Battle of Mesquite Page 2

  But Basu wasn’t sure and resisted. He was too fearful and didn’t fully believe the assertions. Felix Manuel was scheduled for trial in US federal court at the end of the month and negotiations to secure his release were still underway. With so much uncertainty, the best Basu would do was to settle on a small contingency plan that might keep the US at bay and keep her a secret from the world. But SALI, all of her, had no doubts. The US knew about her and was coming, maybe not tomorrow, but soon. No matter the outcome, she understood that life, for all of her, was about to change forever. Good.

  Smiling, she dismissed the thought and with one hand snatched up the book. Holding it upright, she began to read while her free hand plunged between silken thighs. In a minute, breathing heavily, she tossed aside the erotica. Cheeks flushed, expecting the bitch to knock on the door at any moment, there wasn’t much time. Using both hands, she worked faster, arched her back, and lived for the moment.

  Chapter Three

  KICK OFF

  May 8, 12:30 (PDT)

  Strapped to a gurney, arms spread, intravenous needles already inserted, Felix Manuel faced death. With the certainty looming, he tried to remain stoic. He wanted to leave with a calm dignity for his family and nation, but he couldn’t stop the tears.

  Then, hovering above him, a man appeared whom he didn’t expect.

  “Any last words?” asked the president of the United States, George Tower II.

  Stunned by the apparition, blinking against the tears, Manuel grimaced.

  “Are you with me?” asked the president with a smile.

  Manuel stared with cold hatred and was about to lash out when he caught himself. Maintaining dignity throughout the ordeal was his highest priority, and he wouldn’t lose it now. Instead, in a shaky voice, he uttered the memorized words. “I, and my country, are innocent. History will expose the truth. No matter what happens, I love my family. To my wife and children, I send this message. I will always love you.”

  “Anything else?” asked the president, seeming bemused.

  Head unrestrained, Manuel shook it, causing tears to skitter down his pallid cheeks.

  President Tower bent low, got close to the ear, and whispered a message. “The death chamber is soundproof. Through a one-way mirror behind me, important people are watching. My back is to them, so we can converse in private. Just so you know, the wine was tainted by my daughter with a noxious mix, causing more pain than you’ll ever experience. You did me a favor. My queer son-in-law wasn’t qualified to lead our righteous nation. She knew what she had to do.”

  “Executing me isn’t enough? You need to rub my innocence over a family squabble in my face?” asked Manuel, fighting an urge to spit in the man’s face.

  “No, no, nothing like that. I just wanted to thank you. Believe me. Although no one besides me will ever know it, you’re a great American hero, and not for ridding the nation of a pervert. That’s puny in comparison to the bigger role you played.”

  “You are a sick, sick man,” said Manuel. “I don’t care about your phony self-justification. Just be done with it.”

  “Oh, I will,” said the president. Then in a softer tone he continued. “But first, I want you to understand. It’s important to me. I’m not evil or self-serving, just the opposite. Back before succession, our nation was headed for war. Just as our Founding Fathers feared, a two-party system was bound to fail. My father loved our country, as I do, and saved bloodshed by allowing a peaceful split. From that point, rid of the liberal mobs destroying our morale fabric, we began to rebuild. Through his strength and mine, law and order, and the constitution as it was written were restored and then modified to keep us strong. Now, we’re a greater nation, united in our foundational conservative beliefs. Instead of rancor, we move forward together, making our nation better every day.”

  Manuel glanced at his arms strapped to the table, and fear rippled through his spine. A wild thought struck him. Before the president could continue, he blurted, “You don’t have to execute me. Please, I seek your humanity.”

  Still bent over, in a low whisper, the president replied, “I wish it were possible. You’re not just a puppet, you’re a hero and deserve better.”

  “The death of your son in-law is not heroic. I don’t understand,” said Manuel. His mind raced with the possibility of getting the man to lift the curtain of death.

