Phoenix Rising: (55 page)

1.
Algood, James. A sergeant first class before the collapse of the U.S. Army, Algood was a Special Forces soldier who, in Afghanistan, led the assault team that rescued three American soldiers who had been captured by the Taliban. For that action, Algood received the Distinguished Service Cross.

2.
Andrew Kearney, also a Special Forces soldier who has worked with Algood. Kearney, who was a staff sergeant before the collapse of the U.S. army, is the recipient of a Silver Star for gallantry in action in Afghanistan.

3.
Paul Cooper and David Lewis were both members of the Marine Corps Special Forces, both of whom received the Bronze Star with the “V” device for valor.

Major Joseph Rowe and Captain Hal Madison arrived for their duty tour at 0350, ten minutes before they were scheduled to relieve the team before them.

“Two creams, one sugar, isn't that right, Major?” Madison asked as he stopped by the coffee table.

“Yeah, thanks,” Rowe replied.

The two men they were about to relieve were in the “cockpit” of the MQ9 Reaper unmanned aerial vehicle. The cockpit of the aircraft was in a building at Fort Gordon, but the aircraft they were flying was actually 175 miles away, cruising at an altitude of 10,000 feet on a radial of 310 degrees, twenty-five miles southeast of Firebase Swift Strike.

The pilot, Captain Bill Kirby, was flying the aircraft just as if he were actually onboard, with stick, rudder and throttle. The Mission Management Computers, consisting of two internal navigation and global positioning systems, were operating in conjunction with an embedded GPS receiver for enhanced navigation performance and faster satellite acquisition. All the flight data was being sent via a KU Band Satellite data link. Lieutenant Oscar Mack was also in the remote cockpit, sitting alongside Kirby. Madison was the “Sensor” officer and he was operating the ISS, or Integrated Sensor Suite, as well as the GMTI, or Ground Moving Target Indicator. Mack could, if required, employ an array of weaponry, from hellfire missiles, to smart bombs, to the extremely rapid firing M61A2 Vulcan Cannon.

“Anything happening?” Rowe asked.

“Not a damn thing,” Kirby replied. “All we've done for four hours is bore holes in the sky.”

“What's the fuel situation?”

Kirby checked one of his instruments. “Hour sixteen of forty-two,” he said. “You'll be in good shape.”

Madison handed a cup of coffee to Rowe.

“Thanks, Hal.”

“What's our armament mix, Oscar?” Madison asked the black sensor officer that he would be relieving.

“Eight hellfire missiles, two Vulcan cannons with three thousand rounds.”

“We're monitoring Swift Strike again?” Rowe asked.

“Yes, sir.”

“Damn,” Madison said. “Nothing ever happens there. You know what I'd like to do with this. I'd like to fly it over Washington, and stick a hellfire missile right up Ohmshidi's ass.”

“Whoa, that's pretty damn violent, isn't it, Hal?” Captain Kirby teased.

“Yeah, and to think that I have to sit beside this violent man for the next four hours,” Major Rowe said.

“The next four hours, right,” Kirby said. “Major Rowe, the ship is yours,” Kirby said, getting up so Rowe could take his place. “Soon as I fill out the flight log, I'm out of here.”

“I've got it, Oscar,” Madison said, slipping in to the seat Lieutenant Mack just left.

“Gentlemen, we leave it in your hands. Good hunting,” Kirby said.

“Good hunting is right. I'm getting so bored sitting here doing nothing, if I see a good sized buck, I'm going to take him out,” Madison said.

Five minutes later Kirby and Mack were gone leaving Rowe and Madison at the controls. Rowe slipped a CD into a player and they began listening to the music of Beethoven.

“That's nice,” Madison said.

“Ha! I chose you because of your taste in music,” Rowe said. “If I had to sit alongside MacMurtry and listen to his shit-kicking music for four hours, I'd go crazy.”

“That's not the way to think about it, Major. You outrank MacMurtry, you wouldn't have to listen to his music, he'd have to listen to yours.”

“Yeah,” Rowe replied with a smile. “Yeah, that's right, isn't it?”

The first thing Captain J. C. Jones noticed when he awoke was that the generator wasn't running. Not only could he not hear the steady drone of the 500KW, he was also lying in a pool of sweat, because without the generator, there was no air conditioner.

Jones sat up on his bunk, then swung his legs over. He had been a Sergeant First Class before the United States Army collapsed. Now, in the South Carolina Defense Corps, he was a captain, and the site commander of Firebase Swift Strike.

“Dooley,” Jones said. “Wasn't it your job to keep fuel in the generator last night?”

“That's right, it was, Captain, and I did it. Fact is, I refueled it at about four this morning. If it's stopped, it isn't because of a lack of fuel,” Corporal Dooley said.

“Well, something is wrong with it,” Jones said. He pulled on his trousers, then put on his boots. “I need to take a leak anyway, I'll take a look.”

When Jones walked over to check on the generator he saw that the oil cap was off and that there was a great deal of dirt around the filter. In addition, the carburetor had been smashed. The generator had not just stopped, it had been sabotaged.

“What the hell?” he said aloud. He picked up the pieces of the carburetor and held them in his hand. “Who the hell would do something like this? And why would they do it?”

He glanced up into one of the nearest guard towers, intending to ask if the guard had seen anything.

The tower was empty.

