Pedestals of Ash Read online

  Fitz didn’t have any water at the moment, but he had identified a unique place to hide. The 4/10’s scouts had been moving through fields of some untended crop, heading for the highest ground in the area, when he spotted the perfect setup. Like many farms in the region, this one had a scrapheap 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, farmer 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 major 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 major’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.”

  As the major’s tank pulled out of line and began passing the lead vehicles of the convoy, he was tempted to radio back to HQ in Dallas and ask if he had missed a transmission or other orders. The captain in charge of the refueling convoy hadn’t mentioned anything, and after his status report, there had been no communications. His radio was working just fine – at least on his command frequencies.

  It took him only about eight minutes to travel the three miles and meet up with his lead scout. There, parked in the eastbound lane of I-20, was a Bradley, nose to nose with a Stryker. The Stryker had a white flag pinned atop of one of its tall antenna. Standing on the ground, next to the two fighting machines was a group of soldiers, one of them a tall, thin man who Owens immediately identified as a senior officer.

  The major dismounted from his tank and approached the group of men. The insignias immediately confirmed his observation that the taller man was the colonel, and he walked directly up and smartly saluted the senior officer.

  The salute was returned, and then the colonel stuck out his hand. “Major, my name is Colonel Marcus, commander of the 4th Brigade Combat Team, 10th Mountain Division.”

  Owens responded with, “Sir, Major Owens, commanding Ironhorse Brigade, 1st Calvary Division. How can I help you, Colonel?”

  The colonel looked around at the small group of gathered men and then back at the major. “Walk with me please, Major.” As the two officers casually wandered a distance sufficiently out of earshot, the colonel began:

  “Major, I don’t know how much you know about what is going on in the country right now, so I’ll start from the beginning. A new government has formed. This is in addition to the old one still trying to maintain control. I’ll be blunt, Major. I’m with the new government, and you, evidently, are still with the old.”

  The look of confusion on the major’s face made his response redundant. “Sir, I’m not quite sure I understand. A new government? An old government? My orders from General Lynch are simple…to secure the region around Shreveport, sir.”

  Colonel Marcus smiled and folded his arms across his chest. His voice was steady, “So I understand, Major. I have orders to secure the same region. It seems both sides decided this little stretch of real estate is critical. I’ll come right out with it – we both can’t be here. My orders are to deny you this area.” The colonel paused for a few moments and then continued, “And I will follow my orders.”

  Major Owens was an officer in the United States Army and in command of one of the most potent fighting forces on the planet. He had never even conceived of being denied anything and was beginning to dislike this colonel’s attitude. His contempt bled through as he looked around and pointed back at the colonel’s Stryker, saying, “No offense, sir, but I hope you brought a little more than that with you.”

  The colonel smiled again, and a careful observer would have noticed his eyes became just a touch friendlier. He liked this young officer and appreciated his aggressiveness. The colonel also understood this was a method to buy time in order to digest what had to be a shocking bit of news. “Major, I have sufficient force to hold this area. I won’t go into any more detail than that. I know General Lynch. We served together in the 101st some years ago. I suggest you radio and apprise him of the situation. I’ll be happy to wait right here, but before you go, I want to make it perfectly clear. I will fight to hold this area. I will fight anyone who tries to take it from me. Think about that for a minute before you talk to the good general. Think about what that means.”

  The colonel’s last words were like a slap in the face to Major Owens. While he had been standing straight with his shoulders squared, those words caused him to become even more rigid. Without thinking or proper military protocol, the words “civil war” escaped from his mouth.

  The major spun on his heels and started walking back to his tank when the colonel’s voice called out, “Major, one more thing – you and the Cav would be welcome to join us if you are willing to swear allegiance to the Independents. I would be honored to sit and brief you on that option if you are willing. I didn’t make my decision without good reason, and neither did my men.”

  The major paused at the colonel’s last statement, but continued back to his tank without comment. In truth, he didn’t want to chance the senior officer seeing the fear and bewilderment he was feeling. He ignored the small group of men standing around the two large green battle machines and strode with purpose directly to his tank. As he started to gracefully climb aboard, he yelled out, “Ironhorse - Mount up!”

  As he shimmied his way into the turret, he looked up to see the colonel standing beside his Stryker and started to salute out of habit. He paused, unsure if he still had to do so, or even wanted to do so. The colonel made up his mind for him as the senior officer threw a crisp right hand and held it. The major returned the salute, and then both men proceeded to issue orders to the men under their commands.

