Founders (29 page)

At the Georgia Street exit, there was a sign added that read: “UN-MNF HQ.” Andy took the off-ramp and said with a gulp, “Well, this is it.”

The UNPROFOR outpost was in a large parking lot beside an abandoned Walmart Supercenter with a collapsed roof, at the corner of Georgia Street and Canyon Drive.

The fence around the outpost was seven strands of concertina wire piled three courses deep, erected in a defensive donut. A light blue UN flag hung limply on a pole near the front gate. Most of the vehicles inside the wire were HMMWVs, but there were also a few Caiman and MaxxPro mine-resistant ambush-protected (MRAP) vehicles.

A sign proclaimed:

322nd M.P. Bde.

Force Prot./Civil Affairs

“Bad to the Bone”

UN-MNF Command

UNPROFOR Region 6

No Civilians Beyond This Point

Andy Laine parked the pickup and trailer 100 yards away from the concertina wire. It was a hot, still day. They cracked open the windows for ventilation. Andy said resignedly, “Okay. Wish me luck.”

Kaylee kissed his cheek and said, “Not luck. I’ll be praying for you.”

Andy was wearing a set of ACUs—faded from many washings—and an ACU boonie hat. He had black “railroad track” captain’s bars pinned on his hat and Velcroed in the center of his chest on his ACUs. He wore a “Laine” nametape above his right breast pocket, but just a blank Velcro patch above the left pocket, since he had heard that wearing a “U.S. Army” tape was considered an offense. Empty-handed, Andy carried only his holstered pistol.

He approached the gate guards and pulled his Army Reserve ID card from his pocket. He handed it to a pimply-faced PFC who was wearing an MP shoulder brassard and carrying a well-worn M16A2 with a badly scratched polymer P-MAG. The soldier was
well enough trained to know how to salute with his rifle, bringing it smartly parallel with the centerline of his body. Andy returned the salute and said, “I need to talk with your S1.”

The young MP answered, “Yes, sir. You need to go to the longest trailer, there on the left. I’ll get you an escort.”

The brigade headquarters consisted of four single-width trailers of the type that Andy had formerly seen used at construction sites. A generator set whined in the distance. HESCO bastions filled with sand ringed the perimeter. The scene reminded Andy too much of what he had seen in the Middle East. But now
he
was an insurgent.

Laine was ushered into a spartan trailer office with steel furniture. Two box fans roared in open windowsills. A first lieutenant wearing OCP camouflage utilities, with a “UNPROFOR” nametape, sat behind the desk. A hand-inked sign taped on the front of his desk read: “1LT Taylor—S1.” He rose to his feet when he saw the captain’s bars on Laine’s chest.

The lieutenant offered Laine a seat, and then gave him an expectant look. Laine handed the lieutenant his pink Army Reserve ID card, saying, “I’m here to volunteer to go back on active duty.”

Across the room, the MP brigade commander—a full colonel—listened in on their conversation as he worked sorting a stack of papers.

Lieutenant Taylor asked, “Where did you go to school?”

“Texas A&M.”

“Were you ‘Band’ or ‘Corps’?” Taylor retorted.

Andy flashed a grin of recognition at a fellow Aggie. “Corps of Cadets. I was on a four-year ROTC scholarship. I got branched Ordnance, but after OBC, I was mainly given branch immaterial slots. You know, to fill ‘the needs of the Army.’ I did a tour in Afghanistan with Task Force Duke, as the S4 for a Stryker battalion. The Crunch came down just when my active duty obligation ended.”

Lieutenant Taylor nodded, and said, “I see.”

“So, are you looking for Reserve officers for active slots?” Andy asked.

“Absolutely. We have far more active duty positions than we have qualified officers. There are detached companies out on the frontier that are bringing back every former commissioned officer who is willing—even some retirees in their late fifties. I even met a former Coast Guard officer who’s now a commissioned Army officer, leading troops.”

“So how do I come on board?”

“That’s at the CO’s discretion—any commanding officer of a brigade or higher can make the call. There are no review boards or any of that bureaucratic bravo sierra.”