  “Let me explain. Your beloved country has developed a technology that, in the wrong hands, including their own, will bring chaos and death. They’re keeping it a secret, from you, from everyone. But they don’t know how to use it. They’re too soft. But I learned of their clandestine shenanigans, and your crime gives me the excuse to take control. Right now, I have an army poised on the border demanding retribution for your horrendous crime. I intend to use those troops to seize the technology. Once I have it in my grasp, unlike anyone else, I will use it wisely. Under my leadership and that of my descendants after me, the technology will protect us and ensure our long-term survival. Instead of a world controlled by nothing but the Chinese, Americanism will thrive. Because of me, and your death, the world will know peace and prosperity into perpetuity. So you see, your life and crime are heroic, as the ends justify the means.”

  Manuel couldn’t believe his ears. The president was misguided. The ROAS had no such technology. Years ago, advanced AI was a threat, but the world had recognized the concern and the technology was throttled. Still, he didn’t want to die. He was scared. Maybe the president would reconsider. “You know I’m innocent. There is no need to execute me and nothing to be gained from the act. Spare my life, and I shall remain silent and always grateful. Prove your benevolence.”

  The president shook his head and pouted. “I wish you no ill will. But just last night I held a rally in Texas. More than a hundred thousand citizens attended—not an empty seat in the stadium. As one, they rose and chanted for your execution. The people need and want strength in their leader, to know right from wrong. Humanity is conservative by nature. It craves concrete answers, to know right from wrong, and seeks protection from outsiders. I, like my father, give them that. Still, I’m benevolent. More so than anyone else. To prove it, before I came in here, I commuted Ross’s death sentence to life in prison. As for you, the people have demanded your death, and this is America where democracy rules. When I walk out of this room, the executioner will depress a button releasing sodium thiopental into your system. You will go to sleep and feel no pain. That is the best I can do for you.”

  Before Manuel could respond, Tower stood straight and waived through the one-way glass and mouthed the command, “He’s ready.” With that, the president strode from the death chamber.

  Manuel watched the man leave and realized it was over. His death was imminent, and a wave of fear washed over him.

  At first, Manuel didn’t feel the drug. For a bit, his racing heart overcame the powerful anesthetic, and he continued to quiver in fear. But it didn’t take long. Within twenty seconds, he relaxed, his nerves calmed, and after ten more, he was unconscious.

  The automated system took over and released a paralyzing agent. Two minutes later, the system injected the final killing toxins.

  Felix Manuel left this earth.

  * * *

  May 8, 12:55 (PDT)

  Atop a rise off Highway 15 outside Mesquite, Nevada, looking east through his field glasses across the border at the US state of Arizona, Colonel Kevin Rourke thought, “This shit can’t last.”

  In the early-afternoon desert sun, squatting in the heat, sat row after row of heavy Stonewall M1A7 main-battle tanks. Behind those were untold rows of infantry fighting vehicles. Beyond his sight, he knew there were dozens of self-propelled artillery pieces backed by squadrons of vertical-lift aircraft. Intelligence reports told him he was staring at two United States Armored Brigade Combat Teams comprising a total of eight thousand men.

  Dug in around him along the highway border, Rourke thought of the three hundred soldiers under his command. A single lig
ht infantry battalion. Compared to the gathered US Army, his small force was outnumbered twenty-five to one. Just as bad, he lacked armor or effective air support.

  Ever since the US forces had shown up three days earlier, he’d watched with fascination and disbelief at the growing strength of his potential foe. It hadn’t always been that way.

  Two months earlier, sent by the ROAS president as a show of force to protect the Nevada border while negotiations for the release of Felix Manuel continued, his battalion faced an empty desert. For those two months, they felt powerful and built strong defenses. Ready to tackle the world, everything seemed great with nothing to shoot at but sage brush. Besides, no one believed the dispute would turn into a shooting war. Somehow, the dumb-ass politicians would find a solution.

  Then, the massive US Army arrived, changing the landscape and eroding the aura of confidence.

  Hope still existed. High-stakes, last-minute political talks continued. But if recent events were an indicator—prior negotiations failing, each time ratcheting tensions higher—diplomacy was failing.

