Remnant, Chapter 58

58

January Thirteenth

Fort Madison, Iowa

Aboard Charlie Six

The sprint across Iowa had been a little more trying than I thought it would be, the last fifty miles illustrating burned farmhouses or towns, with a few scarecrow civilians and probably no supplies.  The S.A. continued to demonstrate their ability to emulate the locust swarm.

A continuing threat of surface to air missiles by the hundreds effectively kept normal Air Command ground-support missions in a stand off position, and hindered their ability to effectively target the S.A. in an agile manner, except with drones of limited capability and increasing rates of failure….and the result was the field of damaged heavy armor nearby. The reality was that the U.S. Army and Air Force were fighting with worn down aircraft and inexperienced replacement crews.  It was catching up to our Brigade of course as well. When real-time mattered, the satellites couldn’t deliver, or the effectiveness of numerous enemy anti-satellite missions proved their effect.  Recon was spotty.  The scale of air support needed was completely beyond Air Command’s ability to deliver, due to the hundreds of sorties needed daily to meet everyone’s demands.  Not all problems could be addressed with massive hammer blows…surgical strikes were needed, and almost impossible to execute.

Thin U.S. forces held the bridge at Keokuk, and all points south. That bridge had been the last point that the S.A. crossed, as Composite swept north and east. Composite Group was moving east and north, from that point, as all bridges across the Mississippi between Keokuk and Davenport, far to our north were gone. The vast majority of the Composite, almost ninety-five thousand men and thousands of trucks, tanks and artillery were already across the Mississippi south of us, in pursuit of the S.A., headed toward Bloomington and Champaign…eventually Chicago. I’d learned that everything east of us, from the Illinois line roughly over to Cincinnati, was now in U.S. control.

Third Washington would begin our work at Fort Madison, but within a week, we’d be heading over the Mississippi ourselves to support Composite moving north.

Fort Madison, according to my intelligence file, was a few miles north and across the river from Nauvoo, Illinois.  It was the home to the oldest military garrison on the upper Mississippi, dating from before The War of Eighteen-Twelve.  The town itself was above the banks of the Mississippi, on the northern edge of a floodplain that stretched eight or so miles southwest, about two miles wide, obviously carved by the river. The pre-War satellite images of the plain showed that it was ringed by tree-covered hills, and bisected north to south by Highway Sixty One, and cut again by the rail line to Kansas City.  The Air Force had considerately taken destroyed the Fort Madison Bridge, along with many others across the river, which enabled the destruction of the S.A. armor and forced infantry south to the few remaining crossings of the river.  Fort Madison also was the home of the Iowa State Penitentiary. I’d read that the inmates, to a man, were executed by the Iowa State Militia, rather than risk their release…a repeated event at many maximum security prisons. 

Hundreds of Humvees, tanks, and Bradley Fighting Vehicles had been towed or dragged to the railyard in Fort Madison, for the train-deployed crew following us to repair and refit, or haul back West for repair or reconstruction.  Charlie Six and Dog Six would have no more than two hours to deploy before a train hauling twenty-four refitted Abrams and uncounted other vehicles would arrive from Kansas City.  Plans changed quickly on the rails, often it seemed, in conflict with each other. The offload began at fifteen-thirty, after we’d figured out a staging plan.

By seventeen hundred, offload and setup was complete for both Charlie and Dog, and recon of the battlefield north of Fort Madison would start at first light.  From initial reports of the fight, the S.A. threw everything they had at the U.S. forces, eventually abandoning most of their surviving heavy equipment well before the Air Force took out the bridge crossing.  The Brigade was working through the ‘dinner shift’, that on a good day took a couple hours. I ate with the squad from Second Battalion that had helped clear Sixth Army in Sterling. First Sergeant Jones and I had worked some difficult hours together.  I’d made it a point to try to check in with every squad, once in awhile, but this one was a little more on my mind than most. 

After dinner, I headed up to the far end of Dog Six, out to the farthest observation point with the relief watch, and back down to the far end of Charlie. The thick fog that had covered our progress for a hundred miles was still with us, limiting visibility to hundreds of feet at best.  It was irritating and taxing on the men, who had to split their duties at observation posts that had almost no observation ability.  The fog also muffled sounds, putting an additional strain on the men.

2100 Hours

“Colonel, here’s the latest from on-high,” Gerry McGowan said as I entered the darkened Command Car, handing me what Texas thought our schedule should be. In typical Command fashion, the pronouncement was made without on the ground intelligence, made wildly optimistic projections on the ability of Third Washington to create order from complete and utter chaos.

“That good, Ger?”

“They want us to mobe in forty-eight hours, sir.”

“They DO realize that we actually haven’t done any work here yet, right?” I said, reigning in some unwarranted anger.

“As usual, sir, I don’t think they care what we’ve actually done, versus what they have expected us to have accomplished by now. Also, that Mechanized unit is running late, estimated time of arrival, twenty-three hundred.”

I uttered several expletives, and read the orders, and said a few more, before the Command Car door opened and closed quickly.

“Sirs, we have company,” Captain Shand barked, hearing traffic through his headset as the communications techs scrambled into ‘alert’ mode.  “Marine unit has heavy contact with enemy. Our side of the river.” Orders immediately went out to all Third Washington troops and the few hundred unattached troops.

“Well, shit,” I said. “That, I didn’t see coming,” my adrenaline level kicking up dramatically. I picked up the headset and tuned to the south end recon and observation frequency, listening in on the Marines as they fought off what seemed to be a very large attack. “Kittrick, map me friendlies on the terrain model.”

“Twenty seconds, sir.”

“Faster would be way better,” I said. All troops in Third Washington were deploying in support…to where was the next question.  The thirty-eight Marines were near the junction of Highway Sixty One and Highway Two Eighteen. South of them, an Army artillery unit, a few miles from Keokuk.  We were on the northeast end of a crescent-shaped plain, a little more than two and a half miles wide at the greatest.  The Marine contact was at the southern end of this plain. To the east, gently rising terrain, wooded, overlooking the broad plain. Several large farm-industrial plants just south of the county road—‘Jay’ Sixty Two, the rest appeared to be farms.

“Done, sir,” Kittrick replied as I looked over the screen and the current locations of Charlie and Dog and the three thousand men under my command.   Greg Shand, Gerry McGowan and I quickly sketched out a deployment plan, against an unknown force.

