Battle of Mesquite Read online

  Fueled by instinct, in a mad dash for survival, McMichael fast-crawled past the dead soldier, and half stood. Behind her an explosion erupted. The force of the concussion drove her towards the pipe and, arms extended, reaching for it, the lights went out.

  Chapter Ten

  MOP UP

  Across the battlefield, all firing ceased. Over the scene, skirting back and forth, the US vertical-lift aircraft hovered. Beneath them, the ROAS trench system and pillboxes smoldered. The only ROAS movement was in the far rear of the lines where a marked medical tent stood fronted by a group of people waving a white flag. The US held the field, the only loss, a single Custer.

  Time for the ground pounders. The order went out, and two armored M1170 Assault Breacher Vehicles, nicknamed Shredders, moved forward.

  The first Shredder, like a tank but with a bulldozer front end, rolled down Highway 15 and knocked aside the smoking wreck of Colonel Rourke’s ROAS Humvee. Coming to a stop, the huge vehicle fired a line charge two hundred meters down the highway past the rubble of the destroyed ROAS point pillbox. When the line charge and attached C4 explosives settled atop the blacktop, the Shredder hit the detonator. In response, a continuous explosion occurred along the entire two-hundred-meter roadway, destroying any active mines. A second Shredder came up, pulling past the first, and continued along the just-cleared highway. By working together, within an hour, the plan called for Highway 15 to be cleared of explosive devices all the way through Mesquite.

  Behind the Shredders, two armored infantry fighting vehicles followed, providing overwatch security. Upon reaching the ROAS medical facility, both vehicles stopped and took the surrendering personnel into custody.

  Along the rest of the front, US Army M2A6 Stuart infantry fighting vehicles stopped twenty meters in front of the devastated ROAS trenches and disgorged squads of infantry. Assigned to clear the ROAS point pillbox and attached trench, US Army Squad Leader Sergeant Raymond Flood dismounted and hit the ground running. Charging towards the enemy defensive works, Flood waved at his following squad and fanned them into a thin line. Assault rifles at the ready, the men ran the final few paces and hurled themselves against the sandy berm of the trench line. Hunched down, the berms provided cover against whoever might occupy the other side.

  Panting against the trench, squatting, Flood felt better. Pleased to reach the first goal without taking any incoming fire, Flood hoped the good fortune would continue.

  Looking both ways, determining his men were ready, with another wave Flood ordered the squad forward. Without hesitation, his troops scrambled up the trench face, leaned over, and scanned for targets.

  From his position atop the trench closest to the point pillbox, Flood swung his assault rifle back and forth. Nothing moved. A complete lack of fire; no one was shooting. He relaxed further and examined the trench beneath him. Craters and cave-ins dotted the landscape. Off to his right, sticking above the rubble, a bloody hand protruded, frozen in death. Farther away among torn equipment, a twisted body lay atop a heap of ragged concrete. Even at a distance, Flood spotted flies buzzing above the corpse. To his left, one of his soldiers dug in the rock and sand, uncovering a twisted missile launcher. After examining it, the grunt tossed it over the trench towards US lines.

  Satisfied, with no perceived threats, Flood stood erect. On either side, farther out along the enemy lines, he clocked other infantry squads working trenches and mopping up. In the distance, two shots rang out. His men froze. A moment later, the radio reported a mercy killing and gave the all clear.

  Before he could relax, a sudden unexpected rumble emerged, and he bent lower. Along the highway, a dust cloud plumed, and Flood realized the Shredders were at work clearing the highway. Everything was fine, and he stood up a little embarrassed by his over-reaction.