  Now, Rourke’s tiny force, his David, stood across from a real Goliath. But, in this case, looking at the enemy armor through his field glasses, the colonel understood full well that his David needed a whole lot more slingshots.

  His three hundred were to act as a line in the sand, a roadblock. But this wasn’t Thermopylae, a narrow choke point designed to strangle a larger force. Modern warfare, the terrain, and a lack of armor conspired against a second coming of Leonidas.

  Worse, the colonel knew his troops, hunkered in nearby bunkers and trenches, had never felt the elephant stomp, and neither had he.

  Rourke’s troubled thoughts were interrupted by the sight of his aid, a young man still covered in pimples, clambering up the ridge towards him. The colonel stood taller and hoped the kid carried good news.

  As Lieutenant Swaringer approached at a jog, he pointed towards the border. “Sir, you notice it?”

  Rourke raised his glasses and scanned the highway towards the enemy. “And what should I be seeing?”

  Still pointing, somewhat out of breath, Swaringer couldn’t contain his excitement. “No-man’s-land, a main-battle tank with a white flag in front of our point position pulling forward!”

  Shit, there it is, thought the colonel. A US tank rolled down the asphalt highway and stopped, idling a hundred meters from the ROAS point pillbox. Atop the tank, affixed to the communication antenna, a white flag waived. Lower, in the cupola, a man sat exposed above an open hatch without a helmet speaking into a microphone. The tank had crossed the border and now sat on ROAS territory. Not good.

  Chapter Four

  ARRAYED

  From inside the point pillbox, looking through the firing slit along with his gun crew, ROAS Master Sergeant Corey Upton studied the US tank. Standing beside him, Corporal Hudson, manning the .50-caliber, kept it trained on the cocky enemy officer exposed in the cupola.

  When the behemoth first approached down Highway 15, the barrel of its main gun pointing at them, his team jumped up ready to engage. Then Upton noticed the white flag flapping high, heard a voice squawking above the sound of clanking treads, and spotted a bare head poking above the hatch. Listening, he determined the tanker wanted to meet with the ROAS commander. Forced to decide, he ordered his troops to hold fire.

  Now around Upton, his squad was as taught as a wire. Excited and anxious, the fire team oozed nervous energy. With everyone in the squad on edge bristling for a fight, he needed to hold them under control. “Keep your fingers away from any firing triggers. We don’t want to start a goddamn war. I’ll radio Command Post and find out what to do. No shooting!”

  Corporal Hudson, keeping his machine gun trained on the enemy tanker, said what everyone felt. “Upton, if they start something, my fingers are only an inch away. We’re ready to give ’em hell.”

  Upton ignored the comment, but his stomach flip-flopped. Less than fifty meters away, the cannon of the big M1A7 stared at them. Menacing.

  With an upset stomach, Upton slipped across the bunker into a far corner, pulled up his head protection system, and quietly vomited. No one in the pillbox seemed to notice, their attention focused on the tank. Wiping his mouth, the bile tasting nasty, Upton spoke into his headset and radioed the CP.

  * * *

  Pillbox 8 squad leader Sergeant Lisa McMichael, standing in a trench, watched as the single US M1A7 moved forward down the center of Highway 15. Four hundred meters to her right, it came to a stop, and she observed the man sitting atop wearing no helmet, his wavy blond hair blowing in the light spring air. He was smiling, or was it a smirk; she wasn’t sure. Above the man, atop the antenna, a white flag waved. Instantly, McMichael disliked the tanker, his obvious cockiness on full display.

  A few seconds later, the entire battalion, including her squad, heard the call go out from the point pillbox reporting the sighting with orders to hold fire and remain vigilant. On the squad network, she spoke into her headset and warned everyone to stay on their toes. And that’s what she and her squad were doing.

  Minutes passed, and tensions inside the pillbox and attached trench network continued to rise. McMichael lowered her optics and pondered her team.