Glancing down, Taylor continued, “Sir, before we proceed, I have to ask you to surrender that pistol. Civilian pistols are contraband.”

Andy raised his index finger and said, “Wait just a minute, I’ve got a hand receipt for it.”

Andy opened his wallet and pulled out a soiled and deeply creased document. The lieutenant examined it and looked up at Laine. “Sir, this hand receipt is on the Old Army form and it’s dated
three years
ago.”

“I can explain. Before I left active duty in Germany, I had T.I.’ed my M4 Carbine and TA-50 gear. But since things were so chaotic, I kept the SIG out on hand receipt for my personal protection while I was in transit. You have no idea how FUBAR things were at the time in Germany.”

Lieutenant Taylor nodded, and Laine continued. “At that point all commercial flights were grounded and there were no MAC flights. So I literally got on a bicycle and pedaled across Germany, across France, took a fishing boat to England, got back on my bicycle, and rode up the English coast until I found a sailboat that was heading for Central America. Then, from
Belize I rode horseback all the way up through Mexico and back to my home in New Mexico. I haven’t been to a U.S. military installation in three years. So, you can see, I had no opportunity to T.I. this pistol.”

“Well, you can turn it in now, under the general amnesty, since you’ve been living outside pacified territory.”

“I’m willing to do so, but I’d like you to immediately reissue it to me. Again, for my personal protection.”

“That’s the commander’s call.”

Andy said, “Fair enough.” He unholstered the pistol, ejected its magazine, and cleared its chamber, locking the slide to the rear. He handed the well-worn SIG P228 to the lieutenant, butt first.

Taylor examined the pistol’s serial number and compared it with the serial number on the hand receipt. He looked down at the hand receipt’s signature block and gave a blink. “
Olds
? Colonel
Edward
Olds? There’s a brigadier general named Edward Olds at Fort Knox. He commands a mech infantry brigade.”

“If that general is the same Ed Olds,” Andy said with a smile, “then he can vouch for my bona fides.”

Taylor nodded.

“So, is there some sort of procedure or reg that I need to follow?” Andy asked.

Taylor gave a dismissive wave, saying, “No, sir. Regs and paperwork have gotten a lot simpler in the New Army. There is no more FORSCOM, no PERSCOM, no more echelons above Corps, and no more Officer Efficiency Reports. All the 201 files are now kept at the brigade level, and most promotions are handled internally. There are basically just
six blank forms
for everything we do, and beyond that just a few types of cards and passes.”

He passed Laine a blank sheet of typewriter paper. “Take a close look.”

Andy held the paper up to the light. There was a small holographic
square embedded in the upper-right corner of the page. Holding the sheet up to the light, he could see that it was also watermarked “UN-MNF” at the top and it had an enormous numeric “1” watermark that covered most of the page.

Taylor explained, “The One watermark is for all personnel paperwork, Two is for intelligence reports, Three is for operations, and so on. The numbering follows all the traditional S-shop numbering.”

Andy nodded.

The lieutenant opened his wallet and pulled out his ID card, a weapons card to show Laine, and continued, “The days of separate cards for TRICARE, for dining facilities, military driver’s license, and all the others are
over.
Now it all comes down to just an ID card and a weapons card.”

Across the room, the commander looked up from his laptop screen and said, “Go ahead and issue this gentleman both an ID card and a weapons card for his sidearm.”

Taylor answered, “Will do, sir.”

“That’s it—that simple?” Andy asked incredulously.

“Yep, welcome to the New Army. You’ll take an oath of office and have to do some bravo sierra paperwork further up the chain, but as you can see, ‘Commander’s Discretion’ carries a lot of weight these days.”

Later that week, wearing a fresh OCP uniform and a new pair of tan boots, Andy walked into the dayroom of the 1st Composite Mechanized Infantry Brigade headquarters. “Captain Laine to see General Olds, if he is available,” he announced.

A gruff voice from behind him shouted, “
You bet
I’m available. Good to see you, Andrew!”