  Major Owens keyed his radio and ordered his driver to return to their lead units a few miles behind them. As the tank began to spin around, he noticed a full infantry squad rise up from the surrounding forest and hustle back toward the colonel’s Stryker. The man had deployed security for the meeting. He is clearly serious.

  Ten minutes later, Major Owens reached for the volume knob on his radio just a wee bit too late as General Lynch’s voiced boomed in his ear, “HE SAID WHAT? ARE YOU FUCKING WITH ME, MAJOR?” Owens didn’t immediately respond, and in a few seconds, his CO continued, “What a damn mess. Give me your coordinates. I’ll be on a bird in five minutes. I want to talk to Colonel Marcus personally.
He is clearly out of his fucking mind.”

  Private First Class Raymond Pilowski was scared. The 4/10 was his first unit after finishing Advanced Individual Training (AIT), and he had received orders to report to Fort Polk only two days before the collapse had begun. His squad leader was suffering badly from a stomach virus and was making what seemed like the 20th trip into the bushes due to cramps.

  The squad was deployed in a forward position less than a kilometer away from the location the first powwow had occurred. They had received a very specific briefing before moving to this position, and that “pep talk” had made it absolutely clear that they should all expect to die today. If that hadn’t been bad enough, less than 20 minutes ago, an M1A2 tank had pulled up to a position not more than 300 meters in front of them. The tank wasn’t one of the 4/10s’. Private Pilowski knew the capabilities of that beast, and he envisioned himself while carrying his M4 carbine as a modern day David facing Goliath.

  Before this last mad dash to relieve himself, the sergeant had looked around and pointed at Pilowski, motioning him to man the shoulder-fired Stinger anti-aircraft missile he was holding. Private Pilowski had never held a real Stinger. He had received 20 minutes of training on the weapon during AIT, but that was an inactive mockup, not the real thing. He hoped the sergeant wouldn’t take too long.

  The distant sound of a helicopter’s blades, chopping through the air, filled Pilowski’s ears and diverted his attention back toward the tank in front of him. About the only thing that frightened the private more than the tank was an attack helicopter. If the Abrams tank was an infantryman’s bad dream, the Apache gunship was his blood-curdling nightmare.

  Major Owens wanted to meet his commander away from the main column of troops. This entire situation was unprecedented, and he really didn’t know what to expect. After his conversation with General Lynch ended, he had ordered his driver to proceed a kilometer north of I-20 to the spot his map indicated to be a small regional airport. The major figured the small facility would provide plenty of room for the general’s bird to land, and the two men could meet in relative privacy there.

  Owens was leery, knowing that a potential hostile force was close by. When his tank approached the cluster of hangars and buildings, he ordered a halt in a wooded area, bordering the facility. They would wait here until the general arrived. Owens had no clue that he was parked so close to one of the 4/10’s forward observation posts, and that his tank was causing Private Pilowski such concern. The command net radio sounded in his ear, informing him that the general’s Blackhawk was five minutes out.

  The major waited a few minutes, and then ordered the accompanying Humvee to move onto the tarmac and pop smoke. The sound of the Blackhawk could now be heard over the tank’s idling turbine motor. Before it came into view, “popping white smoke,” was announced over the radio, and Owens watched the small canister arch away from the Humvee and bounce across the pavement. This was standard procedure as it lessened any chance for misidentification and also gave the pilot some indication of the wind speed and direction in the landing zone. Almost immediately, an artificial cloud of billowing white began covering the area, a few wisps rising skyward. A short time later, a single helicopter appeared over the tree line, heading directly toward the airport.

  Private Pilowski’s angle allowed him to see the approaching “enemy helicopter,” long before any of the soldiers meeting the aircraft. His vantage point blocked both the Humvee and the upwardly rising smoke from view. To the worried young solider, it looked like the damned thing was pointed right at him. When the craft flared its nose upwards during its landing approach, the inexperienced private thought the pilot was aiming for him, and that made his heart stop. Some of the smoke grenade’s cloud was caught in the hovering bird’s updraft appearing as small whiffs of white smoke directly underneath the skids. That convinced the now breathless private that rockets had been fired – at him.

