David Pope - Battle of Mesquite

“I’ve never seen one fired,” said the captain, more to himself than the sergeant.

“No one has,” said Fitch, reaching for the replacement chip.

“It’s supposed to be awesome. I hope it works. Our lives depend on it,” said the captain.

“It’ll work, sir, if I’m left alone to do my job.”

“Got it,” replied the captain.

As Singh walked away to check on other installations, he worried. Less than a third of the weapons were operational, and technical glitches abounded. He believed brand-new technology never tried or used before should have no place on the battlefield. Yet, the promise of the weapon was astounding and the odds facing them vast. But they still had time. Assuming the enemy attacked at the expected time, dawn the following day, they still had thirty hours to be ready. But time was dripping away. If no other major problems surfaced, and his team was given enough time to fine tune the weapons, Heavy Metal had a chance. If not, he shuddered at the thought.

“What a complete fucking mess,” said General Gist to no one in particular. For the last hour, he’d gone over the events of the evening. Earlier, roused from bed by the unexpected sound of battle, he had learned Operation Catcher had gone awry. Although he didn’t intervene and waited for news of the outcome, the thundering noise south of town was disconcerting.

After the shooting stopped, it didn’t take long for Inspector Cone, followed by Colonel Paulson, to show up on his doorstep. Angered by the accounts and accusations proffered by both men and more upset at the enemy temerity, he sensed an opportunity to leverage the circumstances. He called an emergency meeting.

Now, seated around a table inside the conference room within his command trailer, it was time to get moving.

“Where the hell is the Dead Guy?” asked Gist.

“He’s supposed to be here any moment, sir,” said Lieutenant Colonel Lawton. He appeared tired, just after midnight, and had just arrived.

“Sir, please excuse my impertinence, but can you explain my presence?” asked Major Crawley, sitting at the table.

Crawley led the military police interrogation group, and Gist couldn’t help but cringe at the sight of the man. The inquisitor’s pock-marked face, ashen under the dull lights of the command center conference room, gave off an unhealthy aura. “I will, soon enough,” replied Gist, turning away.

“Sir, I see no need for Colonel Lawton’s presence at this meeting. Operation Catcher is my responsibility,” said Paulson in an angry tone.

Gist stared hard at Paulson sitting across from him. He knew the man was an excellent tanker, but he was also an egotistical bore. Earlier, for half an hour, he’d let Paulson and Federal Inspector Cone plead their cases. He’d listened as they poured blame on one another for the friendly-fire incident. Although he hadn’t declared it out loud, Gist concluded it was Paulson’s fault. On the other hand, Inspector Cone shared some responsibility for his incessant meddling and overall shit disturbance. But Cone had a direct link to the president’s ear and was a calculated threat. “Colonel Paulson, I’m not pleased with the results of Operation Catcher. When we launch the next phase of Jackpot, your battalion will make up the reserve. Dismissed.”

“Sir, I must object, and I believe your decision and conclusions are faulty. Operation Catcher was a success. Every single enemy combatant, including Lisa McMichael, lay dead on the field. Just like I led the attack on Mesquite, it was a complete success. Sir, I never fail,” said Paulson, his face flushed in obvious anger.

Inspector Cone jumped out of his chair. “General Gist, we have no definitive evidence that McMichael is dead. It’s against the odds, I admit, but she might be on the run. Worse, the purpose of the mission was to capture her alive. Operation Catcher failed because of Paulson’s haughty disregard for consultation and outside advice!”

Gist raised his hand. “Enough, both of you. Paulson, you’re dismissed, and Cone, I’m addressing your concerns.”

Paulson, with his right hand tucked inside his pants pocket, fumbling something, stood and glared at Cone.

“Go,” interjected Gist. Annoyed, he pointed a quivering finger at the paneled door.

Paulson, face red in anger, glanced at Gist then seemed to gather himself. Pulling his right hand free, he said, “Yes, sir.” Then, in a stiff turn, head held high, he marched from the room.

“Arrogant son of a bitch,” said Cone, sitting down.

“Stop it!” said Gist. Impatient, he looked at Lawton and demanded, “Where in the hell is the Dead Guy!”

“I’ll check,” said Lawton, rising from his seat. Before he could move, the conference room door cracked open, and a balding man stuck his shiny head through the aperture. Eyes narrowed, head protection system tucked under his arm, the man squinted in the artificial light.

“Captain Longfellow, we’ve been waiting. Please have a seat,” said Lawton, pointing towards the open chair left unoccupied by Paulson.

Not saying a word, Longfellow hurried inside and sat down. Once seated, he gave a small smile to the gathered men.

“Gentleman,” said Gist, glaring first at Longfellow and then at the rest of the seated men. “Now that everyone has joined us, it’s time we got cracking.” For effect, Gist leaned forward in his chair and pounded on the table. “I won’t have the goddamn enemy loose in our rear. Nor will I allow them to waltz in and attack our troops without retribution. No damn way I want them thinking, not for one goddamn minute, they can stand up to the United States Army. Is that understood!”

Around the table, the four men, Cone, Lawton, Crawley, and Longfellow, nodded and waited.

Satisfied with his theatrics, Gist leaned back. “I will un-fuck this shit pile right now.” Then he pointed to Lawton. “Draw up a list of the most recent vulnerable ROAS military targets around Las Vegas. I’m going to seek a green light from Field Marshal Harrison to rain some missiles on the ROAS parade this morning. Our president gave the enemy two entire days to prepare for us. Well, the enemy got cocky and pissed in our backyard. So, we’ll send them a message and soften up their defenses. Lawton, you got that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good,” said Gist. “Our fearless president, unlike his father ever would, fucked up and gave the enemy a forty-eight-hour timeline, half of which has nearly elapsed. Bet your ass those fuckers are using the respite to prepare a nasty welcome for us. Well, when the ROAS intruded tonight, they gave us every reason to fuck up their plans, and we will!”

Inspector Cone rose in his seat and objected. “Our president wouldn’t condone your disparaging remarks about his leadership. Sir, you’re violating section…”

“No disrespect,” said Gist, cutting off the inspector. In a lower voice, he said, “I understand the law, but I know war better. You need my help. We must put this whole McMichael episode to rest. As you’ve pointed out many times this evening, we’ve got to confirm her demise and make sure she didn’t escape. You requested, and I granted permission, for Operation Catcher, allowing you oversight. If things didn’t go as planned, well, nobody gets embarrassed, right?”

“My job is to make sure the military remains steadfast in its loyalty to the president and the constitution,” said Frost, retaking his seat. Then in a lower tone he added, “So far, I’m satisfied with the way you’ve handled events. I just need to verify that McMichael is no longer a threat.”

“We will,” said Gist. Then the general leaned back and crossed his arms. Addressing the men around the table, he said, “I’m troubled and concerned that the enemy ran free behind our lines. We’ve reason to believe the local populace, in at least one instance, aided McMichael. I won’t have the enemy operating in our rear.” Gist paused to let the statement percolate and then continued. “I want this entire town, every building and structure, combed for enemy combatants and civilian sympathizers. As part of that effort, question every suspicious civilian in Mesquite and confine them if there is a hint of support for the enemy. That’s the main reason you’re here,” said Gist, pointing at Major Crawley.