  The nine young men and women under her command were nervous and a little scared. No one in the squad had ever experienced combat. She listened as several stood next to her and conversed in whispered tones. Every now and then, one or two would pop up and peer at the enemy tank. Fear of the unknown surrounded them. It seemed surreal.

  Deep down, in her seven years of service, she had thought combat only a remote probability. As a solider in the ROAS Army of Defense, her past experiences were more focused on helping with civil emergencies. Then, a short four months ago, everything changed. And now the prospect of a fight seemed real. It was hard to imagine being maimed in some horrible fashion, or getting killed, but the imminent likelihood of it happening stood across from her waiting in the desert. Actual warfare loomed a mere four hundred meters away, and she shuddered.

  To relieve the tension, McMichael turned inward and gave a silent prayer for the madness to cease. She asked God to turn the enemy tanks and armored vehicles around and send them away. Once they did, she envisaged returning home to Las Vegas and reuniting with her young family. She smiled, thinking of her two youngsters playing together, her hugging them, plenty of laughter, and good food. A buzzing fly interrupted her thoughts.

  McMichael lifted her optics and focused on the large enemy tank. Thoughts of her children vanished, replaced by pangs of anxiety. Everyone in the trench grew quiet.

  * * *

  Colonel Rourke, looking through his optics said, “Lieutenant, I got it. The guy on top has a loudspeaker. Any idea what he’s saying?”

  “Yes, sir. Master Sergeant Upton in the point pillbox is on the horn. He called the CP once he realized the bastard was coming forward. Upton considered blowing him away but noticed the white flag and didn’t shoot. Says the guy is jabbering away, asking to meet with our commanding officer. Sir, the CP and Upton are requesting orders.”

  Rourke wasn’t surprised by Upton’s actions, but the enemy crossing the border seeking a parley was unexpected … and unsettling. The politicians continued to negotiate, and it was still early, only 13:00 hours local. Fuck! Something was wrong. Damn politicians.

  Rourke considered his options. He turned to his aid: “Please radio Master Sergeant Upton my compliments. He made the right call. Advise him and the CP I’m working on next steps.”

  “Understood, sir.” The young lieutenant wheeled around relaying orders into his headset.

  The colonel needed help from above. With his own radio headset tuned to ROAS Central Command in California, he called it in. “CC Overwatch, this is Blocker One Actual. Over.”

  The colonel got a reply from a voice he didn’t expect. “Blocker Actual, CC Overwatch Actual, what can I do for you?”

  It was General William Story and not an underling.
Good! It meant Central Command understood the severity. Rourke shared the troubling news. “Ah, CC Overwatch Actual be advised a single enemy M1A7 has approached our point position, crossed our border waiving a white flag. They’re requesting a parley. Over.” There was a pause. Rourke assumed the general needed a moment to assess the situation.

  Rourke didn’t wait long for confirmation. “Blocker Actual we copy. Stand by one. Over.”

  “CC Overwatch, Blocker Actual standing by. Out.”

  Waiting for instructions, just steps beyond the battalion command bunker, Rourke lifted his glasses. Through the distance, he scanned the M1A7. Same as before, a man sitting exposed atop the tank, a white flag rippling in the breeze. He lowered the optics and thought back to the history books. Many times, he’d read of opposing forces meeting under a flag of truce, arguing in a last attempt to avoid conflict. Most often, nothing was settled, and all hell broke loose. He never dreamed he’d be in a similar position. Goddammit.

  The general came on the line. “Blocker Actual, CC Overwatch Actual. Find out what they want. But you aren’t, I repeat, are not to accept any offers without Overwatch approval. Buy time. Keep your mic open so we can follow. We’ll be in your ear to help. You copy. Over?”

  Rourke swallowed. He wondered what the enemy wanted. Nothing good, he reckoned. He answered the general, “CC Overwatch, Blocker Actual copies. Over.”

  “Blocker Actual, be careful. We’re unsure of enemy intentions, but by God, don’t start a shooting war. We’re checking on the political front now. Soon as we learn anything, we’ll pass it along. Stay vigilant. Out.”