ahead. Almost simultaneously the train came under scattered small-arms fire.  The command car was better armored than much of the train, and we could hear the occasional rounds ‘spang’ against the superstructure of our car.

“Briggs, any word on damage to the train?”

“None so far, sir. Small arms at significant distance, according to the crew in the forward D-car,” he said, just as the resounding ‘whump’ rattled through the train. Briggs answered before I asked.

“Ours, sir. Abrams just let one off,” he said to me before directing our defenders to other likely targets.

“Shooters atop the grain elevators, right above us to the north and east on the other side of the downed bridge,” Briggs said, quickly switching video feeds to serve as spotter for our crews.  “Sir, forward Abrams just targeted another tall structure just south.  That one’s gone, sir.  Screen feed sixteen,” Brigs said.

With a few keystrokes, I could select any one of two dozen video feeds from aboard the exterior of the train. Most were fixed view, but some had the ability to zoom in on the image. Feed Sixteen showed the collapsing remains of a five or six-story concrete tower, hit mid-way up by a round from the rail car mounted Abrams tank.  Feed Ten showed, with a pan-and-zoom camera, small arms fire from the grain elevators.  Our own trigger-pullers in the defensive cars—D-cars—were waiting for the right moment.  First Battalion began their scramble out of the train and moved for cover.  Second Battalion was waiting for their “go” signal from the rear command car.

Within a few moments, I could see the enemy start to fall systematically as Third Washington engaged them in some force.  I knew though, that there weren’t more than a half-dozen of our men doing the shooting.   Feed Five had the rear defensive car, along with audio.  I watched, my heart pounding, as the cry came in from the rear command car.

“RPG!”

The shouts and pandemonium in the rear defensive car, and through the open audio feed of the rear command car only lasted a moment until the rocket-propelled grenades hit.

The defensive car took five hits before the rear Abrams and the chain guns found the shooters’ locations. The rear command car took one grenade, severing our link with the rear of the train.  A moment later, Private Martin yelled, “incoming!” as the forward portion of the train was targeted. Three violent shocks later, I picked myself up off the deck.  Several of the video feeds were blank, I saw, but the remaining feeds showed First and Second Battalions streaming out towards Cozad to our north and south, into the industrial side of the tracks, leapfrogging with fire-and-cover as they went. The D-car chain guns were making hay.

“Men down! Men down! Medic!”

The RPG fire ceased, but not soon enough.

13:03 Hours

“Dog Six, back it up,” I heard Briggs order the engineers aboard the second train. “Med Team Five, standby for deployment.”

“Colonel, you ready?” Jim Schaefer asked.

“Yep. Let’s move,” I said.  Four battalions were in the field in Cozad, eliminating the S.A. in their entirety. Lieutenant Colonel Schaefer and I were heading east to survey the blockage on our tracks.

“Sir, make sure your comm link is active, please,” Briggs asked before I put on my helmet.

“Done,” I said. “Thanks, Briggs.”

“No problem, sir.  Battalion commanders are on Three-Echo, with subroutines programmed to contact smaller units.”

“Haven’t read the manual, Briggs. If I get in trouble, I’ll just holler,” I said, Briggs of course knowing that I had read the manual on the complicated communications headset, and had tried it out earlier.

Outside, the transportation crews had unloaded most of Charlie Sixes Humvees, with the last one off the train parked near my command car.  This particular unit had a manned top-mounted gun and was up-armored.   The gunner, and a following support truck were weapons ready.  All eyes were looking for targets, weapons ready.

“Care to drive, sir?” Jim asked.

“Hell, yes,” I said.  “Tired of sitting around.”

“Should be a couple hundred yards up the line….the first blockage that is, sir.”

“Multiples?” I asked.  “Thought we only had the highway bridge down on the tracks. Saw it on the enhanced monitors.”

“Oh, more than that, sir, from what the point men out west are saying.”

“Great,” I said. “No IED’s spotted yet?”

