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drewkittyGWOT VI - Epilogue 2 - Last Woman Standing
The American scouts were sickened. Burned-out vehicles, the occasional body, trash and discarded belongings, these were the debris of war. Some had seen China. All had seen peacekeeping duty, putting America back together. A few had even seen - from a distance - the craters that would sully the Midwest for decades to come.
People who saw the US flag and ran from it. In America. In Iowa.
Piles of bodies. Some rotted. Some not. In other words, fresh.
Everywhere, wreckage. The infrastructure of a hundred years, torn apart for momentary tactical advantage. The next rains would finish tearing up the road net. They'd already had to ford repeatedly, and found bodies whenever they left the main roads.
The glazed stares of Iowa State Police and Iowa National Guard, come out of hiding now that the US Army was here to protect them. Some of them were seeing the horror for the first time. Others were afraid that the US Army would figure out that they'd seen it already. While doing it.
Discarded uniforms of Christian factions. The Army of God had retreated to Davenport, and the General Commanding was negotiating with them for control of the city and disarmament. Negotiations were expected to be brief. Unlike in Iraq, he'd brought artillery and he was prepared to use it if they tried to stall.
Now they approached a burned-out roadblock. The skeletal frames of tents.
Beyond, bodies. Laid out head to toe, neatly, with diagonally crossed branches at the head of each. Dog tags dangled from a few of those, the ones that were actually buried. No weapons among them.
A cut-down pole blocking the road with a STOP sign bolted to it. A single propped-up sign, pathetic in context, that warned in its red triangle, MINES.
On the far side, the remnants of what had been comprehensive wire fortifications. They'd been breached in several places, but also were repaired in places.
The first of the three armored scout cars came to a halt. The commander carefully looked over the scene.
He looked behind him to make sure that the US flags were still prominently displayed behind each of the vehicles. The last thing he wanted to do was to get killed over a misunderstanding.
"Dismount and lift that pole," he ordered by radio.
The soldier paused as they approached it, then scurried back to the safety of the vehicle.
"What?"
"Someone shouted 'Halt!', sir."
The commander dismounted the turret and gestured with a half-raised hand. The non-verbal message to whoever was watching. Well?
"Halt! Who goes there!" carried a loud female voice.
"Captain Dwight Smiley, United States Army. Who are you!"
A person was walking towards them from an apparently empty field. She had a rifle slung over her shoulder. He hadn't seen her stand up.
"Scout Soldier Meredith Jackson, Army of the Republic of California!"
She laid a possessive hand on the STOP pole.
"I have orders to hold this point. Why do you seek to pass?"
Her body language was absolutely assured. No doubt he was under sniper if not heavy weapons observation.
"I'm scouting for the 82nd. Haven't you heard?"
"My radio has been broken for three weeks now."
"The war is over. Well, the dying anyway. The 82nd has taken control of Iowa. The Christian militia is being disarmed and returned to their homes. The refugees are demobilizing their military and relief operations are being coordinated through the Red Cross and FEMA."
"And what of California forces?"
"The survivors were repatriated last week. Except of course for the field hospitals. The one at North Fork is still there and they've sent two more."
She lifted the pole out of the way.
"The mine signs are a lie. Careful of the wire on the way through, it's woven through the chain, best I could do."
A pause.
"Could you do me the courtesy of notifying my command? Scout Soldier Jackson, holding Control Point Four, requesting instructions."
"How many in your unit?"
"One."
He stared and looked around.
Then he looked at her.
Her face was hollow and gaunt. She hadn't been posted here alone.
He could feel the cloth Ranger tab on his shoulder become as heavy as an anvil.
He held up a hand, remounted the turret, and got on the radio.
"I need to get a California officer on this net. Now. I don't care how."
She climbed up the side of the armored car, to be handed his headset.
He could only hear her side of the conversation.
"Scout Soldier Meredith Jackson." "Yes, Doctor." "No, Doctor, I had a Doberman named Max." "Sergeant Miller is dead." "Just myself, Doctor." "Copy that, Colonel."
She gave the headset back.
"Captain. I'm authorized to leave the point and travel to North Fork, Iowa to report in. May I ask for the favor of a ride."
He paused. He had to get this right. There was history here.
"Nothing can be denied to a soldier such as you. Nothing."
A few minutes later, she'd retrieved her pack and was tearing into an MRE in a jumpseat below in the car. They pulled out.
They had a mission to do, to continue scouting until it was time to return.
