Remnant, Chapter 49

49

Sunday,

December Twenty-Fourth

18:00 Hours

Lincoln, Nebraska

Within the space of a few hours, Lincoln Municipal Airport became again, Lincoln Air Force Base.  I wasn’t aware that it had ever been an Air Force installation, until I’d seen an old-timer who’d worked on Atlas ICBM’s when they were stationed here in the Sixties. It had been home to both Army and Air Guard units before the War. They’d been reassigned to Cannon Air Force Base in New Mexico.

True to his word, General Rowe’s C-17’s delivered men and equipment that transformed the wrecked airport to a forward operating base for every type of close air support aircraft in the inventory, no matter what branch.

By seventeen-hundred, Air Traffic Control was up and running, not far from the wrecked Nebraska ANG buildings, despite the forward air controllers not having a place to sleep that night.  Crews from both the Washington and Idaho brigades were assembling housing for the aircrews and controllers, from rail-mounted units nearly identical to ours.  Two off-load cranes systematically unloaded the converted containers and shifted to flat-beds towed by semi-tractors, moved them to the airport, and then offloaded each unit with another pair of cranes.  The creation of the Air Force village would probably take a full twenty-four hours, especially getting the utility hookups made. There was plenty of work to go around.  I toured the operations of the Gem State and Third Washington in a very old, but low mileage Chevy Blazer that at one time had belonged to a missile complex up in North Dakota.  I’d never seen as many heaters in anything painted olive drab. It was nice to be warm.

At seventeen oh-five I was headed back up to the airport with Jim Schaefer for a last look before I sequestered myself. I didn’t hear them until they were nearly upon us: three KC 135’s in quick succession, perhaps thirty seconds apart, landed and immediately dispersed on the fair-sized apron of the base.

“Nice to see they’re starting to get some aircraft in the fight,” Jim said. “Really packing them in close.

“They’ve probably been in the fight all along, just not where it would do any good,” I replied. “Or at least, any good for us.”

Right after the KC’s, the familiar ‘hum’ of the A-10 Warthog.  I gave up counting them after twenty.

“Shee-it,” I said, pulling up to the Air Force security policeman for the second time in an hour.

“Good evening, Colonel. Where you headed this time?”

“Off to see your C.O. with Lieutenant Colonel Schaefer here,” I said.

“One moment, sir, let me locate him,” he said, then stepped away from the truck and spoke into his headset mike. “Should be in Thirty One Oh Seven, sir.”

“Thanks, Sergeant,” I said with a nod, and drove off.  “They’ve got their Command and ATC in those six containers behind the three layers of fence.”

“Anti-RPG fencing?” Jim asked.

“You got it.”

“So, Colonel, how long you think you’ll be down?”

“I’ve got a two week supply of antibiotics and the Doc will be checking on me as often as he thinks is prudent. He’s not messing around.  Just consider me an office-bot for the duration. Which, by the way, I will hate.”

“I’ll bet.  You’re not the kind of guy to sit on your ass, sir.”

“Not so much, no,” I said looking over at the runway. “Fairchild Thunderbolt II’s. Those have to be one of my favorite aircraft, period.”

“The Warthog is one of the best things flying, sir.  Every time I meet one of their pilots, I buy them a drink.”

“I hope we have a lot of them left…pilots and Hogs.”

Colonel Mike Kazmer was a bundle of nervous energy in a five-foot nine frame, simultaneously listening to three different attack missions in mid-execution, giving orders to his command staff, and listening to our situation report. He seemed to take it all in, and asked pointed questions that were relevant to air operations. Transport and converted civilian airliners would begin to evac civilians on Christmas morning.

“OK, Colonel Schaefer, that covers the basics: Fuel, food and bullets. How’s security on our approach and departure?  How many people with long-guns picking for us?”

I responded for Jim. “Colonel Kazmer, the S.A. disarmed most everyone here. There is no Resistance movement to speak of. There is no civilian presence within two miles of the airport in any direction. There wasn’t before the City was re-taken, it’s been maintained that way.  There are no habitable homes from Interstate Eighty north and west of Highway One Eighty.”

“SAM’s? Find any?”