“Sir? I can field that one. Sergeant Kinlin, First Battalion, Delta, er…sorry, D Company,” he said, correcting himself. The more modern phonetic alphabet, Alpha-Bravo-Charlie-Delta was widely used by the S.A.  The U.S. forces reverted to Able-Baker-Charlie-Dog. “We cleared a hundred meter swath on either side of the tracks and about two hundred meters down the line.  Couple squads from Easy Company are clearing further out.”

“Thanks, Sergeant,” I said. “I appreciate your work out there.”

“Years of experience, sir.  Three tours in the Raq and two in the Stan. Could really used a Short Bus out here.”

“Short Bus?” I asked.

“MRAP, sir.  Mine Resistant Ambush Protectant. Look like a short bus, Colonel.”

“Pretty much guarantee we’ll never have one of those handy when we need it, Sergeant.”

“Universal truth of combat, Colonel.”

We headed east several hundred feet beyond the lead engine, where the first blockage stopped us cold.  The S.A. had detonated an IED and took down a concrete overpass, blocking the rail line with an impassable barrier thirty feet wide and five feet thick. I headed south of the blockage, around the downed bridge and down the embankment, which was easier said than done with the Humvee side-slipping on the icy slope.   A few hundred yards east of the overpass, they dropped one of the rail bridges into the river…the Platte River, I assumed.  The Interstate 80 bridges though, were intact, or at least, hadn’t been blown, yet. 

“This is gonna suck,” I said. “Have any bridge engineers handy?” I asked Jim Schaefer.

“Nope, we sure don’t, Colonel. Nor any bridging equipment or heavy equipment to clear any of this.”

“Resupply to any unit east of here depending on rail service on this line just ended from this point until we get this figured out,” I said just as a rifle round hit the Humvee. 

“Not quite secured out here, sir,” Kinlin said.

“Ya think?” I said. “We’ll get back toward the train and get into town.  Sounds like our boys have a few areas swept out.”

“D Street by the hospital, as far north as their middle school, everything west of that. East and north of there, well, the civilians are kicking ass up there Colonel, ahead of our men.  One of the squads said they were killing the S.A. with shovels and axes.”

“Whatever it takes, Sergeant,” I said.  “Any guess as to civilian headcount?”

“Three thousand if there’s a one, sir. Probably more.”

“Probably no way to get them to let us do the job,” I said.

“Not one chance in all of Hell, Colonel.”

I drove south, slowly, along D Street, passing dozens of dead S.A., one face down in the snow with a pickaxe buried in his back, his blood soaking the snow and ice. To a man, or an animal, as my opinion of the S.A. line fighter was now defined, the dead appeared to have been beaten to death by a mob.  I noticed there appeared to be no civilian bodies.

“Sergeant, the S.A. ran out of ammo, I’m thinking.”

“Probably so, sir.  Civilians lit out after them and killed who they caught.”

“Victor Two,” I said into my headset after switching to the right frequency.

“Two,” I heard in my ear.

“Estimate enemy remaining,” I asked.

“Six hundred plus. Civilians and Dog Company are in pursuit.”

“Rendezvous at location Sugar after you secure the area. Victor Five out,” I said.

“Jim, how long you think mop-up will take?”

“Two to three hours.  First units in are about a third through the building sweep.  No completed IED’s so far, except at their airport, but a shitload of material to build them, sir. Excavations all along the Interstate, and three arterials. Didn’t have time to finish them.”

“All right, enough of my sightseeing.  Let’s see how this hospital looks.” 

Remnant, Chapter 41

41

Saturday

December Second

North Platte, Nebraska

North Platte had suffered far more in much less time than Sterling.

