Pedestals of Ash (16 page)

First
Sergeant Fitzpatrick rubbed his side and cursed his driver for the
third
time in the last hour.
After blowing off some steam, he decided it was wrong to blame the
young c
orporal
. T
he kid was on
ly pointing the Stryker where
he ordered and wasn’t at fault for the jarring
ride. Still, it seemed like the kid ran over every possible bump and lump this part of northern Louisiana had to offer. As far as his
side was concerned, banging into the turret was just part of the job. With the high-tech surveillance systems installed in the carrier, he could have ridden down below and had basically the same view, but he liked sticking out of the turret and using his own eyes and ears. The pain from his sore ribs distracted him for a moment
,
and a low branch from a nearby e
lm scraped his cheek.
That was the one good thing about Iraq
, he thought,
no trees
,
and the desert was smooth.

Fitz, as the crew called him,
double-checked
that the radio was set to intercom so only the crew of his Stryker could hear his words. “This looks good right here
, c
orporal. Nudge her up against the berm
,
and we’re good.”

“Rodger that Top.”

When the eight wheels of the
large
armored vehicle finally rolled to a stop, everyone inside was relieved. Fitz pushed a button
,
and the large aluminum ramp at the rear opened, providing a means for the
10
members of the 1
st
Scout platoon to exit. The sound of their boots thumping down the ramp was reassuring to Fitz
,
as the team dismounted without delay. That was the way it was supposed to be done. He placed both hands on the butterfly trigger of the large .50 caliber machine gun mounted beside him and made ready to cover his men as they spread out to form a perimeter. The precaution proved unnecessary. He switched his radio to the battalion frequency and calmly stated “3-1 in position and deploying.”

As the troopers moved away from the armored transport, each
two-man team knew its role and hurried to locate
concealed positions. Ten minutes later, radio traffic indicated that all five teams had found good spots, forming a roughly
180-degree
arch to the front and sides of the Stryker. Fritz again checked his frequency and updated battalion with a short, “3-1 deployed…3-1 deployed.”

Fitz raised his binoculars and scanned the area. His was one of eight squads that had been ordered to move forward of the main force and provide early warning of any approaching threat. When his LT had conducted the briefing yesterday, Fitz had been surprised when his commanding officer had indicated that they should be looking for an American unit approaching along the I-20 corridor. Everyone had been further taken aback when t
hey were informed that the approaching aggressor
would be the 1
st
Cav
, and the rules of engagement were to return fire if fired upon. That shocker was quickly followed up with
,
“Use any force necessary to protect the men, assets
,
and
territory
of the 10
th
Mountain Division.” That
word “territory” was disconcerting
.

Fitz lowered his glass and shook his head
,
thinking about the briefing. After four years with this outfit, it was the only time he could remember the gathered NCOs repeatedly asking for confirmation of an order. Everyone knew that the brigade commander had pledged the
unit
’s loyalty to this new gover
nment called the Independents.
It had been clearly communicated that the Colonel believed this new
outfit
more closely aligned with the purpose and intent of their oaths. Everyone had been given the choice to continue with the brigade or leave Fort Polk without dishonor. Everyone had stayed.

What practically no one had realized was that there were other American military units still loyal to the old chain of command. Th
ey hadn’t been lied to
or mislead, it was just no one had thought to ask.
With what he and his men had witnessed since everything fell apart, who would have thought any government agency, military unit, or even the local dogcatcher would have the wherewithal to do anything but try and hold the country together?
It just didn’t make sense.

Before
leaving
Polk, the mission had been to secure this remote section of northern Louisiana
,
so t
he Independents could
kick-start
the heartland of the country. It was the first orders they had received that were proactive
,
and the plan sounded reasonable and well thought out. After arriving in Shreveport, word had come down that the Independents were
n’t the only ones who thought this
was a good plan. The p
resident’s men and the old regime had evidently decided to execute the same basic operation.

To Fitz and
most of the other troopers of the 4/10, this hadn’t immediately translated into the potential for conflict. Wouldn’t both sides work toward the same goal? Wasn’t the wellbeing of the population more important than who controlled the government? 

The sergeant glanced down at the blue armband and adjusted the recent addition to his unifo
rm. His men had the same color Velcro
patches on their helmets and load gear, his Stryker had panels of blue cloth in strategic locations. Fort Polk was a training base as well as the home of the 4/10. These “blue force – red force” patches had been used during exercises and war games to differentiate between friend and foe. Every trooper and vehicle in the brigade now was adorned with the blue emblems.

