Anthony DeCosmo - Empire

Portable lights on yellow tripods lit the white cinderblock walls of the rectangular room. Rusty pipes lined the low ceiling; stains on the concrete floor marked five years of leaks and added mustiness to the cornucopia of aromas ranging from oil and grease to the moist smell of rot and fungi hiding in dark corners.

Fading block letters stenciled on the wall identified the dank room as an “Irrigation Station” for the greens of “Cheviot Hills” but the place served a new purpose in a changed world.

Aerial photography, charts, and pencil-sketched diagrams covered the walls held in place by strips of packing tape. Technicians in green army camouflage sat at plastic chairs monitoring radios and laptop computers atop small desks. Static, chatter, electronic beeps, and the tap of fingers on keyboards generated a dull murmur filling the cramped quarters.

A folding table held center court where one large unfurled map lay with its curled edges anchored by makeshift paperweights: a baseball cap, a ceramic ashtray, a stack of rifle magazines, and a pistol.

General Jerry Shepherd leaned over the table and focused his aging eyes on the pins, marks, and lines peppering the paper landscape, none of which had moved in the thirty seconds since he last leaned over the map.

He scratched the rough stubble on his cheeks, the color of which matched his thin mustache and even thinner hair: gray.

A voice from his flank said, “Stonewall for you, Sir.”

Jerry straightened and faced Bobby Bogart, who seemed more his shadow than his aid and who always wore a big radio headset and a big Lebanese nose.

Shepherd stepped to the radio console and answered the third call from Stonewall in the last twenty minutes.

“This is Shepherd…”

…”Stonewall” McAllister waited under a pine tree, alone on his steed in the long shadows of near-dusk. He wore a hat made of fur-felt material with a creased crown wrapped by a grosgrain band and a matching jacket with rows of ornate buttons. Both the jacket and the hat were colored in old mist gray, recalling the color of the confederacy during the American Civil War.

“Tell me, General Shepherd, is it still our aim to conduct this undertaking or can I relax and enjoy this beautiful southern summer evening?”

Shepherd’s voice crackled over the radio: “Garrett, I’m still waiting on the signal from the strike team. Unless you’d care to go forward before those main guns are down? I reckon that might just spoil your southern summer evening.”

“I dare say, you may be correct in that, General Shepherd,” Stonewall answered as crickets chirped from the stretching shadows and fire flies fluttered in the gentle breeze…

…Stonewall’s voice continued over the radio to Shepherd’s command post: “At this point, are you still certain that a signal is forthcoming?”

Shep transmitted, “Seems to me she always comes through,” but after closing the channel he stared at the map and muttered to himself, “C’mon girl, send that signal.”

The waiting continued…

…Dark, cramped alleyways filled with steam released from arcane machinery. Glittering spotlights searching the sky. Moisture dripping from faraway rooftops.

Shadows.

Shadows moving.

Four people dressed in black and gray appeared from those shadows along with four black and gray Norwegian Elkhounds following in step.

They crept forward, assault weapons ready, their faces covered by Nomex hoods and their bodies sheathed in lightweight armor.

On their shoulders, one concession to ego, one mark: a gray wolf’s face with ruby eyes, fangs ready to strike.

Weapons swept fields of fire, searching for enemies but stealth served as their most potent weapon. They worked in the shadows. They lived in the shadows.

At last, they reached the final stop in a long line of objectives. The finale after six hours of moving through the back passages and dark, tight corridors of the enemy battlements. Above them, a web of beams, wires, pipes, and ductwork dripping with foul-smelling moisture and steam pumped from churning furnaces. Hisses and pops and metallic clangs drown any sound of the team’s approach.

The element leader stopped and surveyed the scene through blue eyes peaking from the slit of her balaclava; a hint of blond hair poked from the crease between hood and body armor.

She pointed to the massive gears and conduits above them in the cramped access way. The K9s also followed her hand signals and took position at the corners, their acute senses searched for danger.

The team climbed pipes and placed packages beneath rafters, between gears, against load-bearing beams. They moved fast and silent. Two minutes later, they reassembled and withdrew.

As they returned to the shadows, the woman produced a transmitter and sent the signal…

…A buzzer and a flashing light announced the completion of the strike team’s mission to General Shepherd.

“That’s my girl,” he mumbled as he reached for his radio. “McAllister, you still awake out there?”

“I am now, Mr. Shepherd.”

“Good. Now wake up our friends.”

Stonewall asked, “Ms. Forest has completed her objectives?”

Jerry Shepherd offered a cocky grin under his gray mustache.

“Seems to me, there never was any doubt about that, was there?”

Stonewall McAllister could not argue with the truth…

…The General stood stiff in the saddle and changed the frequency on his radio.

“Captain Ross, please be so kind as to stand to and bring your guns to bear as per our previous arrangements.”

The reply from his artillery officer: “Yes, General. Hoo-rah!”

Stonewall sighed for he knew the lovely evening would now turn bloody…

…Woody “Bear” Ross stepped forward. The former All-American at the University of Miami and one-time starting linebacker for the Washington Redskins spoke in a booming voice that seemed to shake the ground as violently as the guns he commanded.

“First battery! Commence fire!”

A crew of five loaded ordnance into a lone 155mm Howitzer waiting on a gentle green slope. It broke the peace of the August night with a brilliant flash and a thunderous boom.

Then the next 155mm Howitzer did the same. And another. And another.

The swoosh and ROAR of rocket after rocket from a pair of tracked, self-propelled M270 MLRS vehicles joined the chorus. Their mass of deadly torpedoes arched into the sky leaving behind plumes of smoke glinting in the fading light of dusk.

All in all, twenty artillery pieces spat a veil of explosives toward their objective, whizzing into the sky like oversized fireworks…

…Shepherd emerged from the small building and climbed to the roof via a metal ladder in order to watch the action his commands sent into motion.

Years ago, developers cleared the trees and greens of what had been the Cheviot Hills Golf Club to make way for development when Armageddon halted construction. Their handiwork left a barren flat land where woodlands once stood, providing General Shepherd with an unobstructed view of the battlefield from his perch atop the small building.

Bogart, of course, followed his commander close, relaying incoming radio messages as he moved: “Preliminary artillery bombardment coming to a close.”

Shepherd produced binoculars. Bogart stood next to him.

“First tactical support wing coming on station and proceeding to target.”

Shepherd listened to that announcement as the sound of firing artillery halted.