“Battalion Commanders, this is Colonel Drummond. Marine Recon Twelve is in heavy contact with enemy forces, approximately four miles southeast, Highway Sixty-One observation post.  Gentlemen, we need to flank whatever S.A. forces are out there. First and Second Battalions, you will proceed east by whatever means possible—best possible time--to deploy on the ridge just west of Highway Two Eighteen from the Sixty-One Junction to due west of New Boston. Third Battalion, from New Boston to County Road ‘Jay’ Two Sixty-Two. Fourth and Fifth Battalions will move east then south across the Fort Madison Plain to enclose the S.A. forces. We are recalling an Army artillery unit to support the Marine unit in this engagement and requesting reinforcements.  Upon contact, do not engage unless you are fired upon. We are to determine the size of this force before taking action, and contain them. Drummond out.”

It took nearly an hour to fully deploy Third Washington in the field, using our own trucks, transports, and our two Abrams tanks, and two dozen shot up but drivable salvaged trucks and a few Bradley’s. Our tanks were held in position south of both Charlie and Dog, intended to protect both the town of Fort Madison and our train.

During most of that time, the Marines were engaged.   Probably against better planning, Jim Schaefer stayed in ‘Charlie’s’ Command Car while I went afield, setting up a mobile command post between two Humvee’s, between First and Second Battalions, uphill from the area where the S.A. was believed to be, perhaps a mile away, near a Federal-style two story farmhouse on ‘Valley Road.’ The house looked to have been built not long after the First Civil War.

By twenty-three hundred, we knew we had a serious problem.

“Colonel Drummond, Gunnery Sergeant Delaney is here,” Kittrick said, not taking his eyes off of the monitor, but listening intently to the tactical frequencies of our picket line.

“Very well, Kittrick. Thanks,” I said as the tent flap opened.

“Colonel,” Gunny Delaney said, snapping to attention and saluting.

“At ease, Marine. Sit rep,” I said, returning the salute.

“Substantial enemy presence, sir.  Some thousands, at a minimum. By the enemy muzzle flashes, we had a target rich environment.” 

“Interesting way to look at it….you’re getting lit up and you call it a target rich environment?”

“Yes, sir. Emptied five mags and they kept coming. Evac’d up the road and the Brads stuffed a few hundred rounds their way. That shut ‘em up for a while. Won’t be for long, though, sir. We can hear them down there.”

“Sergeant, are we talking a thousand, or ten thousand?”

“Colonel, I’d have to lean toward the higher range. If we were talking hundreds—which is almost certainly what we killed, the rest would’ve turned hind end and melted off. They just piled over their dead and kept coming.”

“What do you have for recon around the area?”

“We’re down to thirty-eight, sir, although fifty-five are wounded and still able to fight. Eleven KIA. The rest are moving up from Keokuk, but it’ll be awhile before they get here.”

“Colonel,” Shawn Miller interrupted, “We can get more intel only one way, and that’s moving closer in and infiltrating. We don’t have enough night vision equipment that’s operational.”  The Third Washington night-vision gear issued to us was given to front line units long before. 

“Pretty ballsy, Colonel Miller,” I said.

“South end—Fourth and Fifth Battalions—have had no contact at all. They could be three miles away. Sir, I’d suggest sending advance elements south and east until they make contact.  Same thing with the other units. Probe a little bit.”

“Colonel Miller, we could be seriously outnumbered here, and we’re at best, lightly armed,” I said. “Kittrick, report on ETA of reinforcements?”

“I have that, sir,” Corporal Martin said. “Rather, I have relayed the information to Command.  They replied with ‘several hours at a minimum,’ Colonel.”

“Shit,” I said. “Sergeant, where is the enemy at present? Did they advance or retreat after action?”

“Retreated, sir. Estimate three hundred meters from the engagement location.”

“They leave their dead behind” I asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Shawn, get some of your men and some from Second. Not many….retrieve some of the dead, get their clothing. Execute your infiltration,” I said, seeing Lieutenant Jenkins—from the communications staff of ‘Dog Six’ perk up at the suggestion.

“Colonel, if I may?” Jenkins said.

“Lieutenant?”

“Sir, we have four dozen remote sensors that will allow tracking and targeting of human targets within a two mile range of our receivers. If First and Second Battalions men place those sensors around or within range, we’ll have a better idea what’s out there.”

I’d forgotten all about the sensors. They were intended for small unit defensive use, basically an electronic picket line that would identify friend from foe.

“Get on it, Lieutenant. This works, and I’m buying you a steak dinner after the war,” I said.  “Sooner, if we find some beef on the hoof.”

Remnant, Chapter 57

57

January Twelfth

Aboard Charlie Six

Van Meter, Iowa

23:30 Hours

I was an hour or so late for bed, wrestling with the present and the soon to be. The Soon To Be was winning.

Third Washington had been tasked with progressing immediately south and east of Des Moines, essentially sprinting across the state toward Burlington and the small town of Fort Madison. All surviving bridges across the Mississippi, from Dubuque to St. Louis, now numbered two.  One at Keokuk, Iowa, another at Sabula.  Every other bridge, whether it was rail, highway, or foot, had been destroyed.  If there were S.A. forces on the west side of the Mississippi, they were trapped.  If they could somehow get across, they would do so without mechanized units.

Third was supposed to ship east by oh six hundred, as is.  The sprint—a relative thing on a train—would be possible due to undamaged tracks between Van Meter and Fort Madison, with the track already checked for IED’s.  West of Burlington, Composite Group—composed of Army and Marine units---had fought a major battle with the S.A, before the Air Force destroyed the remaining bridge, cutting off the S.A. Twenty thousand enemy were trapped, fifteen thousand of them died fighting.  The remainder was wounded or surrendered, with a handful—perhaps a hundred—trying to escape across the Mississippi.  Third would stage near Fort Madison, southwest of Burlington, both had bridges targeted by Air Force precision munitions.  We were tasked with munitions and heavy equipment retrieval, moving from Fort Madison north.  Two trains back, behind a munitions train that would head north, would be a train comprised mostly of flatbed rail cars and mounted cranes.  Third would serve as the tow truck operators to retrieve damaged and destroyed U.S. tanks, and to work with explosives experts to safe up live shells and to permanently disable enemy tanks and heavy weapons.

“Most of the equipment will be down and stowed in an hour, sir. That which of course, we can take with us,” Captain Ben Farragut said. Farragut was part of our quartermaster crew.

“Thanks, Captain. Not much we can do about those shelter tents.  We probably have enough anyway. Besides, there’s always a supply train coming for us, right?” I said jokingly. Ben and I had had too many conversations about stretching our supplies. Simple math usually said otherwise. “What’s our supply status?”