Twenty-six hundred and fourteen civilians were killed by S.A. forces in less than a day. United States Air Force bombardment of the S.A. command-and-control center had also killed at least fifty-six indentured citizens…or ‘slaves.’ Ten percent of their pre-War population, from the last census….probably a far greater percentage after the flu had ravaged the population.  Among the dead was the entire leadership of North Platte, and every preacher, fireman, teacher, and of course, police officer. A few prisoners were taken by the S.A. on their departure--all females, under twenty years old.    The survivors in North Platte were mostly in shock from what I could tell.  I couldn’t find any semblance of a ‘command authority’ anywhere.  Anyone who’d stood up to authority was killed for the favor. After a fruitless day of trying to find someone to lead the city, I ordered essential infrastructure repairs to be made, and headed back to the train. I had other work to attend to, including mapping out transit to our next destination, getting recon crews out ahead, and looking over rail lines east to see where else we might be headed.  Trains would be following us along and we didn’t have a whole lot of time to waste.  

The Air Force targets needed to be cleared by ordnance experts before remains could be safely retrieved, as one of the young Marines first into the city had the bad luck to discover.  His remains however were recovered not long after Third Washington arrived. The S.A. dead could be estimated, but not confirmed until any unexploded ordnance was addressed.  It was a relatively safe bet that five to six thousand enemy dead lay in bits and pieces within the blast pattern.

Our trains were staged on the rail lines that bisected North Platte and in the old Union Pacific Bailey rail yard on the west side of town. Troops from Dog Six worked to repair the rail lines between the city and the small airport. The missiles blasted a jagged path through the yard and cut the lines to the airport and points east. The airport was also heavily damaged, although we didn’t investigate in depth. There wasn’t time.

The men from Charlie Six were working with the civilians to repair the damage to the infrastructure caused by the S.A. and isolating the bombed areas.  In three days of work, the Brigade had restored power and water to half of the city, albeit with makeshift repairs.  As the wreckage was searched and ‘safed’, the civilian remains were recovered and identified as much as possible, with many unfortunately going to a mass grave in North Platte’s cemetery.  S.A. weapons and materiel were recovered, cleaned and stored for potential use.  Interesting discoveries were forwarded up the chain of command.  The S.A. dead were unceremoniously collected via front-end loader and dump truck, trucked out of town to a location east of the regional airport, and buried in a mass grave carved out of the ground with a bulldozer.  We thought about sending an honor guard to the burial, and then thought better of it.  Most of the S.A. had no identification of any kind. Those that did were isolated and buried at one end of the trench.  One of the brigade’s chaplains and a few of the command staff and I were present as the last of the S.A. were buried, and brief prayers said over the grave.

“Helluva thing, Colonel,” Major Ryder said as we stood in the blowing snow, the bulldozer driving from the burial ground.

“A price to pay, certain to grow much higher, soon, Major.  These men may some day be honored by their families, wherever they are, and at a point in time where what they did fades away. They will certainly never be honored by those here.”

We never did get an accurate body count for the S.A. dead as no one was interested in piecing them back together.

By late afternoon, the weather had turned clear and cold again, after days of overcast. The vast majority of Third Washington would stand down from sixteen hundred until oh six hundred, Sunday. By late Sunday morning, we’d head further east. Lines east of us were being cleared and repaired.  IED’s under a highway bridge somewhere between North Platte and Grand Island had taken out the line, not far from the old Cornhusker Army Ammunition Plant. A highway bridge was brought down on top of the tracks.

With our security patrols keeping an eye on things around the train (not that there was an issue, the residents of North Platte could not have been more kind to us), I took some personal time along with Sergeant Travis for some time with my early Christmas present.  Chet had a bone-stock 1903A3 when he was growing up, and we’d talked a little about the custom ’03 that Karen had commissioned for me.

Within five rounds, I was shooting three-inch groups at a hundred yards…unfamiliar scope and all. Within five more, sub two-inch groups.  Chet bettered me, but he was also fifteen years younger, better trained, and a professional. I still counted that as a win.  It was not satisfying though, despite the accuracy of the weapon and the craftsmanship that went into its engineering. The ought-six was just another tool used to kill.

“Thank you, Colonel. That brought back a lot of good memories,” Chet said as we drove back to Charlie Six.

“Thanks. They did a fine job building that weapon.  Impractical as all get out, though.”