Ed Olds, wearing starched MultiCams, took two steps forward and clasped Andy around the shoulder. “I always knew that we’d cross paths again. So you’re back on active duty?”

“That’s right, sir.”

Olds looked much the same as Laine remembered him in Germany, except that he had gone completely gray and now had a livid scar running up half the length of his left jaw, starting from just behind his chin. The single star of a brigadier general punctuated the front of his uniform. Olds motioned Andy into his office and he shut the door behind them. He pointed to the chair in front of his desk, and took his own—a massive leather swivel chair that looked antique. He glanced at Andy’s upper arm, and noticed the lack of a unit patch.

Olds asked, “Do you have a duty assignment?”

“Not yet, sir.”

“Well, I already have a good Loggy, but I could use someone in Plans and Operations, since my S3 is about to go out on maternity leave. Are you interested?”

“It would be an honor to work for you again, sir.”

Olds reached across his desk and unplugged the cord from his telephone and the ethernet cable from his closed Dell laptop. Then, in a quieter voice, he said, “I have to ask you this BLUF—bottom line, up front: What are your feelings about the ProvGov?”

“Frankly, sir, my feelings are mixed. I want to see law and order restored, but I don’t like seeing people’s rights get trampled. Maybe I’m too much of a freedom lover to fit in, in the New Army.”

Olds gave an almost imperceptible nod. “I’m glad to hear you say that. If you hadn’t, I would’ve had doubts about you. You’ll find that there are a lot of ruthless bastards in the New Army and in the coalition forces. We are going to face some tough issues in the months to come. And just between you and me, I want to let you know that my first and highest loyalty is to the Constitution, not to some buffoon from Mayberry named Maynard.”

Laine whispered, “Likewise, sir.”

Olds opened his desk drawer. After rifling through it, he pulled
out a handful of Velcro-backed divisional patches and then a bundle of small gold Oak Leaf patches—insignia for the rank of major. He slid them all across the desk toward Andy and said in a louder voice, “The job comes with a bump to O-4.” After a pause, he added with a nod and his characteristic squint, “‘Commander’s Discretion.’”

“The government consists of a gang of men exactly like you and me. They have, taking one with another, no special talent for the business of government; they have only a talent for getting and holding office. Their principal device to that end is to search out groups who pant and pine for something they can’t get and to promise to give it to them. Nine times out of ten that promise is worth nothing. The tenth time is made good by looting A to satisfy B. In other words, government is a broker in pillage, and every election is sort of an advance auction sale of stolen goods.”

—H. L. Mencken,
On Politics,
a posthumous collection of essays published in 1956

The brigade had just one company of Stryker IFVs. All the rest of the vehicles were German Boxer wheeled APCs. Outwardly, they looked similar to the Stryker, but they differed substantially, mechanically. Built by Krauss-Maffei Wegmann & Rheinmetall, the thirty-three-ton eight-wheeled German APCs had a mix of 40mm grenade launchers and .50 caliber machineguns for their primary armament.

The Boxers dwarfed the eighteen-ton Strykers. But since the brigade’s Strykers all had slat armor appliqués, they looked nearly as big as the Boxers.

The brigade had a “fluid” Table of Organization and Equipment (TO&E) and a polyglot of troops: roughly one third American, one third German, and an odd mix of Dutch, Belgians, Lithuanians, Estonians, Bulgarians, and Britons. A few of them wore beards. Most carried either M4s or AK-74s, although a few had FN P90 bullpup carbines. There was an assortment of handguns carried in hip or shoulder holsters, mostly Beretta M9s, Glocks, HKs, and SIGs. But there were also a few ostensibly “civilian” pistols like FN FiveSevens, FN FNPs, Springfield Armory XDs, HK USP Compacts, and a Taurus 24/7. Andy was dismayed to see that there was no standardization of uniforms or web gear, either. The net effect was that they looked like a band of mercenaries rather than a professional army. And, as Andy later described the scene to Kaylee, that is exactly what they were: mercenaries.