“Ten days fuel, fifteen of food, with scant fresh goods. Medical is, well this is an average, about forty-seven percent of full-on. Water treatment capabilities are sixty one percent between the two trains; Dog is clearly in trouble there. Mechanics did manage to revive heat in a number of Dog’s abandoned crew cars, and they’re now on a par with Charlie.”

“That’s some good news for a change. Did they figure out how to keep them going?”

“Report said that some were more prone to basically vapor lock due to poor castings of the steam piping.  A couple were losing pressure due to cracks in the pressure system. Two had damage from small arms fire that had gone undetected.”

“Hmm,” I said. “All right then, get some shut eye when the gear’s stowed. Tomorrow will be a long-ass day.”

“Yes, sir,” he said as he stood and left the conference car.

“Private Houston, what’s the weather at our destination?” I hollered down the Command Car, rather than to try to check it myself.  Satellite data was quite sketchy. I dragged on my parka and cap.

“Last reports were at twenty one hundred, sir, thick fog and temperatures in the low thirties.”

“Thanks,” I hated fog, especially in this part of the country. It seemed colder and more penetrating.  “I’m turning in—See you boys in the morning,” I said as I left the car.

“Good night, Colonel,” one of the sentries outside the car said.

“Good night, Private.  Stay sharp—big day tomorrow.”

“Will do, sir.”

My quarters never looked quite as good as they did that night. I was dead tired, without the promise of enough sleep ahead.

January Thirteenth

Aboard Charlie Six

8:40 Hours

“Sir, we’re good to go on your command,” the rail engineer in Charlie’s lead engine said over the intercom.  “Dog Six as well, sir.”

“Roll out, Mister Edwards,” I said, a moment later feeling the train begin to move.

“Lieutenant Kittrick, I know this is early to ask, but when do you expect communications back on line?” I asked. We’d lost the uplink to both Command and Composite Group during the night from Charlie, but not from Dog.

“Not yet, sir.  We have a couple techs on it now.  We do have a hot link between Charlie and Dog though.  There’s a little delay in the data feed, but we are in touch…”

“More or less.”

“More or less, sir,” he said. “And Colonel? That short haul that came in had mail for you.  It’s there on your desk sir.” 

The ‘short haul’ was a rail tug that had hauled food for Van Meter and a little for Third.  ‘It would be nice to read one of Karen’s letters,’ I thought.  I looked at the envelope, only five days past.

My late breakfast today would be coffee, canned juice, and a ‘breakfast’ MRE, either an ‘apple maple rolled oat’ meal with hash browns and bacon, or a ‘sausage patty’ with hash browns and bacon. I chose the oat version, all else being equal.   The galley cars were going through major service while on the go, with the entire Brigade relegated to MRE’s for at least two meals.  Once we arrived in Fort Madison, the galley chief expected to be back up in full operation within an hour or so, with all of the deferred maintenance problems addressed during this run across Iowa.  The galleys had many of the same problems as the other crew cars, compounded by constant use and high demands.

We’d been delayed twice in rolling out of Van Meter by conflicting reports of track readiness down the line, and then further pleas by some of the disenfranchised refugees, demanding that we improve upon the well being of the refugees in general.  A few more instigators were found and separated, and I had a few more minutes with the Mayor before departure.  She’d hand picked a number of people for the new police force, and our Armory had provided Van Meter two dozen M-16’s, a like number of shotguns and M-9’s, and fifty thousand rounds of ammunition, total.

“Sir, if you’d care to pull up Secure One One on your monitor, you might see something interesting,” Kittrick said.

“What do we have?”  I asked as I flipped the monitor to life and punched in the correct security code.

“Real time mapping of Air Command operations sir, from an AWACS tracking action over St. Louis. Blue tracks are SAM’s.  No enemy aircraft.  Red are ours.”

“That data on the right is the number of SAM’s in the air? Good God,” I said.  It varied between fifty and two hundred at any given time.

“I believe so, sir.”

‘Unsustainable,’ I thought.  The two dozen Air Force aircraft in the vicinity—and some were drones—were nowhere near the blue shield of SAM’s fired at them.  I moved the cursor over one of the red aircraft designators and was able to pull up the aircraft type, call sign, and an acronym for weapons remaining on board.  Most were B-52’s from Minot, probably pounding S.A. emplacements with cruise missiles or GPS guided weapons. They orbited St. Louis at a comfortable distance, as the SAM’s, probably shoulder fired, tracked randomly and seldom came close.

A massive flare of something—donut shaped—spread over east St. Louis, eliminating many of the SAM’s in that area.

“What the Hell was that?” I asked.

“No idea, sir.”

“Can you patch in the AWACs frequency?”

“Sorry sir, we don’t have that ability at the moment.”

The ‘void’ created by the detonation, whatever it was, had to be more than a mile in diameter. Occasional tracks from SAM’s crossed the void, but nothing originated within it. 

January 8^th

Dear Rick—

I hope this finds you safe and warm and well. We’ve seen three days in the thirties so far this year, so here’s hoping that this is a sign of things to come!

As I wrote earlier, we had a nice New Years celebration with Ashley and the twins and the Pauliano’s….but I have sad news---Joe passed away last evening in his sleep. I heard from Don a little while ago, and was already going to write.  There wasn’t anything particularly wrong, and he was in the best spirits I’ve seen him in years just last week. Don said that Joan is taking it well.  Carl and Kelly are both taking it hard—the Pauliano’s were like another set of grandparents of course.  We’re going to the funeral in an hour.  Joe will be buried not far from your parents.

There is other bad news, unfortunately. Two blocks south of our store, there was a house fire night before last, and a young family died, along with one of the firefighters from Station One. The fire inspector said that it was probably hidden damage to the chimney that started a fire in one of the walls.  The new medical examiner said that they probably died of smoke inhalation—the firefighter died when he entered the house and fell through the floor into the burning basement. All flags are at half-staff, and Libby and Mary and I will be helping at the memorial service next week.

We are doing OK, but missing you terribly….it is all we can do to keep up with the place and keep the status quo.  Tackling anything beyond that is almost out of the question. Ron and Alan seem to be feeling the same way.  The trading stores are doing well, and three new stores should open up by Spring, including one near Fort Overbeck, one near Fairchild, and one near Felts Field. Pacific Northwest Command said that the other stores in the area were trying to take advantage of the military, and we competed for a concession for all three—we won, but I didn’t want to tell you that just in case we lost—No harm no foul!  Mary and I will be putting together a staffing plan—and we’re going to employ as many of the Army spouses as we can.  I think you’d approve.  Most of these girls don’t have ANYTHING to make their homes with, and as you well know, the Army doesn’t pay much!

I had better run—it’s time to rouse our children and get them moving about their day, and it’s bread-making day!  It’s still not yet sunrise. Even the dogs are still sleeping.

