Exiled Omnibus (3 page)

A single sliver of light shone through the opening where Eric's meals were shoved. It was his one glimpse to the outside world. His clothes were piled in the corner. He had shed them the first day he was there. The only thing left on his body was his dog tags, which he refused to abandon.

Sweat rolled down the front of his chest, face, and legs. He knew it wouldn't be long before the sweat finally stopped. Then dehydration would start to take its toll.

The dryness in his mouth was already there, but he knew it would get worse. His blood pressure would drop, and he would become tired, dizzy, even delirious. His skin would dry, and his urine would sting until he couldn't pee any more. From there his organs would shut down, one by one, unable to function without the hydration needed to keep his body alive. All the while, the pain would increase with every hour he went without water.

Gunshots echoed beyond the door of his cell. They were sporadic at first but then accelerated to hurried succession. Boots thumped along the metal deck of the ship above him. Even through the layers of metal, he could still hear the screams of the men above.

The skirmish didn't last long. Eric waited to find out who was victorious. Depending on who had attacked the ship, it could get worse for him, but after thirty-six hours in the cell, he didn't think it could get
that
much worse.

The thump of boots smacked against the metal staircase that descended to his cell. The beats grew louder until a figure blocked the light shining through the meal slot. The clank of the metal lock that opened his door would bring either relief or more pain. The door opened. Eric's eyes struggled to adjust to the flood of light entering the room.

“You look like shit, Lieutenant,” Captain Howard said.

“I'll make sure I read the fine print next time I sign up for a free spa day,” Eric answered.

Two other sailors entered from behind the captain and picked Eric up. The light exposed the cuts and bruises along his face and body. Once he was out of the cell, he felt a blanket fall over him.

***

The IV dripped slowly, replenishing the fluids Eric had lost. Every drop that fed his body brought back the sharpness of his mind. His ribs were bruised but not broken. The cuts on his face were more of an aesthetic nuisance than anything else. It took all his patience not to jump out of the bed immediately and hop in the first jet he could find, but he knew he had to wait on the slow drip of the bag above him.

The smell of chewing tobacco caused Eric to glance at the entrance, where he saw Captain Howard spit into an empty cup.

“How are you feeling?” Howard asked.

Eric mulled it around, tossing his head from side to side, contemplating the past two days.

“At the time, going against my orders to abandon the Southwest seemed like a good idea, but looking back, I probably should have weighed my options a little more,” Eric answered.

“Don't think you're out of the woods yet. Once that IV bag runs out, I'll need to get you up to speed on a few things,” Howard said.

“Actually, I was hoping to use some of my vacation time this week, but with me being branded as a deserter, I don't know who to go to for the approval process. You think you could work something out for me?”

Captain Howard pulled something out of his pocket, hiding it in his fist. He walked over to the bed and dropped Eric's pilot wings into his lap.

“That's the best I can do for now,” Howard said.

Eric picked the pin up gingerly between his fingertips. Those wings were better than any medicine the nurses could pump through his veins. He closed his eyes, forming a protective fist around the pin. Howard turned to leave, and he was just at the door when Eric opened his eyes.

“Oh, Captain, one more thing. Do you think I could get a female nurse? While I enjoy a good man-handling as much as the next pilot, I think my recovery could use a more... delicate touch?” Eric asked.

“I'll see you at the briefing.”

***

A new uniform, pressed and spotless, lay on Eric's bunk. A towel hung around his waist, and water dripped by his feet. The shower was with frigid salt water, but it made him feel like a new man.

Eric studied the uniform on his bed, wondering what all those stripes and bars meant now. He'd spent the last decade committed to upholding the country's constitution, protecting its citizens, and following orders. Well, following orders most of the time.

The moment he chose to stay behind after the president’s order to abandon San Diego, he had been locked up, along with anyone else who opposed the decision. Just a reminder that while the decisions he made as an officer were always in the best interest of his duty to protect American citizens, the Pentagon’s was to protect the nation as a whole. Until yesterday, those ideals had never collided.

A representation of that dedication was his uniform. It symbolized what he stood for, what he did with his life. He opened his hand. His wings had been clenched in his fist ever since Captain Howard gave them back to him. He pulled the shirt up and pinned the Navy aviator insignia to the fabric.

After dressing, Eric made his way down to the conference room where Captain Howard waited. When he stepped inside, all eyes turned to him. Everyone stood and saluted.

“If you guys were trying to throw me a surprise party, you did a terrible job,” Eric said.

Laughter rippled through the room, and Eric caught a glimpse of a smile crack across the legendary stone face of Howard.

Eric knew what these men and women were offering. It was their respect. And even though he enjoyed hiding behind the smart quips, his humor was betrayed by the glistening redness in his eyes.

“Now that everyone's here, we'll get started,” Captain Howard said.

The lights dimmed in the room, and a projection of the Mexican border along California, Arizona, and New Mexico appeared.

“We received intelligence that the Mexican military is planning on invading at three points. A group of forces is gathering in the Baja Peninsula, just south of Arizona in Sonora, and south of New Mexico in Chihuahua,” Howard said, pointing at each location on the map with a laser pen.

Eric leaned over to the pilot next to him and kept his voice low when he spoke. “You better hope you don't get sent to New Mexico. Those little dogs might not look like much, but they are mean.”