Fitz returned
to his primary job – scouting his sector. His team would have set up observation posts at least 200 meters from their Stryker. Their job was to report any sort of movement or activity, not to fight. Nevertheless, they were reasonably well armed, with one of the teams carrying a Javelin missile launcher and one carrying a .50 caliber machine gun. He even had some anti-air capabilities
,
as they had been issued a single Stinger ground to air missile. He had one snipe
r
,
and the rest were lightly armed infantry. The Stryker he was riding was equipped with another heavy machine gun as well as a TOW missile launcher. Should trouble come their way, the 1-3 was as ready as any light unit could be.

If the
Cav
was really on its way, Fitz’s primary concern was that 120mm gun mounted on their Abrams tanks. With a range greater than three kilometers, the weapon had enough power to shred his lightly armored troop carrier to bits. It wasn’t so much the actual gun that concerned him, but the targeting and sensor systems inside the big tank. The M1A2 could fight at night, through dense fog or even in a hurricane if need be. He knew from training that the crew would be using their infrared thermal sights
,
and some of the new systems even had automatic target detection. Fitz was sure the tank’s computer would think his Stryker was the perfect target.

Back at Polk, the 1
st
Sergeant
had achieved quite the reputation for his creative
methods of defeating thermal
gun sights
during the numerous exercises at the base. He had pulled every trick in the book to make sure his platoon c
ame out on top in order to claim
the most leave. Fitz had developed quite a taste for Cajun cooking, find
ing it a welcome alternative to
the typical fare of his r
ural New Jersey upbringing. He was savvy to the fact
that the tank gunners were trained to look for hot spots and straight edges. Military vehicles had both
,
and enemy troops emitted a lot of heat as well. While others had tried brush piles
to distort the lines
, ravines
for off the grid hideouts
,
and even emerge
ncy foil
blankets
that wrapped the vehicle and obscured the heat, Fitz had gone
in the opposite direction and cooled the skin of his Stryker
. A soldier in constant search of his edge, he had once diverted t
he irrigation system of a farm bord
ering the exercise area to accomplish this objective.
The watering truck from the base’s extensive s
oftball complex had been tapped to
guarantee his success on another occasion.
The combination of breaking up the outline of the
big-wheeled
troop carrier and lowering the temperature of its skin had done the trick.

Fitz didn’t have any wate
r at the moment, but he had identifie
d a unique place to hide.
The 4/10’s scouts
had been moving through fields of some untended crop, heading for the highes
t ground in the area, when he
spotted the perfect setup. Like many farms in the region, this one had a scrap
heap
towards the rear of the property. There were two rusted hulks of 1950’s era tractors, a
2.5-ton
farm truck without tires
,
and stacks of miscellaneous equipment discarded from the farm’s operation. Weeds grew rampantly around the old implements and junked machinery. There was even a large hardwood tree growing in the center of the junkyard
,
providing some shade and limited camouflage from above. Once the engine of the Stryker had cooled, there would be no reason why its skin would be any different color
than the surrounding cast-offs
when viewed through a thermal sight. The piles of rusted metal and old vehicles would break up the outline of his fighting machine
,
and that suited him just fine. As he looked around at the scattered junk, he noticed the door of the old truck had been painted with white letters. The once proud and now faded signage read, “Scott’s Farm and Dairy.”

Well, f
armer Scott
, he thought,
you sure picked the perfect place to throw away your junk.
       

Major Owens had been waiting to see the sign along the edge of I-20 for what had seemed like days. “Welcome to Louisiana” seemed like
such an anti-climactic greeting
after
the monumental effort required by his team to travel this
short distance.

As his tank rolled into
what the sign claimed was a “Sportsman’s Paradise
,
”
he felt a short
,
but welcome sense of relief. There was little between him and his objective of Shreveport but rural farm country
,
and hopefully, open road. It had taken the resupply trucks almost four hours to reach him this morning
,
and
then
another two hours to refuel his vehicles. Topped off with full tanks and with enough in reserve to easily make it to
their area of operations, the m
ajor had eliminated at least one of the hundreds of worries associated with
this
command.

His relief was short lived
,
however
,
as the now dreaded static of his radio sounded in his earpiece.

“Major, you need to get up here
,
sir. We are at Louisiana mile marker 3. There is a Colonel Marcus up here who wishes to speak with you.”

What the hell is going on
,
was the first thought that shot
through the m
ajor’s mind
. The words, “
Who the hell is Colonel Marcus
,” almost left his lips, but
he only
responded
with a weary sounding
,
“On my way.”