David Pope - Battle of Mesquite

“Damn! A third of them gone. But you have to be impressed with their anti-missile capabilities.” Gist knew each of his missiles carried a five-hundred-pound warhead, and at last, on his screen, he watched in satisfaction as one detonated on a hillside just east of Las Vegas. Flames shot high in the air and Gist almost cheered.

“Direct hit on one of their two anti-missile batteries. I expect their interception rate to go down,” said Lawton.

A huge explosion erupted, and Singh couldn’t help but duck. He knew what it was. One of the ROAS missile defensive batteries had just swallowed a missile, and even though several miles away, the vibrations from the explosion cascaded down the city streets. Giving it a few seconds, he lifted his head over the building parapet and confirmed a huge mushroom cloud rising from the destruction.

And then missiles began to land in the desert valley as explosions rippled among the just-built trenches and bunkers. Fascinated by the sight, he watched in amazement.

Off to his right, another mass explosion, and he bent low beneath the parapet. Damn! He guessed the second missile defense battery was gone. Now, there was no protection from the incoming threats.

Still bent low, he looked around at the other tall buildings near him and wondered if the city proper would be hit. No, not now, he reasoned. Crushing a major city when the ROAS defensive works were out in the desert served no military purpose. Besides, intelligence reports indicated the US had no desire for the negative optics from destroying a major metropolitan area. So even with missiles crashing down in the desert nearby, he reassured himself. Although frightening, the missiles weren’t targeting him or the city.

He heard a series of explosions seconds apart and felt the resultant concussions pass like a wind across the top of the parapet. Letting it pass, he lifted his head just enough to once again scan the eastern valley. He couldn’t detect anyone or anything moving. Instead, he spotted a row of trucks on the highway, destroyed and on fire. Elsewhere, pillars of smoke rose across the landscape.

Off to his left, another sequence of explosions erupted, and he ducked again. Nellis Air Force Base, he determined, just a few miles north of his position, was also a target. Seconds later, secondary explosions cascaded from that area. From the sound of it, he guessed the enemy had hit something big on the base.

More missiles detonated, closer to the city, and he kept his head down. As the noise settled, he detected the sound of glass striking the street many stories below, breaking into a million pieces from broken windows shattered by concussions. Through it all, car and burglar alarms blared, and the civil defense siren continued to wail.

Risking it, he looked above the parapet towards the east and ascertained the critical artillery batteries along the valley ridgelines were now a smoking ruin. Shifting his optics in a slow search, he scanned the entire ROAS front and counted almost two dozen pillars of smoke. After a minute, without further impacts, he surmised the missile attack over.

Shaking with fear and adrenaline, Singh felt sick to his stomach. So much work and effort preparing for Heavy Metal, and now this.

In a slow fluid motion, he rose and turned towards the west. Back across the city he gazed, facing California, and wondered if the senior brass would consider a retreat. Even with the Heavy Metal weapons, he wasn’t sure they could stop the enemy. Hell, he was ready to go home.

“Okay. Looks like we hit ’em pretty good, maybe not as much as I expected, or wanted, but better than nothing. I need an overall damage assessment, pronto,” said General Gist.

“Yes, sir” said Lawton. Sitting next to the general, Lawton barked commands into his headset.

Gist waited for Lawton to finish issuing orders. Yeah, it was a good strike, but much of the day was wasted in seeking permission. Plus, he had other issues to contend with. Lawton paused, and Gist took the opening. “Colonel, on another subject, I’ve got Federal Inspector Cone on my ass. That damn ROAS woman, her DNA wasn’t found, and he’s in a fucking tizzy.”

Lawton nodded.

“How is the search coming? I expected Crawley to be done with that by now,” said Gist.

“Sir, it took longer than expected to put together a search team, but they’ve made good progress. A half hour ago Crawley reported he was about two-thirds done. So far, no enemy combatants located, and the civilian population appears tame.”

“When does he expect the mission to be complete?”

“By nightfall, sir.”

“Fuck’s sake. That’s taking a long time. Mesquite isn’t that big,” said Gist, exasperated by the delays. The only good news was the missile strike. Thinking about it, he felt better. “Okay, just have Crawley get ahold of Cone and try to calm him down. Even better, have Longfellow reach out and explain the lack of DNA isn’t proof positive that she’s still alive. For all the fuck we know, she might’ve been vaporized in the Chinook.”

“Yes, sir,” said Crawley, and once again, he started barking orders into his headset.

Leaning back in his chair, Gist didn’t care either way about Lisa McMichael, but Cone was a bigger issue. Get on the wrong side of a federal inspector, and careers could come to a sudden end. No, he’d have to keep up the search and kiss the man’s ass, for now. But he wouldn’t waste too much time. Tomorrow morning, the real battle awaited. Operation Jackpot, and its success, would further cement his legacy and provide more cover than cajoling a pissed-off federal inspector. And he was confident of success. The effective missile strike and the weak ROAS force facing him were proof positive of certain victory. As the battle of Mesquite demonstrated, the damn liberal ROAS government and their military was hollow, decadent, and effeminate. Their people had neither the means nor the gumption to fight. They were, on the whole, like the many women soldiers and gays they allowed in combat, a soft target.

Looking at his monitor, he glanced at the towers of smoke spiraling above the desert, and he smiled. Tomorrow, before noon at the latest, he relished the thought of riding victorious through the streets of Las Vegas.

May 10, 17:22 (PDT)

On one knee, clutching an assault rifle, dressed in all new borrowed combat gear, McMichael listened to the exchange over the secure network. Beside her, also kneeling, she appreciated having Sergeant Upton at her side. Across from them, squatting on his haunches, Captain Bowen commanded his group of SF operators.

“Mason, Sitrep?” whispered Captain Bowen into his headset.

“One block out, headed our way. One Stuart fighting vehicle with hatch down. Two squads dismounted infantry. Combined force is searching a row of small buildings. ETA to our position, fifteen mikes,” replied Sergeant Mason over the secure network.

Inside their warehouse hiding place, McMichael admired Bowen’s leadership. Row upon row of tall, dusty metal racks stuffed with auto and truck parts ran throughout the building, making it difficult to see in any direction. But at Bowen’s direction, Special Forces operators manned key points around the entire perimeter and checked in often over the secure radio network. Up on the roof, underneath a hide made of active camouflage, she knew Sergeant Mason provided surveillance overwatch.

“Mason. Live feed, please,” commanded Bowen.

“Roger that,” came a quick reply.

Two seconds later, and video appeared on McMichael’s head protection visor. She guessed all the operators in the warehouse, including Upton next to her, had the same heads-up display. Watching the feed, she observed a Stuart fighting vehicle as it sat in the middle of the street north of their current position. The Stuart had its turret and main gun swiveled west towards a metal roll-up door fronting a large garage in the parking lot of a sanitation firm. Meanwhile, a group of US troops trotted around the property, going into and out of several buildings, covering each other the entire time.