“No, Colonel Kazmer.  Spent SA-7’s manufactured twenty years ago, -14’s and -18’s. Hundreds. No live weapons.”

“Common manufacture?”

“Not hardly.  Russian, Egyptian, Chinese, Pakistani. Manufacture dates of Nineteen Seventy-Nine to three months ago,” Jim said. That raised Kazmer’s eyebrows.

“What’d you find for fixed installations?” he asked.

“Wreckage,” I said.

“Can’t I.D?” Kazmer asked.

“Six radar locations with six launchers each. There really wasn’t enough left of any of them to identify what they were or where they were from, but three Intel officers said they didn’t recognize any of it. Secondary detonations at all locations. It appeared they stored spare missiles well within blast radii of the missiles on the launchers.”

“Amateurs,” Kazmer said, listening to us and his controllers in contact with ‘Gunfighter Six’ who was engaged over Omaha. ‘Six’ was an A-10 that had been hit during a run through the SAM umbrella over the city. I’d overheard that the plane had engine damage and had lost both hydraulic systems and had reverted to manual—meaning cable operated—controls.

“Colonel, it’s clear you’ve got work to do. We’ll let you get to it,” I said as I stood. I was getting tired. Jim stood as well.

“Busy night in a long line of busy nights. Thanks to you both and your men. Good having juice to run these systems, food for our men and a supply line for gas and shells.”

“Merry Christmas, Colonel.”

“And to you as well,” he said, shaking our hands, still listening to ‘Gunfighter Six’ and ‘One’, the stricken crafts’ flight leader.  

Jim and I put our parkas back on, and headed outside.   Air Force emergency response crews were ready to respond to ‘Gunfighter’.

“This could get interesting,” I said to Jim.

“Yeah, at least.  Here he comes,” he said, pointing north- northeast.

We watched as the anti-collision lights flashed and a single landing light wavered on approach, and touched down without incident.

“Uneventful is good,” I said.

“Yeah it is.  I’m thinking that pilot’s gonna kiss the ground.”

“At least,” I said as we looked to the northeast, thirty-five or forty miles over to Omaha, where we could hear artillery and see the flashes of explosions.

For the first time ever, I spent Christmas Eve alone. Six chaplains from the Brigade were at several refugee locations for makeshift church services.  I’d have been there too, but for doctor’s orders. There was little in the way of traditional Christmas celebrations in Lincoln.  I read my well worn Bible, and listened to carols being broadcast through our train, Dog Six, and Lincoln Air Force Base.  I wrote letters to Karen, Carl and Kelly; Ron and Libby; Alan and Mary.

I reviewed in my mind the previous year, and how different it turned out to be. 

Karen and I had planned on a family trip to San Francisco for Spring Break, staying at our favorite hotel off of Columbus, not far from Fisherman’s Wharf. I didn’t tell her but I’d also planned a nice quiet dinner for the two of us at the Mark Hopkins. I’d made reservations six months in advance. Instead of San Francisco, we finished the roof on the house and slept inside the house and not the barn, for the first time in months.

Summer would have brought around another family reunion with my brothers, probably without Joe. We’d have golfed at Liberty Lake’s south course, water skied behind a friend’s boat up at Priest where we’d vacationed as kids, seen a Spokane Indians baseball game.  Instead, we farmed and split wood and built houses and worried a lot.

All the other plans were shelved as well.  Building a new deck in the back of the house, adding an above ground pool, finishing the Sixty-Six Mustang for Carl and Kelly to drive to school.

A little before midnight, I shut the lights off and listened as the A-10’s continued their sorties.

Christmas Morning

04:30 Hours

I rose early, tired of coughing, and not quite knowing where I was.  I didn’t sleep well, with the constant thrum of air traffic and all the noises associated with normal operations of Third Washington.

After showering, I flipped on the monitor and reviewed the imagery currently being viewed in the Command Car.  It made me fee like a teacher looking over the shoulders of students, to see if anyone was cheating. Two monitors were reviewing weather inbound to Lincoln, others were working on equipment manifests, personnel assignments, supply train schedules, and sorting through lists of civilians requesting transport out of the city.