  It was warm. Mid-afternoon in the desert and even though early May, already the temperature was nearing ninety degrees. Flood’s Head Protection Systems aggravated the heat. Lifting his faceplate, he wiped his brow and lowered the tinted protection back in place. For seven years, he’d been in the Army. He’d fought up and down South America in worse heat, but damn it was hot. Thinking of the conditions, he knew it wouldn’t take long for the bodies to decompose and the horrible stink to rise. He wanted to finish quick and hoped they’d set up bivouac in town—a good meal, maybe a solid roof, and a double beer ration. Even better, he expected a nice payout. Experience told him a decisive fight like today would invariably mean a bonus. Everybody would be in a great mood, retelling their part in the battle, most of it bullshit. Still, fighting was a way of life, sometimes a good life.

  “Sergeant! You in charge here?”

  Startled, Sergeant Flood spun around, weapon at the ready, and recognized his battalion commander. Blanching at the sight, he averted his assault rifle. Damn, he didn’t want to deal with brass. Too much could go wrong. But he hadn’t a choice. “Yes, sir! Squad Leader Sergeant Flood, sir.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Paulson, standing below the trench, gazed up at the sergeant, then turned towards his right and pointed at a nearby burned-out Humvee. “Have you checked that vehicle yet?”

  “No sir. Been clearing this trench,” answered Sergeant Flood.

  “Well, get your ass down here and help me take a look.” Without waiting for a response, Paulson turned and walked towards the wreckage.

  Flood leaped from atop the trench and, keeping his assault rifle at the ready, hurried to take the lead. He came abreast of Paulson just as they approached the still-smoking wreck. The Humvee sat upright on its chassis with most of the frame intact. Everything else—axles, tires, doors, windows, panels, and roof—was blown away. Somehow, still strapped in the back and driver’s seat were two charred torsos. Burned beyond recognition, the corpses lacked any extremities—no limbs or heads. Everything else was black, melted away. A gust of wind emerged, bringing with it the foul odor of burned human flesh. Flood gagged, turned away, coughed up a load of phlegm, and spit.

  “Any weapons?” asked Paulson. Peeking into the wreck, he appeared oblivious to the smell.

  Flood regained his composure, held back the bile, and shifted a bit to keep the breeze at his back. “Negative, sir. Don’t see how anything survived.”

  “Hmm. Well, you know I fired the HEAT round that killed this Humvee. Vaporized the uppity colonel standing in front. I also took out the pillbox behind it.”

  Flood knew it. He’d seen the first shots of the battle on the surveillance monitor inside his armored fighting vehicle. Unsure how to respond, Flood decided upon flattery. “Well done, sir. Good shooting.”

  “Yes, yes it was,” replied the colonel, still poking around the wreck. Paulson seemed to catch himself, stood upright, and said, “I have a good tanker team.”

  After making the comment, the officer resumed circling the wreck, searching for something. Curious, Flood asked, “Anything else you want me to check out, sir?”

  Still looking at the Humvee, the colonel replied, “No. No. Carry On.”

  “Roger that, sir.” Flood turned and jogged back towards his squad. He didn’t relish being anywhere near the snooping officer. The farther away, the better.

  * * *

  Disappointed, hands on hips, Paulson decided to saunter back to his tank parked not far away. Head down, taking his time, he focused on the ground. He’d only gone a few meters when he spotted something. Excited, he bent to a knee and examined the object. Somehow, he had missed it earlier when he first walked over. He’d been so focused on the Humvee that he had walked right past. But there it was, lying in the sand, a torn piece of cloth. He picked it up and smiled in recognition. A name patch, most of one anyway, torn and ragged. But the name was unmistakable, the letters “ROUR …” He turned it over and examined the material. Excited, he shifted his gaze downward, looked for more but nothing remained.

  Standing up, he imagined the not-so-distant future. The patch in his hand under glass, sitting on his desk, a general’s desk. Destiny tapped him once again.
His purpose today was to win and to find this trophy. Satisfied, he put the ragged material in his pocket and swaggered towards the waiting command tank.

  Chapter Eleven

  NOW WHAT?

  May 8, 14:10 (PDT)

  Lieutenant Colonel Andrea Simpson walked up at a brisk pace and bent over so only the general could hear. “She’s here, waiting for you in the SCIF.”