“Everything has a time and a place, sir. There might be a time and place for that 03 one of these days,” Sergeant Travis said.

“Only if the S.A.’s within a few hundred yards of me…which means the organic matter has really hit the fan.  Time for some coffee,” I said as we parked the Humvee. “And time to clean this rifle. Chet, you spent most of the day in town today.  See anyone in the way of a leader? I came up dry. Pretty frustrating. I’d like to know that someone can get this place back on its’ feet.”

“A few, sir.  Lot of folks came into town this afternoon trying to help out.  Lot of ‘em looking for family.  Seems like there are a couple of folks from down south who’re naturals.”

“See if you can round them up.  I’d like to talk to them about the recovery after we head east.”

“Will do, sir,” he said with a salute.  I headed into my quarters to get my cleaning materials for the Springfield. I decided to clean it in one of the work-cars, rather than in my quarters. 

A few cars further back, a Third Washington crew was finishing up cleanup of captured and salvaged weapons, even though they’d been given the order to stand down. 

“Ten-hut!” I heard as I entered the converted shipping crate.

“At ease,” I said.  “You men do know that you’re off-duty, right?”

“Yes, sir. Anyplace more entertaining than a room full of weapons, sir?”  Master Sergeant Schrock, one of the weapons specialists asked.

“None come to mind off hand,” I said with a smile. “Need to clean this old Springfield.  Mind if I use a cleaning bench, Sarge?”

“Not a bit, sir.  You pretty much own the place.”

“Not hardly.  I’m just the chief custodian,” I said as I opened the rifle case and pulled the rifle out of a protective ‘sock’.

“Well, now. That’s quite an antique, sir,” one of Schrock’s men said.

“Family had it built for me before I deployed. Just took it out for a walk with Sergeant Travis.  Pretty nice work,” I said.

“Mind if I take a look, Colonel?” Schrock asked.

“Not at all,” I said, handing him the rifle taking out my cleaning solution and tools.

“This is a beauty, sir,” he said after some close examination.  “I’ve got two of them myself, back home in Klamath Falls. None anywhere near this nice. I’ve never seen a stock like this. Carbon fiber composite, nice fitting work. Custom hand made scope mount;   good scope. Damn. You ought to be able to take out a robin’s eye at three hundred yards with this, Colonel.”

“Well, given my aging eyes, I’d settle for hitting a man in the chest at that range.”

“Never underestimate one’s ability, sir.”

“I make it a point never to overestimate it, either, Sergeant. I’ll live longer that way.”

“True enough, I suppose, sir. Cleaning solutions are in the fireproof locker, over there, along with the swabs and cloths.”

“Got my own.  Homemade concoction.”

“Seriously sir?”

“Yeah.  Found it a few years ago…the recipe anyway.  The bore cleaner is called ‘Ed’s Red.’  One part Dexron II automatic transmission fluid; one part K1 kerosene; one part aliphatic mineral spirits; one part acetone.  And some lanolin. Keeps things from rusting for quite a while. Works pretty well. Cheap, too.”

“Might have to scrounge some of that stuff, Sarge,” one of the younger soldiers said. “We went through a ton of cleaner on those Texans’ rigs.”

“Yes we did, Heinrich. Make yourself a list.  Maybe see if we can start rounding that stuff up before we ship.”

“Yes, sir.” I repeated the list for the young man as he took notes.

Twenty minutes of cleaning and conversation later, the 03 was back in her case.   I then had a chance to look around at the weapons that Sergeant Schrock and his men had been cleaning.

“This is the one you were telling me about?” I asked, regarding the bin of captured weapons stowed after the blast area was cleared.

“Yes, sir, Colonel.  Intel’s already had a look,” he said, referring to one of my senior staff, Gerry McGowan and his lieutenant.

The lower rack held hundreds of weapons, many damaged to the point where they were only good for parts. I recognized many types, although I was puzzled by the vast variety of calibers.  “What a mess,” I said.