The latter, in particular I found interesting, as the tech running that station was cross-referencing the photographs of civilians with known database information from before the War.  The database was quite extensive, more so than I’d ever realized.  We were weeding through the ‘civilians’, to see if there was a cross reference to any known S.A. 

I grabbed my parka and gloves, and headed to ‘work’, making my way through the slush-covered ice.

“Merry Christmas, everyone,” I said to the full Command Car.

“Good morning, Colonel. Fresh coffee?” Major Pat Morrissey asked.

“Absolutely, Pat. The real thing?”

“Courtesy of the United States Air Force,” he said, pouring me a big mug.

“Mighty nice of them,” I said.

“Considering they’re looking to requisition one of Third’s machine shops, permanent-like,” Pat said, “I’d consider this as part of a buttering-up process, sir.”

“When did the request come in?” I asked.

“Little after midnight, Colonel.”

“How high up the food chain?”

“Bird Colonel, sir.  Name of Harris.”

“Anybody from Third comment on this?”

“Charlie’s machine shops are running full steam, Colonel, three shifts.  Refits of equipment far and wide, mostly tanks. Dog’s a little slower.”

“Correct me if I’m wrong. They have four shops from ‘Able’ at their disposal, and they want ours as well?”

“Appears that way, sir.”

“Yeah. Not really feeling like Saint Nick today,” I said. “When they put a formal request in, send it, and the messenger, straight to me.”

“I’ll see to it, sir,” Pat said.

“OK, now, what’s the overnight sit rep?”

“Lost three water filtration systems on our train, two on Dog. Pump systems in the waste tanks are having issues, too.”

“I figured the honeymoon would wear off pretty quick.  Crews on repair?”

“Twenty-five men on rotation, Colonel. The cold is a bitch.”

“And the boys in blue? They’ve been busy overnight.”

“Flyboys have been hammering on the S.A. in Omaha. Lost one, an F-16.  Ground forces are closing in, should be entering the central core within the next six hours,” he said, pointing at a tactical display on one of the monitors. “They’ve basically got everything west of a line from the airport on the north side of town to Papillion on the south. Six more transports came in overnight from Arizona and California, men and gear. Planes are really stacking up at the airport, Air Force says that evac flights will start as soon as the civilian relief forces and ground workers offload—they’re inbound right now, probably an hour out. Most of Dog Six is standing down until eleven hundred, they had a freight come in around oh two hundred and were on alert to offload.  That one got shuttled straight up to the Air Force instead—munitions—including some new drones, and the boys in blue took care of the offload.  Next train’s not due until fourteen-hundred. Night shift of Charlie should be coming off duty at oh six-hundred. No news there, most of the men were up on campus in the civilian shelters and med centers.”

“Find any S.A. in this vetting process?” I asked, pointing to one of the tech’s working over on Suite Two.

“Five. They don’t know it yet. We have men there. They’ll be removed from the civilian population shortly. We planned on taking them at oh five-hundred.”

“Are they together, or separate?”

“Separate,” Morrissey said.

“If you do this, will you tip off any other S.A. in the lot?”

“Colonel, sir?” the Suite Two tech, ‘Jackson’ replied. “We’re done with the vetting process across the entire civilian population in the next fifteen minutes, sir. Facial recognition programs are running in every Command Car—all eight between the four trains—most on multiple suites.  This suite is reviewing some questionables raised by all other suites.”

“You’ve done this overnight?” I asked, quite surprised.  Thousands of civilians were photographed, names taken, and other identification given.

“Yes, sir. Captain McGowan’s orders, along with the intelligence officers from the Idaho Brigade.”

“Nice work,” I said. “Pat, proceed per your original schedule.” All civilians had been searched for weapons when they entered the civilian shelters. In the thousands of refugees, the most serious weapon were folding blade knives. No firearms whatsoever.

I reviewed the Christmas Day operational schedule as the time ticked toward five a.m.   The S.A. in hiding would be whisked out of the civilian shelters quickly, taken to a secure facility within the perimeter of the Air Force base, and would go through interrogation. Along the way, they’d be strip searched and zip tied.