All my love forever—

Karen

Someday, I hoped that all of her letters would catch up to me, to fill in the many blanks in between the letters that I did receive.   I’d miss old Joe—he was a good friend to anyone, no matter the age or race or condition, had a quiet wisdom and uncommon good sense.  Another good man, gone Home.

On the ground near Fort Madison, we would meet up with a company-sized Marine Recon unit and the remains of an Army artillery company, both north of Keokuk.  The artillery unit was a straggler, having seen numerous breakdowns in their equipment after being pounded by the S.A., and would cross the Mississippi when the last of their repairs were complete.  The Marines had seen heavy action and were trailing behind to gain some rest before going on point again with Composite Group. I noted in the report, that they’d lost forty-seven percent of their officers and just under sixty percent of their line soldiers since hostilities began. I also noted that their field commander was not happy that they were pulled from the line, even for a few days. ‘Not happy’ being a relative thing, I read his non-redacted communiqué to command, filled with creative uses of expletives when describing those that ordered Recon Twelve to stand down.

It would take around four hours to make the hundred and seventy-five miles to Fort Madison.  Battalion commanders had given the orders to have all weapons cleaned during the trip, and other than the defensive cars, everyone stood down to get some sleep.  We’d have a lot of work to do once we arrived.  Someone in the rear communications car had improvised a connection from several iPods to the internal communications channels, similar to the commercial airliners before the war.  Four channels of playlists were on rotation, none of which I cared for. 

Outside the train, despite our lack of windows, our external cameras showed us the towns of Monroe, Pella, and Oskaloosa, civilians wandering about the streets, some running toward the trains that wouldn’t stop, a few uniformed soldiers to keep them back. The towns looked in better shape than most we’d seen. Karen had a cousin that lived in Pella years back. I remembered the neat-as-a-pin town square, the many Dutch influences on the town, the incredible food we ate there.  Was it twenty years ago already?

I spent a little time reading some of the readiness reports on the Air Force, as imagined by the S.A., captured and decrypted by one of the Composite’s intel algorithms out of thin air. Most of the report was blather, perhaps correctly interpreting only one thing, the effect off massed surface to air missiles on deflecting close air support missions. 

Another report intercept seemed to be more grounded in reality, talking in frank terms about the S.A.’s inability to meet the nutritional needs of their population, beginning as soon as the coming June. The report, prepared by someone who almost seemed to know what they were talking about, stated that without dramatic changes in the ability to import food from the West (meaning, the United States) and from other ‘non-affected areas’, large scale starvation would come to the majority of the S.A. states. Resources within the S.A. were not directed toward food production, but toward seizure of manufacturing abilities and storage of technology with the ‘hope of advancing the State through technological breakthroughs unforeseen by the United States.’  The notation at the bottom of the intercept said that the report was written in late November, and that the report had been heavily redacted before being completely deleted from official record.  Unofficial versions had surfaced outside of official channels, and a new version created for public distribution. It was wholly different than the honest attempt to wake up the S.A. leadership.  It was two weeks newer than the original report.

“…acquisitions of basic food stuffs and expansion of State regulated farms and dairies continue throughout the mid-West, with further expansion plans in the Mississippi and Ohio Valleys…”

This, as they were beginning the collapse and as U.S. offensives were stripping them of these lands. By the time the report was written, it would have already been too late to do anything meaningful regarding farming, planting and livestock production.  Non-farmers just imagine that beef and grain and poultry can be made available on command.  Farmers know differently of course.  Farming and livestock production is a combination of luck, skill, weather, and Providence.

I could not fathom the disconnect between the reality of the S.A. soldier on the ground, fighting the United States military, and those that would look at verifiable facts, and re-write them for their superiors, rather than to upset their superiors. Rather than disturb the planned Utopia under State Rule.

The painful lesson that would be learned again, would first hit the civilian population within the diminished State of America. Last of course, it would hit the leadership.  I was certain that the leaders were not starving, had everything they could desire in terms of material goods and physical pleasure, and that this would remain so as long as they desired it so, simply because they desired it, and that those around them benefited from the culture of fear that substituted for leadership. I was also sure that the leaders of the S.A. had never studied history.

Those that are most wrong, are also those that hold onto their wrong beliefs, until the very end. Pride is a difficult thing to swallow, and freedom an impossibility to control, for those that choose to be free. 

Remnant, Chapter 56

56

January Twelfth

Aboard Charlie Six

Van Meter, Iowa

14:30 Hours

Third Washington progressed across the terrain east of Omaha at a painfully slow pace, fixing wrecked trackage and stopping in virtually every town along the rail line. It seemed we hit every township south of Interstate Eighty, taking four days to reach Des Moines, barely a hundred and forty miles from our Omaha start.

Both trains that moved the Brigade were showing wear and tear.  Our main drive units had been changed before we left Omaha, but Dog Six had lost heat and power to a full thirty percent of the personnel cars, as well as heat to both defensive cars.  Charlie had lost heat to fifteen percent of the cars, and power to five percent.  In Des Moines, we planned to switch cars around between the two, to balance out our losses. Spare parts might catch up to us sometime, hopefully before the War ended.

I found myself becoming uncomfortably accustomed to the sight of the burned out farmhouses and collapsed barns, slaughtered livestock frozen to the snow covered ground.  The small towns were particularly pathetic, the once-vital heart of a county or township, in failure before the war just due to the ease of transportation to bigger cities…which was the death knell to many small town businesses.  The S.A.’s heavy bootprints reached every small town along our route.

Most were hit hard and fast, but much of the population who’d survived had fled to the hinterlands long before the S.A. forces arrived in force. The S.A. in retreat took little time to strip the light industries and the sparse businesses in these towns, instead they burned them to the ground, along with the schools, courthouses, libraries, and churches.  Homes were ransacked, mostly for food and clothing.

Our inability to proceed east ‘per schedule’ was not of our making, but more of the work of the S.A. in destroying the tracks ahead of us.  Two companies of Third Washington were advanced east on track inspection and repair, along with half-dozen trained railmen. As our delays mounted, word spread among the civilian population about the Brigade and our supplies.  The further east we progressed, the larger the population, the greater the need.  Van Meter, Iowa, was such a place.

Pre-War, Van Meter was home to around a thousand residents or so, but this day, there were five times that, crowding into the shattered little town, as we were waiting for the ten miles of track to Des Moines to be repaired and cleared. One of the supply trains that had passed us by heading east, was now being loaded with refugees, carrying anything they could to keep warm on the trip west.  Most of the cars were unheated. Stacks of unused equipment were piled near the siding, and troops from Third were busy retrieving the gear and setting up shelter tents, which had been tossed off the supply train without care.  The people wanted food, but ignored the insulated shelter tents that were also aboard the supply train.

