Battle of Mesquite Page 3

  Colonel Rourke sure as hell didn’t want a war. He joined the ROAS Army of Defense just out of college. Over the years, he enjoyed the military, leading troops, and helping his small country. But this was different, nothing like assisting the populace after an earthquake. Fuck the reminiscing; he needed to get going. He spoke into his radio headset, activating the local command frequency. “Blocker Two Actual, this is Blocker Actual. How copy?”

  The baritone voice of Lieutenant Colonel Samuel Rollins came on the line. “Blocker Actual, Blocker Two Actual copies five by. Over.”

  The colonel liked Rollins and picked him to lead the battalion. Over the years they’d practiced war together, but never fought in one. Now, it was getting real, fast. “Blocker Two, did you copy CC Overwatch? Over.”

  “Blocker Actual, affirmative. Nothing to add here. PB One is reporting the enemy tank has made repeated parley requests. How should PB One respond? Over.”

  “Blocker Two, have PB One hang out a white flag and tell them Blocker Actual is coming. Remind the entire battalion we’re under a flag of truce. Safeties must remain on. No accidental shooting. We don’t want to start a war over a stupid mistake. Over.”

  Rollins replied, “Blocker Actual, already on it. Be careful out there.”

  “Blocker Two, understood. I’ll find out what they want. Afterwards, we’ll go from there. Stay focused. Keep an eye out, and I’ll be back soon. Out.”

  The colonel turned to Swaringer and could sense the young man’s eagerness. But this wasn’t a game. In a tired voice, he gave the order, “Get me a jeep.”

  “Sir, I recommend transportation with more meat on the bone—better protection. How about an armored Humvee? I can have one here in a minute.” Before the colonel could respond, the young lieutenant continued, “Also, sir, you shouldn’t go. We need you, and I don’t trust the bastards. It’d be better if I went, sir.”

  The colonel frowned. He didn’t need the pimply little shit angling for glory. Whatever happened next could change all their lives. The kid might start a war on purpose. Ridiculous. The colonel tempered his anger and wouldn’t overreact, not now. “Lieutenant, I appreciate your concern, but as the ranking officer, I need to go. Get the Humvee, then we’ll drive out together. No weapons either. Let’s not offer them any excuses.”

  Lieutenant Swaringer glanced at his own assault rifle. “Roger that, sir. I’ll get the vehicle.” Before leaving, out of habit, the lieutenant lifted his right hand in salute.

  “Don’t do that! Doesn’t anybody listen to my orders? We’re in a combat zone!”

  Obviously embarrassed, Swaringer dropped his hand and fidgeted.

  “Here,” said the colonel. He reached into a side holster and pulled out a SIG Sauer M18. After checking the safety, he extended the pistol. “Store that until we return.”

  The lieutenant took the handgun, double-checked the safety, and stuck the weapon inside his own combat belt. “Yes, sir. Anything else, sir?”

  “Go get my ride, and do it quick.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Swaringer, and without another word, he took off down the hill.

  Shaking his head, the colonel watched Swaringer for a moment and then strode after him. Stopping at the edge of the highway, Rourke observed the command post bunker dug into the hillside a few meters away. He knew Rollins was inside issuing orders. Other Command staff would be busy monitoring the US forces through various digital feeds transmitted by multiple surveillance drones. In a fight, the battalion didn’t need Rourke to lead them; that was Rollins’s job. Right now, what they required from their brigade commander was a way to avoid an unwinnable conflict. But how the hell am I supposed to do that?

  Chapter Five

  DEFENSE

  Rourke looked west along the highway and wondered why his ride was taking so long. He worried the enemy tanker under the white flag might grow impatient and do something stupid. After another minute, relieved, he spotted an armored Humvee weaving its way up the highway.

  As the electric Humvee pulled up, before coming to a complete stop, a hyperactive Lieutenant Swaringer jumped out. Gung-ho, the young lieutenant pointed at the open door. “Are you ready to go, sir?” Before Rourke could reply, Swaringer added, “Staff Sergeant Lucas will drive. He’s the best guy for the job.”