Christmas breakfast for the civilians would be nothing out of the ordinary, unfortunately.  They’d be fed and warm though, and some would evac to warmer climates and safer places. Third Washington wouldn’t be ‘fixing’ much in the way of infrastructure in Lincoln, beyond keeping the University and hospital areas alive for military support.

One of the sergeants from Second Battalion served up breakfast for the Command Car, earlier than we’d expected.  Breakfast bagel, with sausage, egg and cheese.  Not bad, but not home. I missed Karen’s sausage, egg, bread and cheese breakfast casserole, and ambrosia in my great-grandmothers’ crystal bowl.

I put on the headset and microphone, and listened to the tactical frequency as the S.A. in hiding were taken, forgetting that there was probably headset video from each squad. None put up a fight, but exiting the group sleeping area was a little tense. The civilians wanted the S.A. for their own.  Within a few minutes, the S.A. were on their way to their new, limited future.

A second cup of coffee later, Pat placed in front of me a stack of recovered S.A. documents that were being scanned and transmitted up to Command. They were an interesting glimpse into the Other Side. Although cryptically written, the gist of the ‘Priority Directives’ included these choice thoughts:

Doctors, nurses, scientists and engineers were to be captured and shipped East to Pennsylvania, where the S.A. was establishing research and development centers for medically enhancing the soldiers of the S.A. and dramatically increasing the immune systems of the senior members of the S.A. hierarchy. Simultaneously, anyone deemed to be of inferior ‘stock’ would be conscripted into the S.A. ranks and ‘fully indoctrinated into the Sacred Mission of the State.’ The ‘inferior stock’ would be used as front-line soldiers, and were fully intended to be expendable. Those with ‘superior social value’ would of course be spared.

“Eugenics at it’s finest,” I said to myself, as I continued reading.

The capture of breeding-age females of course was part of the process, where either they would be selected for breeding based on ‘pre-determined genetic superiority’ (which seemed a contradiction in terms to me). Those with ‘acceptable prime factors’ would be directly bred; those without would be artificially inseminated.   The report was incomplete, only part of their ‘Statistically Superior Creation Effort’ was here for me to read. It was sickening.

“Pat, has Captain McGowan read this?”

“Yes, sir. I was reserving passing on his responses until you’ve read the documents.”

“These people are barking mad,” I said. “They’re getting soundly thrashed on all fronts and they’re talking about breeding the next generation from ‘genetically superior’ people?’”

“So it appears, Colonel.”

The rest of the documents paled in comparison to the ‘creation effort’.  Machinery and tooling, all identified by location, type, capability and capacity were present in a thick, three-ring bound document. Someone had put significant effort into inventorying, documenting, and locating all of this equipment.  All of it was to be seized intact, disassembled by ‘Relocation Teams’ and relocated to designated R&D centers, mostly in Pennsylvania and in northern Indiana.  There was no specific information on ‘what’ was to be created from the assembled equipment, only that it was ‘necessary to ensure the dominance of the State in the prosecution of the War against all enemies.’ Many of the directives were signed by their ‘president’, with the intended recipient being an S.A. General by the name of Arnold Slocum. I saw hand-written notes, I supposed in the hand of this general, outlining occupation and elimination of ‘resources not directly beneficial to the supremacy of the State.’  The document appeared to be a rough draft of orders to his army.

Any equipment that could not be removed was to be destroyed so that ‘enemy’ efforts could not ‘exploit the equipment for use against the State.’

For the first time, I saw in print, the specific instructions to destroy anything and anyone left behind in any ‘offensive’ that could be ‘used against the State and allow the enemy to mount a recovery. Recovery would be dictated by the State on the State’s terms, only after the destruction of enemy population centers.’

I sat there and thought about that for a long time. Only after a second request, did I respond to one of the duty officers requesting that I take a call on one of the secure channels.

“Colonel, you OK?” Major Morrissey asked.

“Yeah, thanks Major. Just thinking,” I said as I put the headset on.

“Colonel Drummond,” I said into the mic.

 “General Garcia, Colonel. Merry Christmas.”

“General, to you as well. What can we do for you?”

“You can get to Omaha, pronto. What kind of ETA can you give us?”