  General Story looked up from his monitor and took a deep breath. “Okay. That was fast. Why the secure room?”

  “She didn’t say, but Secretary James is with her.”

  The general found the news troubling, but there were bigger problems. “Have you brought her up to speed?”

  “She asked how it went. I told her the battalion sustained heavy losses. She raised her hand in response and said you’d brief her. She’s requested your immediate presence, sir.”

  The general nodded and got out of his chair. “Send out a broadcast to the US Fifty-Fifth Armored Division declaring Mesquite an open city.”

  “Yes, sir.” Worried, she brought up another concern. “Any further orders for the rest of Second Brigade in Las Vegas?”

  The general frowned. He knew the Second had monitored the battle and seen their detached infantry battalion wiped out. “Orders haven’t changed. Remind them the enemy could be on their doorstep in two hours. Dig in but stay prepared to bug out on my command. Let me speak with the president. It shouldn’t take long, and I’ll get back to them. If the situation changes, let me know at once. For now, let’s hope and pray the enemy stays put.”

  “Yes, sir,” answered Lieutenant Colonel Simpson. She took a chair next to the general and issued orders into her headset.

  The general glanced once more at the monitor on his desk. Drone observation from Mesquite no longer existed. Instead, only satellite surveillance remained. The near real-time satellite imagery told the story. Nothing but smoking remnants remained of a once-proud ROAS infantry battalion. The entire battle was a rout. A debacle. Although still angry, it was over, and now he needed to focus on next steps. President Ortega awaited a recap, and the truth was painful. The Republic couldn’t stand against the might of a determined United States. Today, he knew full well, marked the beginning of the end.

  * * *

  The sensitive compartmented information facility, or SCIF, existed below ground within Central Command. A lead-lined vault, its purpose was to keep conversations private and off the record. No electronics of any kind were allowed, and everyone was screened.

  Inside, President Julia Ortega, mid-fifties, sat waiting at the head of a lone wooden table. She didn’t take for granted her still youthful attractiveness. Defined by high cheekbones, almond eyes, and long dark hair now piled high on her head, wearing a black skirt, above it she wore her signature bright-red blouse. All her adult and political life she’d worked hard on her presence: femininity combined with strength. She knew it helped with voters.

  Ortega believed in the Republic of American States, and she was determined to protect and defend it to the end.

  For three decades, since its start, the ROAS had tried to build a new nation with a focus on not only freedom but economic and social equality. To achieve those aims, with limited resources to build a strong military, it was key not to become a threat in hopes the greater nations would leave them alone.

  As the ROAS prospered, its economics were founded upon an inherited technological, entrepreneurial model the rest of the world relied upon and envied. The country sold futuristic products across the globe. To fund their socialist programs, the ROAS taxed its citizens at a hefty rate. She was proud of the accomplishments. Universal healthcare, education, and income were now the norm. So far, the model had worked, but now her country was under attack, and the lack of a strong military left it vulnerable.

  The president held no illusions. The technological underpinnings of the ROAS were its greatest strength, yet, those same assets were the biggest prize, ripe for the taking. In her opinion, to survive her country hadn’t a choice. It was time to take off the gloves and fight back.

  Ortega looked across at the tall, lanky man seated to her right. As usual, Secretary of Security Jim James was a mess. He wore crumpled pants and a dress shirt that didn’t match, combined with a sport coat begging for a wash. She shook her head at the sight. Yes, he was an information-security genius but also a bumbling pain in the ass. But she needed his help in handling a tough situation. “James, as we discussed, let me take the lead on this. When I want you to add something or interject, I’ll ask. Otherwise, please keep your mouth shut.”

  “Of course,” James replied. “I appreciate the difficulties facing us. Your willingness to sacrifice everything to save our nation is admirable.”

  Julia frowned at the patronizing. “Follow my lead, that’s all.”