  Rourke nodded. He didn’t care and just wanted to get going. As he climbed into the front passenger seat, he noticed Lieutenant Swaringer getting in behind. After looking over the lieutenant and the rest of his surroundings, Rourke was pleased. There were no weapons in sight. It seemed the young fuck was finally listening. After buckling up, the colonel turned to the driver and asked, “Lucas is it?”

  “Yes, sir. Sergeant Lucas, Motor Pool.”

  The driver was older, maybe earlier forties. To lessen the tension, the colonel asked, “What is motor pool doing up here on the front line?”

  Lucas smiled. “Well sir, it’s a long story, but I’m more than a chauffeur. These troops need me. I drive and fix these damn vehicles. I also helped build our defenses and laid plenty of mines too. Truth is, I’m vital.”

  Rourke almost laughed and under different circumstances would have enjoyed conversing with the older man. But the asshole in the tank awaited. “Yes, I guess you are. Now, if you don’t mind, we have a tank to meet. Please get us there in one piece.”

  Sergeant Lucas got the message and nodded. He eased the vehicle into the middle of Highway 15 and let the autonomous driving feature take control.

  Earlier, Rourke had ordered the highway and surrounding desert mined with remote-activated explosives but lacked specific details about where the actual devices were buried. Concerned, Rourke asked, “Lucas, even I’m not aware of where we laid the mines. Are you confident the Humvee has valid avoidance data?”

  Lucas glanced at the colonel, considered the question before turning back to the road. “Programming, sir. I programmed our fleet of vehicles, put in where we laid the mines. Yes, sir, I’m extremely confident.”

  Rourke gave up worrying about mines and leaned back in his seat. He imagined the bastard awaiting atop the enemy tank. Goddammit to hell. What did they want?

  Through the windshield, he spotted the point pillbox. He spoke into his headset, activating the internal radio, “PB One, this is Blocker Actual. Over.”

  The pillbox was quick to respond. “Copy, Blocker Actual, PB One at your service.”

  “Ah, PB One, we’re approaching your six. Reminder: no itchy fingers. You copy? Over.”

  “Blocker Actual, PB One copies,” replied Master Sergeant Upton from inside Pillbox One. Rourke recalled the sergeant. He was a tough guy, built solid with a square jaw, dark hair and eyes, and right out of central casting, perfect for leading the point squad. A “set the example” NCO, Upton rose through the ranks as a steady performer. The master sergeant continued, “When we first clocked the enemy tank, we almost shot it back to the border. Lucky for them we spotted the white flag. We won’t shoot unless ordered or fired upon. Over.”

  “PB One, roger that. Has the enemy said anything else or hinted at what they want?”

  “Blocker Actual, that’s a negative. Over.”

  “PB One, Blocker Actual out.” Rourke could see beyond the point pillbox. Sure enough, an ugly heavy tank squatted in the middle of Highway 15. The sight of the enemy M1A7 caused him to grow angry, and a knot tightened in his stomach. There was no good reason for the enemy to cross into ROAS territory, not with political negotiations underway.

  Rourke pondered the enemy motivation. Fuck it! He’d find out soon enough.

  Chapter Six

  PARLEY

  US Army Battalion Commander Lieutenant Colonel Paulson stood waiting in his command tank cupola. Although the ROAS enemy pillbox had stuck a white t-shirt out its forward firing slit, there’d been no other reaction. Good news—no shooting so far. Apparently, the dumb-ass rookies recognized the flag of truce.

  Faced by many an enemy over the years, he’d survived every time, and today wou
ldn’t be any different. But dammit, he wanted them to hurry up and get with the program. He’d wait a while longer, but if someone in charge didn’t arrive soon, he’d get back on the loudspeaker and raise hell.

  He believed higher Command considered him the best tank officer in the Army, and today was further proof. Given the responsibility of meeting with the enemy and commanding the tip of the spear, he was confident and pleased. After all, he loved tanks, reveled in their power, and knew how to use them. His only complaints were the close quarters and invariable stink the tight confines wrought. But stench and cramped spaces were a minor complaint more than offset by the killing ferocity of his magnificent machines.

  As he waited, Paulson felt the vast power of the US Army pulsating behind him, and he absorbed the martial energy. It felt good. But standing beneath the beating sun, he wanted the cocksuckers to hurry. It was getting hot.