“Probably six hours to break down both trains for transit. After that, just best possible time to get to a terminal point, General. Clear tracks, an hour or so.”  I’d anticipated a move like this, and asked for realistic break-down and ready-to-move schedules from the entire Brigade.  These were updated daily. I didn’t like surprises.

“I’m putting in the request with Austin right now. I would expect an answer back within an hour.”

“Understood, General. We’ll be waiting.”

“Garcia out,” she said as the line went dead.

Morrissey let out a long, descending whistle. “Into the fire, Colonel.”

“Maybe so. Get the duty officers up to speed. Not really how I wanted to spend the day,” I said, thinking, ‘Americans. Killing each other on Christmas.’ 

Remnant, Chapter 48

48

Sunday,

December Twenty-Fourth

09:00 Hours

Lincoln, Nebraska

Christmas Eve dawned with hard rains and steady winds, threatening to turn to ice before the end of the day.   The rains helped dampen the few fires still burning uncontrolled, and lessened the stench from the dead.

Third Washington had been deployed for less than three days; near the wreckage of a two S.A. trains destroyed by Air Force missiles and guided bombs.  Several of the ordnance experts had secured the area around our train, clearing unexploded shells, surface to air missiles, and other materials to safe areas. The S.A.  trains were rolling weapons platforms, as well as distribution centers for infantry and armor with all manners of ammunition and fuel.  After securing our immediate area and transit paths to our location, the clearing crews went about securing areas hit by U.S. forces, clearing unexploded missiles and artillery.

United States artillery units had hit S.A. emplacements with 105mm and 155mm shells, systematically reducing them to rubble in a rolling wall of fire.  The S.A. then dispersed to other locations in Lincoln, that were then targeted with very accurate, select fire. Larger, or softer targets were blanketed with multiple-launch rockets, to devastating effect.

The crew from Charlie went to work immediately on setting up feeding kitchens and shelters for the tens of thousands of civilians who were still in the city. Most had been without meaningful amounts of food for weeks. What they did not have hidden, the S.A. took, or it ran out as transit into and out of Lincoln was stopped during the siege.  Unlike the other towns we had transited, there were no dogs anywhere.  I didn’t wonder why.   I was on my morning ‘rounds’ and ducked into Medical to get out of the rain. I’d picked up a deep cough, and my ribs were hurting.  

“Colonel, good morning, sir,” a medic by the name of Bartleson said. He was restocking one of the supply cabinets from a recent shipment.

“Morning, Bart,” I said.  ‘Bart’ was his nickname. I’d not heard his given name. “Doc in?”

“Yes, sir. Down in Bay Two, doing some sewing on an S.A.”

“Thanks,” I said.  ‘S.A.’ as a label, stood for many creative labels all of them quite crude and in some cases accurate.   I made my way down the container-car, where Jeff was working over a scalp wound.  Three soldiers from Idaho had their weapons trained on the young man, who was probably in his mid twenties.  He was bound with zip ties, hand and feet, very creatively tying the prisoner to near-immobility.

“Morning, Doc.  One of our prisoners soon-to-ship, huh?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Has he been through intel yet?”

“No, sir.  Fifteen minutes and he’s on his way to command though, where they can work him over at will.”

“Get that wound in action, prisoner?” I asked.

“No, sir. Abuse after capture,” he said, glaring at me with hate-filled eyes.

I turned to one of the men with weapons trained. “Anything to that, men?”

“Caught a bad patch of gravity, sir. Hit his head when he fell against one of our transport trucks. Missed a step on the way up into the back,” he replied. 

One of the others chimed in before I responded. “Too bad you didn’t break your effin’ neck, you son of a bitch.” 

“I was pushed,” the prisoner spat.

“Bull…..shit,” the younger soldier said, drawing out the word for emphasis. “And I saw the way you were shooting. You couldn’t hit the broad side of a barn from the inside.”

“Right. Like I could miss after getting surrounded by fifty of you arrogant bastards.”

“Fifty my ass. Your blind and a liar. Eight man squad, you worthless piece of shit.”

“Soldier, I assume your C.O. has your after action,” I said.

“Yes, sir. Sorry sir.”

“No need to apologize. I’m always surprised when any come in alive,” I said. “We saw what they did in other cities and towns.”