“Colonel, Mayor Farman is ready to meet you in receiving,” Corporal McDowell said.  McDowell was the communications whiz of Dog Six, often able to revive equipment long after the technicians had tossed it for scrap.

“Thanks, Corporal,” I said as I made my way to the newly assembled receiving tent.  Willitson’s medical staff was completely overwhelmed with the rush of civilians, almost all women. I knew instantly that horrible things had happened here.  Whispers had been spreading through the Command staff since right after our arrival.

The tent was heated with steam-driven radiators, connected to the generating units on the trains. Each radiator had men, women and children huddled around them.  Part of the receiving tent had been screened off, and I took a look inside.

“Colonel, this is Mayor Tina Farman,” I heard from over my shoulder as I looked at the rows of blankets strung from ropes, to create semi-private cubicles.

“Madam Mayor, nice to meet you.”

“Thank you, Colonel. You people are a godsend.”

“Let’s go find a quiet space to talk. I think we’ll have one of our logistics folks with us in a minute,” I said.  “We’ll try to get as much done here as we can before we ship east.”

“Moving some of these refugees out will be a start. The S.A. did their best to strip us clean, and then they moved to Des Moines, and the people from Des Moines and Chicago are now flooding us.  We just don’t have anything left to give.”

“Four additional supply trains will be headed east within the next day or so.  When they’re coming westbound, refugees will be able to head west.”

“That’s a little bit of the problem,” she said as Captain McGowan joined us.

“This is Captain Gerry McGowan, intel. Gerry, where’s Major Ryder?”

“On the horn, sir. He won’t be able to make it,” McGowan said.  For Ryder to miss a meeting like this, he had to be dealing with a real cluster.

“Mayor Farman, you were saying?”

“Most of the refugees we’re getting first of all, don’t want to leave, and won’t lift a finger.  The worst of it though is in that room you were looking into a few minutes ago.”

“What’s going on in there?”

“Rape victims, Colonel,” she said as she gripped the table in front of her, barely containing her rage. “That bastard General Slocum told his men to rape every female they could lay hands on. No one is prepared to deal with this, Colonel. There are two hundred and fifty women in there and more that we can’t yet find.”

“Ma’am, I don’t know what to say,” I said. “I had no idea.”

“Colonel Drummond, no one does,” she said as I sat there for a moment.

“We’ll do what we can, ma’am. I’ll try to get some help from the west.”

“I’d appreciate that,” she said, taking a sip of coffee from a chipped Third Washington mug. “Now, these refugees. What can you do about them?”

“You said that they’re not willing to do anything, ma’am?” Gerry said.  

“Citiots. City-idiots. Waiting for the government to take care of them.  If  we don’t do anything, they steal from those that are doing things, absolutely anything is fair game. If we provide for them, they bitch that it’s not enough or not good or whatever. There is no pleasing them.”

“We don’t have time for this, Mayor,” I said. “These people are late to the party.  They need to figure out that what is here is all there is, and they can take what is given them and be happy or get the Hell out of town on their own, and not come back.”

“You feel free to tell them that, Colonel. I tried and damned near had a riot on my hands.”

“From a handful of people, or all of them?” Gerry asked.

“These things always start with a handful, Captain. Stirring the pot.”

“’It does not require a majority to prevail, but rather an irate, tireless minority keen to set brush fires in people’s minds,’” I said.

“Who’s that from?” Mayor Farman asked.

“Sam Adams, talking about the other side of the equation,” I replied. “What do you have left for law enforcement?”

“You. That’s it.”

“Weapons?” Gerry asked.

“Maybe some shotguns, nothing owned by the City.  We didn’t have a whole lot to start with. The S.A. came and took everything, even trap guns.”

“Get yourself a town Marshal and a bunch of deputies. We’ll get them armed. Anyone that steps out of line, lock ‘em up. If you can I.D. the agitators before we ship east, point them out to our men and we’ll have a little chat with them,” I said. “Your utility grid is shot, Mayor. How are you going to keep people warm here, and water safe?”

“It’s not as bad as it seems.  Power’s off, all right, but that’s because we pulled eleven transformers down before the S.A. got here.  Our citizens were more or less ready for that.  The refugees were the ones that weren’t of course. And if we put things back together too soon, they’ll never leave,” she said.

“Interesting tactic,” Gerry said.

“I wouldn’t worry as much about the refugees not staying as I would about hypothermia and the spread of disease. There will be plenty of military around for a long time. You’re on one of the primary rail lines to the front. That’s not going to change.”

“Colonel,” one of the corpsmen interrupted, “Doctor Willitson would like to speak with you ASAP.”

“Be right there. Thanks,” I said. “Mayor, we’ll be talking. Gerry, in lieu of having Major Ryder here, see what you can do about getting power back up.”

“Yes, sir,” he said as I stood and excused myself.

Fifty feet away, Jeff Willitson was washing up after two hours of surgery.

“Doc, I see you’re doing your time in Hell today.”

“You got that right, Colonel,” he said. I noticed the bloodstained floor, and pile of stained surgical utilities in a laundry bin. “We need large scale evac of these women, and we need it now, sir.  We cannot deal with this with what we have on hand.  We just can’t do it. I lost three of them in the past hour. We’ll lose more, I guarantee it, if we don’t get them out of here. I don’t mean rail service, Rick. I mean air evac, and a lot of it.” His hands were shaking.

“I have no idea what’s available, Jeff. I’ll get on it though,”

“We have kids in there, Colonel,” he said, looking down into the still-running sink.

“I know, Jeff. Give me a few minutes to get something going,” I said. I’d never seen Doctor Willitson as shaken.

I made the way back to Dog Sixes’ Command Car, which happened to be closer than the primary car in Charlie. Other than the damage inflicted weeks earlier, the cars were identical.

“Ten-hut!” one of the sergeants said as I entered.

“At ease. Who’s your duty officer?”

“Lieutenant Kramer, sir,” the Sergeant said.  He looked a little surprised, as well he might.

“Here, sir,” Kramer said, standing from his location at communications suite three.

“Mister Kramer, get me in touch with the Air Force, Air Mobility Command.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll patch you through to the Deputy Commander’s suite.”

“Fine,” I said, moving back to the vacant desk and formulating my request for evacuating civilians.

“AMC on Secure Four, sir.”

“Thanks,” I said before putting on the headset.  “This is Colonel Richard Drummond, Third Washington.”