  About to pick up his microphone again, Paulson spotted movement on the highway past the enemy pillbox and smiled. A Humvee approached. Good, the pricks were coming. In anticipation, he stood straighter and puffed his chest. And he couldn’t help but smile.

  * * *

  Colonel Rourke and his Humvee rolled to a stop in front of the massive tank. Peering out the windshield, he saw a youthful man with a confident smile atop the tank thirty meters distant. Above the tank, affixed to an antenna sticking high in the air, a white flag whipped in the gentle breeze.

  Keeping his foot on the brake, Sergeant Lucas stared wide eyed at the main-battle tank. “What now, Colonel?” he asked.

  “Put it in park, and I’ll go have a chat. Both of you stay harnessed. Be ready to leave on a moment’s notice. No telling where this might lead.”

  Not taking his eyes off the tank, Lucas pulled the parking brake. White knuckled, he kept a firm grip on the steering wheel.

  In the back seat, Lieutenant Swaringer leaned forward. “Reminder, sir. Please keep your headset on, mic open to the Command Net.”

  “Got it,” said Rourke, opening the Humvee door.

  Behind him, the lieutenant unbuckled his own belt and tried to follow. “I’ll go with you, sir.”

  Rourke raised a hand, “No need.”

  Swaringer fell back in his seat with a frown.

  Rourke understood the man was eager but not now. He tried to soften the blow. “Lieutenant, you have an important job. Keep your eyes peeled. If something goes awry, then hightail it back to the CP and support Rollins. Now, keep buckled and stay tuned and alert.”

  The young officer, pouting, refastened his harness.

  With the huge tank and its main barrel threatening through the window, Sergeant Lucas leaned over and gave encouragement. “Give ’em hell, Colonel, sir.”

  Although unsure, Rourke put on a confident smile. “Will do, Sergeant.” He turned to go when he remembered his radio headset and issued the voice command, tuning it to the proper command frequency. Before exiting, he reminded himself he wasn’t alone and that his every move would be under aerial observation. Everything was fine—just an atypical office meeting. Time to go.

  After taking a last deep breathe, Rourke exited the Humvee. Before him stood the massive tank and, he sensed, his destiny.

  * * *

  Lieutenant Colonel Paulson, standing in his cupola, came to a salute and held it.

  Colonel Rourke strode forward and stopped twenty paces away. In time-honored military tradition, looking up at the officer in the tank, Rourke came to attention and touched the tip of his head protection system.

  Paulson dropped his hand, and Rourke followed suit.

  The tanker introduced himself. “Lieutenant Colonel Paulson, Sixth Armored Brigade Combat Team, of the Fifty-Fifth Armored Division, First Battalion Commander, 435th Armored Regiment, sir.”

  “Colonel Rourke, ROAS Commander of the Fourth Infantry Brigade, First Infantry Division.” Before Paulson could speak again, Rourke pointed at the tank. “Lieutenant Colonel, you came out under a flag of truce, asking for me. As a courtesy, please lift your cannon and come down here face to face. No one likes staring down the barrel of a gun.”

  Paulson laughed and with the back of his hand waved past the colonel. “And that concrete box behind you, sir, it has no weapons trained on me?”

  Rourke turned to look at the ROAS point pillbox and then shifted back to face the enemy officer. “Fair enough. Now what can I do for you?”

  Lieutenant Colonel Paulson nodded and, still smiling, patted the side of his tank. “Do you admire my M1A7?”

  Rourke frowned at the question. “I’m not much of a tank guy myself. The ROAS has only a handful of older heavy main-battle tanks. Dinosaurs we call them, lumbering targets full of explosive fossil fuels. The only good thing about the Stonewall M1A7 is their advanced protection system—Force Field One we called it—developed by our technicians years ago. I’m sure you’re glad you have that capability even though we have the means to defeat it.”

  Paulson laughed at the gibe. In truth, he’d zero respect for the ROAS military. He knew the colonel standing before him, despite the rank, lacked combat experience. Unlike himself, the ROAS officer wasn’t a true warrior. Still, he knew that many of the advanced technology features his army used were developed and sold to them before the trade war in the previous decade by the ROAS. To make the distinction, he said, “I love tanks. The M1A7 is a proven battle platform and an absolute joy to command. Over the last ten years, my tanks and combined armor, under my leadership, have never lost a battle. Yes, sir, a joy to lead in combat, and the APS force field works like a charm and hasn’t been defeated. In looking at you, I pity your circumstances. No real opportunity to ply your trade. The frustration must be maddening. Sad.”