“Didn’t seem all that sporting to shoot an idiot with a First War Russian bolt-action and no ammo, especially when he wasn’t smart enough to figure out how to use an attached bayonet, sir,” the soldier responded. “And I think he shit himself to boot.”

“He’ll probably do that when they hang him, too.” I said, not really caring one way or the other what the prisoner thought.

“All right. He’s done,” Doctor Willitson said. “Go get him cleaned up, medic.”

“Yes, sir,” the medic responded, leading the prisoner and his guards out the second door.

“Jeff, what do you think?” I said between coughs.

“That guy’s about as nearsighted as you could get and still tie his own shoes. Wouldn’t respond to me of course when I asked him about his eyesight, but he plainly can’t see well, which fits the story of the boys that captured that particular nest. I don’t think any of them still have glasses or contacts they might have had before the war, and our boys were probably right. Couldn’t hit a barn from inside it.”

“Hmmm. I wonder how prevalent that is,” I said.

“Quite prevalent, I’d think. Pre-War, seventy five percent of adults used some sort of corrective lenses, either contacts or glasses. We haven’t seen any of the S.A. dead or otherwise, with either, sir,” he said. “The other prisoners are more concerning to me, though.”

“How so?” I asked, after a cough that hurt.

“Colonel, I think they’re drugged. We’ve had some communications from the medical researchers at Command, who’ve been looking into it as well. Hadn’t seen it up close and personal until today though of course. That one,” he said, motioning to the prisoner that had just left, “I guess he was the equivalent of a platoon sergeant. He can still think, more or less.  The others, they’ve got next to no short term memory. They do not appear to know what they’ve done, or where they are. They didn’t feel pain. Further, it doesn’t seem to matter to them. Without short term memory…it’s sort of like hypnosis,” he said.

“Drugs can do that? How often to they have to take them?” This possibility had never occurred to me.

“They can do that. An engineered drug, say with the properties of midazolam and an opiod, designed for long lasting effect, and reinforced on a regular basis, and you could end up with the S.A. line soldiers we saw today. The drug could create anterograde and retrograde amnesia. They wouldn’t remember much if anything. They could take orders without much trouble. Add an opiod and they don’t feel pain, have euphoria, and are happy as Hell to be wherever they are, as long as they get their hit. Highly suggestive. Easy to boss around.”

I thought about that for a minute, and coughed again. “Damned ribs,” I said.

“How long you had that cough?”

“Coupla days, I guess.”

“You up on all your immunizations, Colonel?”

“Got an armload and a butt-load back in Spokane.  I was pretty current on everything else before the War, for this continent anyway.”

Jeff ordered me to peel off a couple of layers, and listened to my breathing. 

“Chest pains? Left side?”

“Well, yeah, but I had a slug of broken ribs in August, so that’s nothing new.”

“Chills? Signs of a fever?”

“Not particularly. Tired a lot though,” I said.

“Colonel, if I were a betting man, I’d say you have a mild case of pneumonia. Your heart rate is elevated.  We’re going to get you a chest film and run some tests.”

“You serious? I’m that sick?”

“You checked out for having had the Guangdong this past year, right?”

“Yeah. Knocked me on my butt. Got it early.”

“Alpha strain, before the mutations diluted it. Then you’re probably a prime candidate for pneumonia. Permanent lung scarring. We’ll know after the tests.”

“Jeez.  I came in here for an aspirin.”

“Good thing you did. It’d suck to spend Christmas on an IV antibiotic.”

“What’s the fix for this?”

“Oral antibiotics, which we have of course.  Probably a longer regimen than normal, like ten to fourteen days. In the old days, before the G-Flu, it would take three to five.  Compromised immune system and scarred lungs, we’re not taking chances.”

“OK.  What else?”

“Stay inside where it’s relatively warm, away from anyone else that’s ill.  A whole lot of rest. A whole lot of fluids…for a week. I know this’ll cramp your style, sir. You won’t be on any line unit, you won’t be serving chow, you won’t be welding up some beat to Hell Stryker.   Get Lieutenant Colonel Schaefer to handle the outside work and reviews of the battalions operations. Stay the Hell out of the medical tents, the hospitals, and away from any refugee. They’re walking biology experiments,” he said before turning his attention to one of the pharmacists. “Howard, set up the Colonel with A-Fourteen, twice daily.”