  Private Pilowski’s training, all be it short, was effective. His fingers disengaged the safety from the Stinger’s main body, squeezed the trigger to stage one, and watched the display until it read “locked.” He pulled the trigger further back and heard the sizzle as the rocket’s motor ignited. What he didn’t hear was his squad leader screaming at the top of his lungs to “STOP!”

  The Stinger’s small, two-pound warhead exited the launcher tube, propelled by a 70mm rocket motor. The missile had traveled only a short distance from the launcher when Pilowski’s squad leader tackled him, knocking both the young soldier and the now spent launcher to the ground a second too late. True to its specifications, the Stinger was a “fire and forget weapon,” and the entire squad watched in horror as the missile wobbled just a little and then accelerated quickly toward the landing helicopter.

  Movement to his right caught Major Owens’ eye, and he snapped his head around just as the Stinger reached a speed that made it invisible to the naked eye. The first thought that went through his mind was, “That looked like a missile plume.” Just as the thought registered, the general’s helicopter erupted in a brilliant white ball of light. The spinning rotors were moving at almost full speed as the fuselage turned into a boiling cloud of red and orange fire and veered sharply right. What remained of the craft slammed into the ground, spreading even more flame and destruction.

  The major stared without comment for almost a full two seconds before uttering a weak, almost undetectable, “Holy shit.” By the time the helicopter’s momentum had bled off, there was nothing left but a smoldering trail of burning scrap, scattered for almost two hundred meters across the concrete. It was inconceivable that anyone could have survived the wreck.

  Fitz was in the turret watching the helicopter’s approach and was initially confused when the Stinger launched from near his position. His first instinct had been to fire up his engine and move to render assistance to the crashed copter, but he quickly changed his mind once he saw the huge yellowish ball of flame rise over the treetops. Nobody walked away from that, he thought. The sergeant did maintain the presence of mind to switch his radio to the command net and report both the missile launch and a single downed Blackhawk.

  The resulting fireball drew the attention of several people, and radios sprang to life up and down both lines. It took the officers almost a full minute to calm everyone down. In that time, Major Owens went from surprise to shock to outright boiling anger. His gunner was now scanning the area where he thought he had seen a missile plume and sure enough, there were human heat signatures all over the place. So that’s how it’s going to be, Colonel? So that’s how your ‘Independents’ are going to fight?

  It suddenly dawned on Owens that whoever had just fired a missile at the general’s bird might have anti-tank missiles as well. They might be locking onto him at this very moment. He screamed an order for his driver to move and for his gunner to load HEAT, or a high explosive shell, into the tank’s main gun. As the enormous machine lurched forward, it accelerated more like a sports car than a 135,000-pound instrument of destruction. In a few moments, Owens heard the status word of “Up,” from his gunner, and he ordered him to fire into the middle of the soldiers he knew had just killed his commanding general.

  The M1 tank’s smooth, bore cannon let loose with its deadly ordnance, generating a sound so loud it could crush unprotected ear bones from several hundred feet away. A ball of fire some 30 feet in diameter spread out in front of the tank, announcing the shot to anyone looking from afar. The air pressure generated by the passing shell’s wake parted and sliced the damp earth beneath it, throwing up a cloud of mud and spray for almost 100 feet, and leaving a furrow plowed through the soft earth.

  The accuracy of the German-designed gun was legendary, as were the skills of the crews who controlled them. Hundreds of Iraqi armored vehicles had fallen prey to the smooth bore cannon during the First Gulf War, many at distances that were almost unbelievable. Abrams simply didn’t miss, and the first tank shot of the Second American Civil War was no exception. The round ex
ploded right next to Private Pilowski’s position, sending white-hot shrapnel ripping through the air in all directions. The army of the Independents experienced its first two casualties from that shell. Private Pilowski was KIA, as was his squad leader.

  Major Owens was issuing commands as fast as he could think. His first action was to order additional units to his location as his tank rolled for cover behind a hangar. The second set of commands was to get the Cav transformed from a convoy into a battle formation. Within minutes, the long, single file line of armor was realigning itself into a three-pronged pitchfork, aimed directly at the 4/10. The closest platoon to the airport reacted immediately and began rolling hard to reinforce the brigade commander’s position. Four Abrams, accompanied by six other vehicles, were moving at top speed from their location less than a kilometer away. Weapon systems were being booted, and breaches charged on both sides. The flash of flame in the sky rendered the warnings and orders issued over the radios redundant.