  Rourke stood silent, waiting.

  Paulson realized the colonel didn’t care to banter, and he determined the man was a bore without balls. No matter, he’d follow orders. “Sir, on behalf of the US Army and Field Marshal Harrison, let me start by offering you our utmost military respect. Today, a peaceful resolution rests in your hands. No more politicians or outside interference. Agreed?”

  * * *

  Rourke considered his reply. The tanker inferred political diplomacy was over, and the ramifications were alarming. But he couldn’t resist standing firm against the arrogant tanker. “Thank you for the respect, but we’re busy here. I’ll pass along the message. Now, if you’ll excuse me, have a good day.”

  Paulson smiled, obviously enjoying the back and forth. “Sir, Field Marshal Harrison is offering the opportunity to prevent bloodshed, save lives …”

  Rourke didn’t care for the implications or the dialogue and raised his hand. “Please stop.”

  Paulson stopped mid-sentence and cocked his head, waiting.

  “Colonel Paulson, I have no authority to negotiate with you or the US military. Yes, I command a brigade and the battalion protecting this crossing. In that capacity, my job is to defend the sovereign soil of the ROAS against unauthorized intrusion.” Rourke pointed downward and gestured at an imaginary line. “The ground you are squatting on is mine, sir, not yours. You’ve crossed the border without invitation or authorization. Please turn around, go home, and let’s give the diplomats more time to resolve our differences.”

  Paulson’s smile faded. “Sir. I’m here under a flag of truce. As a courtesy and fellow officer in arms, listen to our offer.”

  Chapter Seven

  RESISTANCE

  In ROAS Central Command, General William Story watched and listened to the parley, but only partway. He could hear the voice of Colonel Rourke but not that of the US tank officer. The headset worn by Rourke included audio input dampeners limiting background noise. This came in handy during combat, but the lack of full conversational audio was a nuisance.

  The video provided by surveillance drones allowed Command staff to view the action, and on monitors, he could see Rourke standing twenty meters in front of the enemy tank. Behind Rourke, ten meters distant, sat the Humvee, and beyond that lay the p
oint ROAS pillbox.

  Monitoring the parley, General Story felt as if he were a quiet witness to history. It was like having a ringside seat at the O.K. Corral or standing next to the US Army General at Bastogne when he told the Germans to fuck off. Shaking off the feeling, he needed to understand why the US tank had pulled forward. Lives depended on the answer.

  Lieutenant Colonel Andrea Simpson, aid to General Story, waved at the general seated next to her. “Sir, I’ve got her on the line.”

  “Patch her in,” said the general. Maybe now he could get some answers.

  Simpson nodded, hit a button on her headset and raised a thumb.

  “Madam President are you there?” asked General Story.

  “Yes, Bill. I’m in the air headed your way. ETA is less than thirty minutes. Why the urgency?”

  “Madam, a short time ago, under a white flag, the enemy sent a military delegation across our border. My brigade commander is meeting now. Events are unfolding fast.” He glanced at the nearest monitor and confirmed the enemy tank still loomed over Colonel Rourke. “I doubt the US military would’ve come forward unless they’ve reached a decision. I believe an attack is imminent. Before doing so, to cover their asses, they’re going to give us an opportunity to withdraw or surrender.”

  “Yes. I see. How can I help?”

  Frustration mounting, the general rolled his eyes. “Are there any significant changes on the diplomatic front?” There was a pause. He shot a look at Simpson and saw her concentrating on a computer monitor focused on the border parley. With two fingers, he tapped her on the shoulder and raised his eyebrows. In response, Simpson shook her head, lifted a finger letting him know talks continued.

  President Julia Ortega came back on the line. “Yes, General, there are recent political developments. That’s why I’m on a vertical-lift heading your way.”

  “What developments?” asked the general, impatient.

  “Well, I just got off a call with Ambassador Howard. He told me the last round of discussions didn’t end well.”