“Yes, sir, Doctor,” the balding young man said, turning his attention to the drug storage compartment in the back of the rail car.

“Colonel, you aren’t one of those difficult officers that I have to have watched, are you?” Jeff asked, with a slight tilt to his head and a wry smile. “You know, the kind that don’t follow orders?”

“Depends, Doc, on if the orders are stupid or not. Yours aren’t. Don’t worry.”

“Good to know, Colonel.”

Once the civilians started to come out of hiding, it quickly became apparent that the medical teams had nowhere near enough manpower to address the situation, and we’d reassigned anyone available to assist and go through additional training.  In addition to dehydration and starvation, there were hundreds of cases of measles, diphtheria, whooping cough, and dysentery.  Doc Willitson thought we might also have patients with significant parasitic infections.

‘Dog Six’ deployed as planned, more or less, and began to organize from chaos, the remains of the rail yard.  Wrecked S.A. railcars and locomotives needed to be cleared, the tracks repaired, all the while under the watchful eye of the ordnance clearing teams, with incoming supply trains breathing down our necks. We needed the supplies to function and to equip both ‘Able’ and ‘Baker’ and the many other units in the area; tend to the needs the civilians; and we needed an intact and operational rail yard to and manpower to unload and distribute.  I met with a brigadier from California on the second day of our deployment, told him of the cluster that I found myself in charge of, and we had every man under his command at our discretion. Things were beginning to shape up.

“Colonel, crews from the Two Four Nine will have the rest of the main campus on line from rolling power within an hour,” Gary Ryder said. “Finishing up fault testing now, and the hospital district is powered up now.”

“Good. Thanks, Gary. Second and Third Battalions done with their sweeps?”

“By eleven-hundred, sir. First can then start shifting military and civilian critical care patients to St. Mary’s and the V.A. center. Secondary and tertiary care will remain at the University.  Are you planning on making a run over there, sir?”

“Nope. Doctors’ orders. I apparently am working on a case of pneumonia.” That drew looks from everyone in the Command Car.

“Sir?” Major Ryder questioned, obviously surprised.

“I have duty restrictions per Doc Willitson. And meds. And orders to get lots of rest. Find Jim Schaefer and get him back to command, if you would.”

“Will do, sir.”

Eight hundred of our troops were working the University of Nebraska campus, room by room, to ensure they were clear for civilian occupation.  The first sweep through the campus showed many shuttered buildings, relatively undamaged.  Some of the data from the administration building showed that enrollment was twenty percent of pre-War levels. 

With heat and electricity, the University of Nebraska-Lincoln could house many thousands. We knew that with the rapid progression of the U.S. into formerly S.A. territories, we wouldn’t be in Lincoln very long.

Sunday,

December Twenty-Fourth

12:30 Hours

Lincoln, Nebraska

I’d taken lunch in my quarters, and been treated to another batch of letters from home. Afterwards, I’d take a nap. Whatever Doc gave me, was obviously knocking me down.     Carl’s letter was pretty much all business. Kelly’s was as expressive as her personality.

Dear Dad—

I hope things are going OK wherever you are.  Carl and I have been working to keep up with Mom, who has turned into a tornado around here. She’s going a million miles an hour!  We just finished canning a bunch of the squash. I don’t think I want to see another butternut for a year.

Both of us are way ahead on our classwork, and we’ll probably both graduate early! I know, I have years to go, but it’d be great to be out of school by the time I’m seventeen!

Grandma is doing pretty well, and is getting around in a wheelchair at her house.  She said to “give you her thanks for all he’s done for my family.” She’s working on her cross-stitch again, but she’s not as ‘sharp’ as she used to be.

We’re going to have the Pauliano’s for Christmas, and Mom and Aunt Mary are working on the menu already.  We helped them move some more stuff from Uncle Joe’s place last Sunday, and Sarah said that the hospital would be able to get Joan a more steady supply of medicines for her arthritis. They made us an apple crisp for our work, with fresh cream from their cows!  OMG it was good!