“Major Arnstein, sir.  What can we do for you, Colonel?”

“Good way to start the conversation, Major. I’m in Van Meter, Iowa.  I have several hundred critical care civilians needing evac, pronto. Rail evac isn’t going to cut it. Nearest airport of size is Des Moines, and it’s a wreck,” I said, explaining to him the nature of the injuries inflicted on the victims.  He was quiet for a moment on his end of the line.

“Pulling you up on the map, sir. One moment,” he said. “You’re south of Interstate Eighty.  Depending on the condition of the road, that could be used for evac…..affirmative, sir, C-130’s can handle that highway. You’ll need to clear the highway from One Sixty Nine—that’s just north of DeSoto, to the first overpass to the west of that,” he said, then providing me exact coordinates for marker beacons at both ends of the improvised airstrip.  “One moment sir. My C.O. would like to join in the communication.”

“No problem, Major,” I said as a note was handed to me, in Jeff Willitson’s handwriting.

“Colonel Drummond, this is Colonel Stack,” the female voice said.

“Colonel,” I said. “Can you estimate the number of evacuees?”

“Three hundred to start with,” I said, reading Jeff’s note.  Expect at least double that. The majority female, most were victims of unspeakable brutality.  Our staff is unable to attend to the magnitude of this, Colonel.  We’re losing patients by the hour.”

Silence on the other end of the call. “Colonel Stack?”

“I’m here, sir,” she said. “We can handle around seventy patients per aircraft. Five aircraft are being dispatched from Omaha at this time. Expect arrival of the first transport at the coordinates provided to you by Major Arnstein within the next hour.”

“Much appreciated, Colonel. Given what I know about what’s happened here, you will likely need a lot of help down there, ma’am.”

“Understood, Colonel. Stack, out,” she said as the link went dead.  I sat there for a minute, wondering what kind of beasts we were fighting.

“Colonel, would you like some coffee?” one of the techs asked.

“Nope. I’d like to have an S.A. soldier in the sights of my rifle. You let me know if that kind of opportunity comes up,” I said. 

Touring Van Meter with Lieutenant Colonel Atwood, we could see the path of the S.A., like the proverbial tornado through a trailer park. Every small business had been destroyed. Five days after Des Moines fell, six or seven days after Van Meter had been nearly destroyed, some buildings still smoldered.

“Ever feel like you’re just watching the same terrain on a different day?” I asked as the January rain spattered against the Humvee’s armored windshield.

“Yes, sir.  Had a lot of days like that in Afghanistan.”

“This is going to sound trite, but is this worse, or better than over there?”

“Way worse, sir, for me at least. These are our countrymen doing this to each other. We never saw brutality on this scale over there.  Honor killings among the Muslims, sure, which are senseless. Nothing like this. It just doesn’t seem to stop. Destruction for no reason.”

“Until this mess, I’d never been in a real war zone.  One that’s been declared at least. I’d seen wholesale murder of innocent civilians, but I’ve never seen wholesale brutality for brutality’s sake,” I said, remembering Sudan.

“Evil unleashed in the world, Colonel. Nothing but.”

“Yeah,” I said, noticing the wreckage of a museum to a long-gone baseball player, noted for pitching three no-hitters, once upon a time.

19:50 Hours

“Mercy Two Six, this is Mercy command, cross at twenty knots at three four zero degrees,” I heard through the headset.

“Two-six,” was the reply.

The next-to-last transport was on the ground, the last on approach.  Once word got out that transports were evacuating the victims of the S.A., things in Van Meter started to come unglued.  Refugees rushed the evacuation  convoys, demanding to get priority.  Third and Fifth Battalions both fired warning shots to keep the refugees restrained. During those encounters, several ring-leaders were identified and separated from the crowds, their separation taken with indignity, many demanding, and then pleading, that they be allowed to stay ‘with their families’ and ‘their friends’.  No family members came forth though, nor friends.  By eighteen-thirty, less than a dozen of the most vocal were cooling their heels in two empty supply cars on a siding, not far from the galley cars. 

“Mercy Two Six, on terra firma. Thirty seconds to ramp,” said the pilot.

The ‘ramp’ for Two Six was the westbound lane overpass at the east end of the Interstate Eighty landing strip, marked with infrared beacons and few normal lights.  The patients staged there, along with a planeload of medical personnel from the Three Seventy-Fifth Air Medical Group.  Pre-War, the Three Seventy Fifth called Scott Air Force Base Home, but had evacuated to Dyess down in Texas. Mercy Two Five was on the eastbound lanes, almost ready for departure.

As each aircraft taxied toward the overpass, they would turn a hundred and eighty degrees, and lower their rear access ramp to allow quick loading of each litter into the aircraft, never shutting engines down.  Once each plane was loaded, they would immediately take off for Omaha.

Once Two Six was away, the remaining medical personnel and Third Washington would take down the tent shelters, and head to Van Meter.  The medical team would provide greatly needed assistance to Jeff’s worn-down men.

“Colonel, the detainees are in debrief with Captain McGowan’s teams. They should be through initial stages by now. The Captain wondered if you’d like to sit in on one,” Sergeant Travis said.

“Not a chance in Hell, Chet. I just might get myself in trouble if I were in a room with one of those self-centered bastards.”

“Understood, sir,” he said with a smile. “Wouldn’t do to have our C.O. in a court martial.”

“Yeah, probably not.” 

Remnant, Chapter 55

55

January First, Year Two

Aboard Charlie Six

Omaha, Nebraska

07:30 Hours

“No, Admiral, I don’t like having to ask another command to see if they can help us out. Stepping out of chain of command isn’t right. But I’m also not about to deploy this Brigade without fuel or food, and that’s what I’m faced with. I have five days worth of food for three thousand men, if I’m lucky. I have three days worth of fuel, with conservation measures.  We haven’t had a full resupply in weeks.  We will cease to be a support unit without in days, Admiral, and that sticks in my craw.” 

“Colonel, this is a damned unusual request,” Admiral Hendricks said, sounding cold and irritated.

“Admiral, I’m not regular Army. Or Guard. I’m used to getting things done with whatever tools I have at hand, and having to make something from nothing. Well, I’m bordering on nothing here. I’m not going to wait for what isn’t coming. If I have to go and get it, I will. So, I’m on the phone. If pulling supplies forward to line units is advancing the war effort, great. But eventually the support units that keep those line units on the move need to catch up to the line, or you end up with a very fragile link back to the world. Shit breaks. The enemy takes advantage. It snows. Would you suggest otherwise, sir?”

“Colonel, you’re going to get a royal ass-chewing for this.”