Howard clicked forward to the next slide. A picture of General Gallo appeared. He looked as stony as Captain Howard, refusing to smile.

“General Gallo is their lead military strategist. He is a student of war and is hell bent on reclaiming Mexico's lost glory and territories. He also has direct command of thirty thousand troops,” Howard said.

Eric looked around, searching for something, but was unable to find it. He leaned back over to his neighbor. “There's more people coming, right?” Eric asked.

Howard clicked to the next slide. “This is Luke Air Force base just outside of Phoenix. This will be the heart of where we will be keeping our air fleet. From here, we will fly troops into Tuscon, AZ to what’s left of the Davis-Monthan AFB, which will act as our main point of conflict. Phoenix is our line in the sand. If General Gallo's men make it past that point, they'll have nothing stopping them from marching into Nevada and Utah. We don't lose Phoenix,” Captain Howard said.

Eric's thoughts trailed off to the conversation he had had with Brooke almost two days ago. He hoped she’d gotten out. He couldn't imagine what was going on in the cities now that the government had deserted its people. It wasn't just going to be a fight against the Mexicans. It was going to be a fight amongst themselves.

“We'll also be keeping troops here in San Diego and at the old Kirtland Air Force Base in Albuquerque. Now, with the exception of a few troops who stayed behind to finalize the moving of equipment at the remaining military bases in the Southwest, most of the places will be abandoned. In addition to General Gallo's movements, I've also received word that there are others who've stayed behind. We don't have the numbers we wished we would, but we're not alone. Now, everyone's main objective is to fend off the Mexicans, but our secondary objective is to help maintain order in the local cities around our posts. I'm working on getting relief supplies sent our way to help with establishing a sense of normalcy, and hopefully that will grant us some goodwill with the people,” Howard said.

The lights clicked back on, and the projection shut off. Eric counted the number of pilots that had stayed behind. The
USS Ronald Reagan
housed a wing squadron of eighty pilots. After the president’s order to abandon the region, there were only sixteen left.

“Now I know we don’t have the numbers we would like to contend with Gallo’s forces, but we will have to make do with what we have. And while we’re on this ship, there will be no talk of those who left because of the president’s message. They were following orders. Each of us understood the repercussions of staying behind. Even though we are no longer a part of the United States Navy, we will still fight like it,” Howard said, slamming his fist onto the table, knocking over a few pens.

The motion snapped the room to attention, and Eric saw a few of the pilots sit up a little straighter.

“General Gallo has been instrumental over the past few years in expanding Mexico's military prowess, so make no mistake, we will have a hell of a fight on our hands. Master Chief Petty Officer Pint will hand out everyone's individual assignments. God speed,” Howard said.

When Eric was handed his manila folder, he stared at it a minute before opening it. Phoenix. He figured that’s where Howard would put him, right in the crosshairs.

“You know I never did get that nurse change,” Eric said to Howard. “How many men do we have stationed at Luke AFB?”

“Not enough.”

As optimistic as Eric had been about people staying behind to help, the reality was that they were going to be on their own. This militia they were forming faced an uphill battle.

“You’re the best pilot I have. I know it's going to be hard, but it's where I need you,” Howard said.

Howard's throat caught. His eyes diverted. Eric wasn't the only one who had had a rough couple of days. After a few moments, Howard regained his composure, and Eric slapped him on the back.

“Don't worry, Captain. I'm sure I'll do something to make you angry at me again later,” Eric said.

***

Captain Howard stepped out onto the deck of the
USS Ronald Reagan
and felt the sun and heat beat down upon him. He looked over at the slosh of blood-tinged water being sprayed off the side of the ship.

If this exile continued to stretch out, it would be another civil war. Howard needed to end this as quickly as possible, but he wasn't sure if he would have the resources to do it. He knew his contacts in Washington had the best of intentions for helping him, but well wishes didn't win wars.

Master Chief Petty Officer Pint ran down the stairs from the control deck, holding a satellite phone in his hands. He handed it to Howard.

“I could use some good news, Congressman,” Howard said into the phone.

“We managed to get a care package sent out an hour ago. It should arrive at your location by this afternoon,” Smith said.

“Where are we at with setting up a pipeline for scheduled deliveries? Gallo is on the move. We should be able to handle his first push, but once he regroups, we'll be dead in the water.”

“We're working on a permanent solution, but it'll take a little more time.”

“Time is a resource more precious than water at this point, Congressman.”

“I know, Captain. How many men were you able to gather?”

“Not as many as I would like to have, but there are still a few aces up our sleeve.”

“Captain, I can't stress enough the importance of making sure the Mexican military does not establish a foothold within the Southwest. If they do, it's going to make this a very long-term problem, which I know is something we both want to avoid.”

“I'm well aware, Congressman. I look forward to an update on the scheduled relief deliveries.”

Howard ended the call and handed the phone back to Pint.

“How are we looking?” Pint asked.

A hose sprayed the remaining pinkish froth from the deck of the ship and into the Pacific. Most of the effects of the conflict had been cleaned away, but Howard knew it was only on the surface. The events that would transpire over the next several days would permeate deep, not just with the people but with the country itself.

“It's gonna be a dog fight,” Howard said.