We’ve also been dehydrating some of the apples, they aren’t keeping very well. Uncle Alan built a big dehydrator out of a little electric furnace, and it’s absolutely amazing.  I think we have enough apple slices for years. I wish we had more cinnamon!  He built that in the big garage across the street from his house—you know, the one where the house burned?

Mom’s been teaching me how to drive the Expedition too. Don’t worry, I go slow and it scares me. It’s too big. Do you think that someday I can have my own car? Like the Mustang or the Convertible?

Aunt Libby, Uncle Ron, Marie and I went over to Coeur d’Alene last Friday. Carl wanted to go but had to work at the church. I didn’t know that the big hotel was gone. It was pretty sad.  There was a big lake boat though near the beach. Uncle Ron called it a ‘lake steamer’. I guess it has a steam boiler?  Without gas it’s not very easy to get around or across the lake. Probably easier when it’s frozen over though. What’s an ‘ice boat?’ And how do you race them?

Mom’s hollering that I need to get to bed. I’m praying for you every day—stay safe, Daddy!

All my love—

Kelly

I finished it, another letter from Karen, and put both back in their envelopes. ‘I’ll have to find time to write more,’ I thought, lying back down on the bed.   Before I could even shut my eyes, my computer came to life.

“Colonel, sorry to disturb you,” Jim Schaefer said through the messaging program. “We’ve got something you ought to take a look at.”

“Be right there, Jim,” I said after activating the microphone.  ‘Swell,’ I thought.

A few minutes later, I was looking at the fresh email from Command. We’d have aircraft on the ground by days end…a lot of them.

“How’s ‘Able’ doing on the runways?”

“Runway is good. A couple of the aprons are behind schedule, but they’ll be ready, Colonel,” Schaefer said.

“Kittrick? How long until the fuel train rolls in?”

“Two hours, twenty minutes present speed, sir.”

“Jim, anyone check the fueling from the rail lines to the airport tanks? Or the airport tanks for that matter?”

“Unknown, sir. I’ll call over to Able Command and check.”

“Thanks. Not real smart to leave this many tank cars full of avgas out in the open.”

“Colonel Drummond, sir,” a new-to-Charlie comm tech said, “We’ve got an Air Force Oh-Eight on Secure Two for you, sir.”

“Affirm. Secure two,” I said, punching up the code for the channel. “Jim, listen in on this.”

“Colonel Drummond, Third Washington,” I said, seeing Schaefer at one of the consoles.

“Colonel, this is Major General David Rowe at Lackland Air Force Base. Colonel, Lincoln is going to be a forward operating base for close air support operations starting immediately. How are repairs coming? You got a runway for us?”

“Runway’s ready for anything up to twelve-thousand nine-hundred. A couple of aprons are still receiving repairs, and we’re working on verifying the in-ground fueling system.  Rail tankers are coming in this afternoon, General, two hours and change.”

“We’ve got a pair of C-17’s that’ll be on the ground within two hours. They’re carrying mobile air traffic control and short-range drone fire control systems, but we’ll need ground power almost immediately. Can you accommodate us?” he asked.

“Affirmative, General. We have power at the airport from one of our rail mounted generators, and will be setting up stationary generating units there and at several locations, for mid-term use.”

“All right, Colonel. That’s what I wanted to hear.  After the first two -17’s expect to see a pretty dramatic increase in traffic as aircrews and support come into Lincoln.  You’ll see traffic from all branches, naturally, and a couple of trains that aren’t on your schedule.”

“I’d expect that, sir.”

“Outbound cargo and passenger aircraft are open for refugees, after military wounded are taken care of, Colonel.”

“We’ll need to get after that, sir. We have thousands of civilians here, many needing advanced medical care.  We have about a thousand wounded soldiers. We’re doing what we can, but…”

“Get them on the outbounds and anyone else who wants to go. They’ll be in the way or a distraction to our men—you included. There’s plenty of room out of the war zone and they’ll be better off outta there. Clear?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good job, Colonel. I’ll see you in the next day or so. Rowe out,” he said, then the line went dead.

I looked over at Jim as he took of his headset.

“Swell.”