“You know, sir, I’m OK with that. I’m not going to see my men go hungry or freeze. If the line units need to slow their advance in order for us to be resupplied, then so be it. It’s not like we’re the only rear area unit that this is happening to, because I know for a fact that three other support Brigades are in the same shape or a little better than we are. If units like ours don't see resupply, then we have no business advancing out of Omaha. We’re done, then, Admiral. Frankly, without units like ours up near the line, I have no idea who is offloading and distributing supplies.  For damn sure the line units will not do it without massive waste. I’ve already seen that here. Figure thirty percent losses, sir.  That’s inexcusable, sir. We don’t have that kind of excess to waste.”

“I know that you must have made these same points with General Anderson.”

“And most every other officer up the food chain of the United States Army. I’m tired of making the case, Admiral. Either they don’t give a shit about what will happen to the line without support of the line units, or they don’t give a shit about what happens in the prosecution of the war. It will drag out, we’ll lose men in a senseless counteroffensive, tired men and worn out equipment will falter and lengthen the war, and for no reason whatsoever. Am I wrong here?”

“Colonel Drummond, I’ll get back to you in an hour on this.”

“Thank you, sir. I appreciate that,” I said as Kittrick handed me a note. “Admiral, your aircrew just passed our perimeter patrol. Should be at our location within ten minutes.”

“Excellent, Colonel. Hendricks out,” he said as the secure channel clicked off. 

“Mister Kittrick, there are days that this job absolutely sucks,” I said as I flung the headset on the desk and grabbed my parka. “I’m heading over to receiving.”

The receiving area consisted of two of our converted shipping containers, dismounted and set up in an ‘L’, with a massive tent that covered both units as well as the space between.  Behind one leg of the ‘L’ were the medical tents for general care; the other was one of several galley tents, both had seen a significant effort to keep the snow from collapsing them overnight.  As our work in Omaha wound down, the only two containers that hadn’t been re-loaded for shipment down line were these two—without the thousands of refugees or soldiers to feed and tend to, we were running out of things to do, along with our supply stocks.

“Colonel, a little cold to be out here in your condition, don’t you think?” Doc Willitson said, looking over his magnifying glasses at me, as he stitched up a soldier’s forearm.

“Probably so, Doc.  We have some Navy fliers coming in for eval. Thought I’d drop by. What happened here, soldier?” I asked.  His arm was a mess. Five inches of sutures from just below the elbow on the inside of the arm, a jagged mess.

“We were on patrol downtown, sir. Caught a hunk of a storefront that was falling over.  Lieutenant Carroll said that he thought the wind caught it.   Hunk of metal went right through the roof of our pickup.”

“Lucky it didn’t take out an artery here, Private Lewis. As is, you’re done running any weapon for a long while. Another half inch and you’d have been in serious trouble.”

“Southpaw, Doc. No problem.”

“Not for a week you’re not.  Neither this arm or it’s partner are doing anything but resting.  Got it?”

“Yes, sir,” Lewis said.

“Best take his orders, Mister Lewis. It’s futile not to,” I said.

“And yet, here you are, Colonel Drummond, ignoring them.”

“Not for long, Doc.  Although it does cramp my style,” I said as I heard the muffled sound of a Humvee approaching. “Sounds like we have guests.”

“Ehrlickson, see to our new assignments if you would. I have about ten more minutes with this. Jacoby, see that Mister Lewis is set up on antibiotics,” Willitson said to his staff.

“Colonel, ten minutes or so, and you ought to get back to your quarters.  It’s maybe fifty degrees in this tent, despite the heaters, and a summer-like ten degrees outside. Not good for you, sir,” Willitson said, not taking his eyes off of his work.

“No problem, Doc,” I said as the inner tent door opened, and two very banged up Navy airmen entered, tended by four of our corpsmen.  They were walking at least, but both looked like they’d been on the losing end of a bar fight. Both came to attention when they noticed my rank, and saluted.

“Colonel Drummond, Third Washington,” as I returned the salute. “You boys have a seat.  You look like Hell.” Both had significant facial bruising, the younger a black eye.

“We’ve had better days, sir.  Lieutenant Commander Michael McAllen, sir.  This is Lieutenant Peter Shaw.”

“McAllen?” I asked.

“Yes, sir,” the Commander answered.  “Eldest son of Ryan and Kay McAllen, late of Texas, sir.”

“No wonder the interest in your disposition, Commander.  I expect your parents are quite relieved you’re in one piece,” I said.  “Doctor Willitson’s staff will evaluate your medical condition, and if you’re not too banged up, we’ll get quarters established for you both outside of medical,” I said looking over at Doc, who looked at both men and gave me half a nod. “Meanwhile, I need to talk to an Admiral in Air Command.”

“Thank you, Colonel,” Shaw said. “It’s good to be somewhere warm, sir.”

“Yeah, it is.  Let’s hope we can keep it that way,” I said, moving to leave, and both men stood.

“Boys, things are a little more casual in the med tent. Park it and thank God you didn’t land in that lake where your plane probably hit.”

“Yes, sir,” they said in unison.

A few minutes later, I was back on the secure line to Air Command.  The President’s son was safe.

08:45 Hours

McAllen and Shaw both had what Doctor Willitson said were injuries inflicted through a typical ejection sequence, and neither had any injuries from landing—the snow had seen to that. Per the request of Air Command, both were sequestered away from most of Third Washington troops until debriefing could be completed.   Air Command said that a helo would evacuate the men later in the day. 

Most of the Brigade shifted gears again, into their pre-search assignments.  A significant portion of the men not assigned to either Alert status or normal mission operations were getting the trains ready for movement east. A third of Dog Sixes’ personnel cars were having heating issues, and all remaining food had been inventoried and split evenly between the two.  Charlie Six, on the other hand, only had twenty percent of her cars with heating, lighting, and water issues.

After seeing to the Brigade’s assignments for the day, I joined the two Navy men in the conference car, where a late breakfast awaited me.  Both stood as I entered.

“For Pete’s sake, sit down,” I said. “Pete, no offense there,” I said, recognizing the unintentional reference.  “Relax and enjoy some fine pre-cooked, pre-packaged, pre-pared food,” I said as I again, shed my parka. “We’re running low on damned near everything.  Sorry we couldn’t rustle up something a little more celebratory.”

“Sir, if this is pre-packaged MRE food, then the Army’s a whole lot better fed than the Navy,” McAllen said, and agreed quickly by Shaw.

“Colonel, this is one of the best breakfasts I’ve ever had. No apologies necessary,” Shaw said. It was then that I noticed that breakfast wasn’t what I’d expected at all.