  Above the single entrance across the room, the status light turned from green to red, and the door opened. General Story entered the SCIF, closing the portal behind him. At once, the light turned green, indicating the room secure.

  In a flash, the president detected an air of resignation about the general. The way he slouched, frowned, and moved with a slight shuffle into the room was disturbing. One of the few senior officers with true combat leadership experience in the entire ROAS Armed Forces, she needed him. He’d defected from the US a decade prior, leaving a successful military career behind. Once free of his native country, he applied for a commission into the ROAS military and passed a thorough loyalty investigation. Through the process, she became a supporter and believed in his ability. Ortega promoted him into his current role. Still, doubts lingered. The country needed a fighter, someone willing to take risks, even against long odds. Events forced decisions, and she would make one today.

  To ease the troubled general, she started the conversation with a soft tone. “General, thank you for taking the time to meet under such dire circumstances.” She nodded towards the empty chair opposite the secretary. “Please take a seat.” Not missing a beat, she waived towards the skinny man next to her. “I believe you know Secretary James.”

  The general, with a grim expression, reached out and shook hands with the secretary. “Welcome to ROAS Central Command.”

  “Thank you, General,” James replied.

  “We’ve much to discuss. Please sit,” said the president.

  The general complied, and the room grew quiet.

  Ortega, noting the general’s countenance, sighed. Before discussing more productive topics, she’d ask for the bad news first. “General Story, please give us a quick rundown on Mesquite.”

  Before answering, the general glanced at the lanky man across from him. “Madam President, can you please explain why Secretary James is here? I thought our focus was Mesquite and possible next steps. No disrespect, but I’m not sure his expertise is needed for those discussions.”

  “Trust me. I’ve asked James to be here for a reason. Bring me up to speed on Mesquite,” said President Julia Ortega.

  The general shrugged his shoulders and cleared his voice. “Madam President, after I hung up with you, the enemy hit us with extreme force. Brigade Commander Colonel Rourke died within moments of the start. In quick succession, across our entire front, using joint tank, artillery, missile, infantry, and air assets, the enemy struck hard.”

  “I see,” said the president. The execution of Felix Manuel was terrible, and now, for the first time in her career, she’d put soldiers in harm’s way. “How bad was it?”

  The general crossed his arms and gave the straight facts. “Estimated losses stand at one hundred percent. The actual number of killed, wounded, captured—only the US Army knows for sure.”

  “A hundred percent?” asked the president, shocked by the number.

  “Yes.”

  The president tried to imagine the carnage, but she’d never seen a battlefield and had no true concept of the loss and suffering. She’d ordered the battalion to resist and not to withdraw or surrender. Maybe she’d made a mistak
e? No. The nation would learn and grow from this. She put on a strong façade and asked, “Have US forces entered Mesquite?”

  “Yes. We informed city leadership before hostilities that in case of an enemy breakthrough, they were not to resist.”

  Ortega, with a heavy heart, turned to another pressing issue. “I saw the first press reports coming out of Mesquite: claims of heavy fighting at the border followed by quiet. An official announcement needs to go out soon. We need to tamp down any panic. My press team is working on a preliminary statement.”

  “From a defensive standpoint, we’re in extreme trouble. Minus the infantry battalion destroyed today, we’ve a single under-strength infantry brigade positioned near Las Vegas. In Reno, we have another brigade minus two detached battalions covering other major border crossings. That’s all we have in Nevada.”

  The president chewed her lip, caught herself, and resolved to quit the nervous habit. “Those forces aren’t enough?”

  “No. Today, the US Nineteenth Army didn’t even commit their full strength. If they choose, they can bring much more to the table. To stop them, we’ve got nothing of any real consequence standing in the way.”

  Ortega knew the long military odds facing her country. But hearing the details, the large loss of life, their vulnerability to future attacks, she shuddered. By resisting, she’d hoped to set an example—heroics to share with the people and stiffen backbones. The big question needed to be asked. “Did our people resist?”