“No joke, sir.  Just about every caliber you could think of.”

“By percentage, what’s on top—the most common?”

“Easy. 7.62x39, followed by .223, then 7.62x54R.”

“Thought I saw a PSL in there among the AK’s.”

“Yes, sir. And these are just the ones that were suitable for parts.  Whole lot more are in the bin there in the back—maybe fifteen hundred. Need to be cleaned but serviceable.”

“How was the ammo count?”

“Maybe fifteen thousand rounds across the entire spectrum, Colonel.  Never saw more than three mags on any body close to an AK.  Guys that were slogging the Mosins and the PSL’s had maybe fifty rounds max. Sixty rounds max for anyone with an AR.”

“Pretty thin,” I said. “And as much as love my 03, it’s heavy. So’s the ammunition. The Mosins and the like are much heavier. Our men, packing the same weight, can carry hundreds of rounds more per man.”

“Yes, sir. And that’s good for us.”

At nineteen- hundred,  I was shuttled over to  North Platte High School, ten blocks or so south of the rail lines occupied by Charlie- and Dog-Six. The place was packed with survivors and refugees, most looking like one would expect after getting caught in a war.

Sergeant Major Travis and Lieutenant Colonel Miller had helped get the refugees organized and directed to three feeding and warming stations we’d set up, which overall seemed a woefully inadequate response. 

“Colonel Drummond?” a corporal asked as I entered the cafeteria. I noticed about fifty Third Washington men were serving food, passing out blankets, coats, and directing civilians towards medical care down one of the hallways.  The building was powered by two of our big portable generators.

“Corporal?  What’s the good word?” I said, catching him by surprise.

“No one’s shooting at us, sir,” he said after regaining his composure. “Lieutenant Colonel Miller asked me to direct you to his table. I believe he’s gathered some of the civilian leadership.”

“Very good, Corporal,” I said. “Relax, kid,” I said as we threaded our way through the room.  What I saw, I didn’t like. These people were malnourished, which was not just something that had happened through the actions of the S.A. locusts as they passed through town. This was a long-term issue. They hadn’t been eating right for a long time.

“Yes, sir. Sorry, sir.” I noted he did not yet relax.  This kid looked scared.

“If I’m next to you in a firefight, I don’t want you freaking out because you have a senior officer next to you.  I’m just as full of shit as the next guy,” I said, getting him to lighten up a little bit.

“I’ll remember that, sir.”

“Good. Pass it around while you’re at it. And this too: If I am next to one of my men in a firefight, and they’re not doing their job, as in, keeping the team alive because they’re scared of screwing up in front of an officer, they are as likely to get shot through inaction as through action. From our side or the enemy side.  Clear?” Meaning of course, that I’d likely shoot them myself if they were endangering my life.

“Yes, sir,” he said with the appropriate amount of respect. “Right over there, sir.”

“Thank you, Corporal Johnson. Carry on.”   I don’t know why I was so edgy.

I made my way through the last couple of tables over to Shawn Miller’s table.  He was joined by one of his Majors and a Captain assigned to his battalion. Two civilians rounded out the table. All stood as I approached.

“Colonel Rick Drummond,” I said, shaking the hands of both civilians.

“Jim Kreinbeck,” the first said.  Well fed, but thin, dressed appropriately, about my age.

“Chuck Varleson. Good to meet you, Colonel.” Tall. Really tall, I noted.

“And thanks for bringing the United States back to North Platte,” Kreinbeck said.

“I think the Marines and the Texans did that.  And our boys in the Air Force,” I said.

“Regardless. It’s pretty much been Hell under the S.A.,” Varleson replied. “Although we hear it’s been worse the farther East you go.”

“Haven’t heard that, but good to know,” I said. “I understand that there isn’t anything left here in terms of civilian leadership.  Is that accurate?”

“It is.  They’re in a common grave over by the Country Club. S.A. rounded ‘em all up and machine-gunned them,” Chuck Varleson said. “They’d have got us in time. Some of them won’t be missed, though.”