“Sorry, guys.  It appears that the galley rounded up something out of the ordinary,” I said, checking out what appeared to be some sort of breakfast enchilada in an industrial sized pan.  “Let me get the galley chief on the phone.”

“Kittrick, get me the galley chief,” I said into the intercom.  “No, belay that. Send the galley chief in to Conference One.”

“Problem sir?” Kittrick responded.

“Nope. Double-time, Mister Kittrick,” I said.

“Yes, sir!”

“All right, Commander.  What exactly do we have here, and may I join you?”

“Absolutely, sir,” McAllen said.  “Seems like a homemade tortilla with ham, egg, and cheese.  And that pitcher, Colonel, has real by-God coffee. That one has heavy cream.”

“Beats the Hell out of MRE’s, which is what we’re down to,” I said.

“Sir?”

“Our resupply trains keep getting expressed east to the line units. Problem is, that without the support units like Third Washington, the Line doesn’t have the manpower to distribute the supplies per unit.  Stuff is wasted, destroyed.  Texas seems to think that the line units can handle the whole operations and maintenance aspect of war fighting all on their own, while fighting the actual war.  Can’t happen. You boys can’t fly and keep the aircraft in full readiness all on your own. Seems like the Army thinks they can.  So, we’re running out of fuel and food.  A handful of days, and we’re out,” I said as the galley chief, a corporal, entered.

“Colonel Drummond, Corporal David Velasquez, reporting.”

“Corporal, how exactly did you manage this breakfast?”

“Uh, some creative horse-trading, sir. I traded some of our laundry soap and bar soap for this, sir.  A trial run with the local population.”

“Corporal, I was under the impression that the locals don’t have these kinds of resources available. Am I incorrect?”

“Colonel, the more capable people do, sir, and have not really been the recipients of any assistance from Third Washington.”

“What kind of volumes are we talking about, Velasquez?”

“Enough for about a dozen, sir. Figured this would be a good occasion, Colonel.”

“My compliments, Corporal.  Good job,” I said, “As long as we’re not shorting the other supplies.”

“Sir, we have enough soap products to last a solid year.”

“Maintain an adequate level, Corporal. Clear trading with your superiors in all cases. Clear?”

“Yes, sir!” he said as he came to attention.

“Dismissed,” I said, and the young man made as hasty exit.

“Colonel, are all your corporals eighteen or nineteen years old?” McAllen said.

“A fair percentage, yes. We have a pretty well balanced percentage of green-as-grass soldiers and very experienced non-comms and officers. I’m damned lucky to command them,” I said as the intercom beeped. I picked up the headset and punched the ‘activate’ key.

“Drummond here,” I said.

“Colonel Drummond,” Captain Shand said, “One moment, sir. We’re waiting for an uplink to San Antonio.”

“Very well,” I said.  I figured that it was time to be chewed out from On High.

“Gentlemen,” I said as I hit the ‘mute’ key, “Excuse me while I get my ass chewed for going to your commanding Admiral to try to get food and fuel.”  The two officers looked at each other, raising eyebrows, and looked a little uncomfortable.

“Colonel Drummond,” the instantly recognizable voice said, “This is President McAllen.  I understand that your Brigade retrieved my son this morning.”

“Yes, sir, Mister President,” I said, more than a little shocked.  “He is at present, enjoying breakfast here in our conference room.  Would you like to speak with him, sir?”

“Yes, Colonel, if you don’t mind.  I also would like to inform Lieutenant Shaw that his wife has been informed of his recovery, and that she will be waiting for him when he returns.”

“I’m sure that he will be happy to hear that, sir.”

“One more thing, Colonel.  I hear through a roundabout way that you’re itching to head east.”

“Sir, I’m not itching to head east, but will do so when possible. I’m itching to have enough food and fuel to stay a viable unit.  We’re down to days worth of food and fuel, and Army Command is shifting our supplies east to the line.”

“That will not be a continuing problem, Colonel. You have my word.”

“Understood, Mister President, and my thanks for this.”

“Armies march better on full stomachs, and fight better with full magazines.”

“Amen, sir.  Here’s your son, sir.”

“Thank you, Colonel.  I owe you one.”

“No sir, Third Washington owes you,” I said, taking off the headset and handing it to the Lieutenant Commander.  “Commander, you might be prepared to discuss the loss of your aircraft.  I think the Commander in Chief might want to know how you totaled a fifty million dollar aircraft,” I said with a grin.

Shaw replied first, “Wrecked Dad’s plane. You’re hosed, Commander.”

McAllen scowled a little, and put the headset on.

“Shaw, you’re with me.  Let’s give son and father a little space,” I said. 

“Yes, sir.”

Shaw donned his parka as I grabbed mine, and we headed over to the Command Car for a few minutes.

“So, Lieutenant, if you can, tell me about your mission over Des Moines.”

“Nothing classified, sir. Straight bomb and go.  Command and control targeting—we were tasked with taking out the communications links back to Chicago and points east. Damn it’s cold out here,” he said as we reached the door of the adjacent car.

“Successful?”

“Yes, sir. No doubt about it.”

“What happened to your aircraft? Were you hit?”

“Small arms fire.  The S.A. has a shi…has a lot of SAM’s they’re putting up, but if we go in low and fast, we’ve a better chance of getting through their perimeter and can then prosecute. We were hit on the way out.  Had a few minor thrust issues but nothing major until we flamed out—no warning. No master caution, nothing. Everything died.  Not exactly comfortable going from fully functional to dead stick in three seconds, Colonel.”

“I assume you’ve been told that neither of your personal locating beacons activated.”

“No, sir,” he said with a questioning look, “I did not.”

“The aircraft ejection indicator was the last known point of you and Lieutenant Commander McAllen.  Telemetry for the last three minutes of your flight, including IFF, also was not transmitted.”

“Could have taken some fire into the avionics, Colonel. That might explain it," he said, not quite convincing himself. 

“You’re both damned lucky, Shaw.  And before I forget, the President said that your wife would be waiting to meet you upon your return.”

He stopped in his tracks on the way back to my desk in the back of the Command Car. “I haven’t seen Amy in six months, sir.”

“Apparently all you need to do is to get shot down with a distinguished aircraft commander and survive, and magic comes your way,” I said. “Where’s she been since you last saw her?”

“Norfolk, sir.”

“Your lucky day, Mister Shaw,” I said.

“Yeah it is, sir. Sometimes I forget how lucky I really am.”

“You’re still young. There’ll come a point where you wake up every single morning, and realize right off, how lucky you really are.  Maybe for you that day will be tomorrow.”