She was a soldier. Of course she understood.
The American scouts were sickened. Burned-out vehicles, the occasional body, trash and discarded belongings, these were the debris of war. Some had seen China. All had seen peacekeeping duty, putting America back together. A few had even seen - from a distance - the craters that would sully the Midwest for decades to come.
People who saw the US flag and ran from it. In America. In Iowa.
Piles of bodies. Some rotted. Some not. In other words, fresh.
Everywhere, wreckage. The infrastructure of a hundred years, torn apart for momentary tactical advantage. The next rains would finish tearing up the road net. They'd already had to ford repeatedly, and found bodies whenever they left the main roads.
The glazed stares of Iowa State Police and Iowa National Guard, come out of hiding now that the US Army was here to protect them. Some of them were seeing the horror for the first time. Others were afraid that the US Army would figure out that they'd seen it already. While doing it.
Discarded uniforms of Christian factions. The Army of God had retreated to Davenport, and the General Commanding was negotiating with them for control of the city and disarmament. Negotiations were expected to be brief. Unlike in Iraq, he'd brought artillery and he was prepared to use it if they tried to stall.
Now they approached a burned-out roadblock. The skeletal frames of tents.
Beyond, bodies. Laid out head to toe, neatly, with diagonally crossed branches at the head of each. Dog tags dangled from a few of those, the ones that were actually buried. No weapons among them.
A cut-down pole blocking the road with a STOP sign bolted to it. A single propped-up sign, pathetic in context, that warned in its red triangle, MINES.
On the far side, the remnants of what had been comprehensive wire fortifications. They'd been breached in several places, but also were repaired in places.
The first of the three armored scout cars came to a halt. The commander carefully looked over the scene.
He looked behind him to make sure that the US flags were still prominently displayed behind each of the vehicles. The last thing he wanted to do was to get killed over a misunderstanding.
"Dismount and lift that pole," he ordered by radio.
The soldier paused as they approached it, then scurried back to the safety of the vehicle.
"What?"
"Someone shouted 'Halt!', sir."
The commander dismounted the turret and gestured with a half-raised hand. The non-verbal message to whoever was watching. Well?
"Halt! Who goes there!" carried a loud female voice.
"Captain Dwight Smiley, United States Army. Who are you!"
A person was walking towards them from an apparently empty field. She had a rifle slung over her shoulder. He hadn't seen her stand up.
"Scout Soldier Meredith Jackson, Army of the Republic of California!"
She laid a possessive hand on the STOP pole.
"I have orders to hold this point. Why do you seek to pass?"
Her body language was absolutely assured. No doubt he was under sniper if not heavy weapons observation.
"I'm scouting for the 82nd. Haven't you heard?"
"My radio has been broken for three weeks now."
"The war is over. Well, the dying anyway. The 82nd has taken control of Iowa. The Christian militia is being disarmed and returned to their homes. The refugees are demobilizing their military and relief operations are being coordinated through the Red Cross and FEMA."
"And what of California forces?"
"The survivors were repatriated last week. Except of course for the field hospitals. The one at North Fork is still there and they've sent two more."
She lifted the pole out of the way.
"The mine signs are a lie. Careful of the wire on the way through, it's woven through the chain, best I could do."
A pause.
"Could you do me the courtesy of notifying my command? Scout Soldier Jackson, holding Control Point Four, requesting instructions."
"How many in your unit?"
"One."
He stared and looked around.
Then he looked at her.
Her face was hollow and gaunt. She hadn't been posted here alone.
He could feel the cloth Ranger tab on his shoulder become as heavy as an anvil.
He held up a hand, remounted the turret, and got on the radio.
"I need to get a California officer on this net. Now. I don't care how."
She climbed up the side of the armored car, to be handed his headset.
He could only hear her side of the conversation.
"Scout Soldier Meredith Jackson." "Yes, Doctor." "No, Doctor, I had a Doberman named Max." "Sergeant Miller is dead." "Just myself, Doctor." "Copy that, Colonel."
She gave the headset back.
"Captain. I'm authorized to leave the point and travel to North Fork, Iowa to report in. May I ask for the favor of a ride."
He paused. He had to get this right. There was history here.
"Nothing can be denied to a soldier such as you. Nothing."
A few minutes later, she'd retrieved her pack and was tearing into an MRE in a jumpseat below in the car. They pulled out.
They had a mission to do, to continue scouting until it was time to return.
She was a soldier. Of course she understood.