That puzzled me a little. “What did you say?”

“Sorry. We had an asshole who took charge of the place after the S.A. occupation. About the time they moved to Denver. Bruce Devlin decided to be the big fish.  The Mayor went fishing one day, never came back. So’d the Police Chief. Devlin put his brother in law in charge in the city, his cousins in the police department. Things went to shit from there,” Jim said. “All guns were declared illegal and seized. Almost all the fuel was seized. Radios seized.  TV’s smashed.”

“Colonel, pre-War, these guys thought they were God’s gift to the planet. Well, Devlin did anyway. Big shot banker, into real estate, trophy wife, all the most expensive toys.  Moved back up here before the real-estate market collapsed a few years go…made a bunch of money down in Tucson.  Built a big-ass house.. Bought off anyone who got in his way, unless they were too stupid to take the money, and then he’d just destroy them. Once the S.A. came in, he welcomed them with open arms. Mayor and Chief disappeared about two weeks in. We had a local currency—scrip-type system—set up before that happened. Of course any precious metals went his way, too, and then the guns went away. He took it over, took cuts off the top, ran the bank. Got to the point where the regular Joe’s couldn’t make it…he was taking from everyone. Commerce basically stopped.  People gave up. If they were able, they escaped.”

“I see significant evidence of mass malnutrition here,” I said.

“You do at that, Colonel. Devlin and his thugs took all the stock, any grains that were being harvested, down to banty hens and milk-goats. Stolen at gunpoint, a lot of it. Nothing most folks could do about it.  Fed themselves, sold the rest to the S.A. Too many guns, too many men, always watching.”

“So what happened to this bastard?”

“S.A. popped him and his friends along with all the others. I hear he begged for his life at the end. Offered up all his silver and gold, which they took anyway and then shot him. I just wish I’d have been the guy to kill him myself. I’d have done it slower.”

“I can understand that,” I said, remembering our own tyrannical local leaders. “Let me get to the point here. Are you from North Platte proper?” I asked.

“No, sir, Colonel.  Few miles south, I run a feedlot down there, or did before the S.A. took all the cattle,” Kreinbeck said flatly. “Chuck here ran a resort in the summer down on the lake south of town, and farms as well.”

“Pardon me, if I’m repeating anything that Colonel Miller might have told you, but we need to establish a civilian leadership structure to make sure that the town gets back on it’s feet. More support of course will be coming from the U.S., but we’re not long for this town. Resupply trains and new generating units will be here before we leave. We don’t want these people suffering anymore than they already have. It’s important that we get a few men and women to take the reins here. Are you two interested?”

“We’re not politicians, Colonel. I think I feel safe speaking for Jim here,” Varleson said.

“Chuck, neither am I. A year ago I was a civilian, just living and doing my job, raising my kids, bitching about paying taxes and listening to whiny employees.  Our state got hit by a big-ass earthquake and not long after, I’m running the county. Then I get drafted, at my age. And here we are.”

“Colonel, we wouldn’t know where to start.”

“You’ll have help.  We’ll get some folks in here to give you a hand. Not sure if they’ll be from Nebraska, or Boise, or Sacramento or wherever. I can say that they’re not interested in running things. They are interested in North Platte running itself. You’ll get communications back. You’ll get weapons back. Soon,” I said. The captured weapons didn’t have any use to Third Washington. The citizens of North Platte might as well have them.

“Fresh approach in these parts,” Varleson said.

“Yeah. Expect to see a lot more of that,” I said.  “Remember the Constitution? The real Federal Government actually pays attention to that these days.”

Jim replied, looking at his friend, “Will wonders ever cease?”

“Hopefully not.  Before we head out, we’ll do what we can about getting you a schedule on supply trains and resources that will be available,” I said.  “So, can we sign you up?”

“Heads I’m mayor,” Chuck Varleson said. “Tails, dogcatcher.”

“I’m in on that,” Kreinbeck said. “It’s not like there are cattle to mind these days.”