At about the same time he saw that the tower was empty, he saw that, in addition to the generator being sabotaged, the uplink had been destroyed as well. He depended on the uplink for satellite communication. For all intent and purposes, they were cut off.

“What the hell is going on here?” Jones asked.

Looking toward the other guard towers, he saw that they were as empty as the first. He didn't have to ask the question a second time. He knew what was going on. The compound was being set up for an attack.

“Oh shit!” Jones shouted. “Get your weapons!” he shouted. “Head for the bunker!”

Even as he was giving the orders, he was dashing back to the hut to grab his own M-4. “Everybody, grab a weapon! Get into the bunker!” he shouted.

As the men started reaching for their clothes, Jones yelled at them. “You ain't goin' to a damn parade! You're goin' to war! Forget about getting dressed, just grab your piece and head for the bunker!”

At that moment there was a loud explosion in the motor pool as a mortar round took out one of their vehicles.

Firebase Swift Strike was on the South Carolina side of the North Carolina—South Carolina border, very near the tiny, and now all but deserted town of Betheny. North Carolina had not seceded, and was still a part of the America Islamic Republic of Enlightenment. The attack was coming from a large body of SPS men.

Major Rowe and Captain Madison were two hours into their four-hour tour of duty. It was considered counterproductive for any crew to be on such intense duty for longer than four hours. At 0800 Zulu, another crew would take over to continue the twenty-four hour mission of the Unmanned Aerial Vehicle.

“Hey, Hal, did you eat breakfast?” Major Rowe asked.

“At four o'clock in the morning? No, I'll eat when we get off.”

“Where you goin' to eat?”

“I don't know, I hadn't thought about it that much. All I need is some bacon and eggs, maybe a biscuit or two,” Madison answered. “What about you?”

“I'm going to the Good Egg,” Rowe said. “I'm big on breakfast. It's my favorite meal, and they do know how to put on a breakfast. You want to come along?”

“Sure, why not?” Madison answered. Suddenly he leaned forward in his seat.

“Whoa, Major, check this out,” Madison said, pointing to his sensor array.

“What do you have?”

“I'm not sure, but it looks like a lot of activity around Firebase Swift Strike.”

“Better get their six on the horn, let them know what we are seeing here,” Rowe said.

Madison punched in some numbers on the secure satellite phone, but got no answer.

“They aren't responding,” he said after several tries.

Rowe shook his head. “This isn't looking good,” he said.

“Think we should call QRT?” Madison asked.

“I'll call the Quick Response Team, but at this time on Sunday, all we'll get is the Officer of the Day, and like as not the OD will be some doofus lieutenant,” Rowe said.

Everything Madison saw on his sensor array indicated that an attack on Swift Strike had begun.

“It's too late anyway. They're already hitting our guys!” Madison said.

“Damn,” Rowe replied.

“Joe, I can take them out,” Madison said. “Give me the word!”

“I—I don't know,” Rowe answered. “I think we need to contact QRT on this one.”

“Come on, Joe, those are the good guys down there in that compound,” Madison said. “You know what happened at Camp Cassandra. That's why they asked for us.”

“You know the rules of engagement as well as I do,” Rowe said. “If this attack was within our borders we could act. But it's in South Carolina and we are supposed to get permission from the South Carolina Defense Corps.”

“Do you think the SCDC wouldn't want us to act? We are officers, Joe. And we were officers in the pre-O time. We are trained to be able to make decisions when we have to.”

“I'll call QRT and see what I can do,” Rowe said, picking up the direct line.

“They better be quick,” Madison said. “This is coming down now.”

Automatic weapons fire coming from the SPS attackers bounced off the rocky ground and cut through the thin walls of the compound huts. Jones, and the eleven others of his firebase team had taken shelter in the bunker, but they were greatly outnumbered, and outgunned by the attackers. They were also unable to contact the outside for help.

Bullets slammed into the sandbags and whizzed by overhead. In addition, RPG and mortar rounds were exploding all through the compound.

“Final defensive fire!” Jones shouted, and the defenders quit trying to pick out individual targets, but instead concentrated a withering fire in pre-selected zones that would prevent anyone from getting through. The concept of ‘final defensive fire' had been developed during WWII to combat the “banzai” charges and it was brutally effective—but only so long as the ammunition held out. And at this rate of fire, that would not be much longer.

“They're attacking, Joe, they're attacking!” Madison shouted.

“Yeah, I see that.”

“What do we do? Have we heard from QRT?”

“The QRT OD hasn't called back.”

“What do we do?”

“To hell with the OD and to hell the rules of engagement,” Major Rowe said. “Arm your weapons, Hal, I'm bringing it around.”

“Yes, sir!” Madison answered happily.

Neither the SPS attackers nor the South Carolinian defenders saw or heard the UAV overhead. The first indication anyone had that it was there was when the hellfire missiles started raining down on the attackers, slamming into them with deadly accuracy, taking out dozens with each blast. Then the South Carolinian defenders saw the ground being chewed up in front of them as the Vulcan cannon started firing, each round bursting into smaller, razor-sharp bits of shrapnel to rip through the flesh of the attackers.

Within two passes of the UAV, the attack had been broken, and when Captain Jones moved his team, cautiously, out onto the battlefield, they saw legs, arms, heads, and the shredded torsos of scores of SPS fighters. Not one defender had been killed.

“What the hell happened?” one of the men said.

At that moment the UAV made another pass, this time making a wide turn.

“You've heard of manna from heaven?” Jones asked. “This was hell from heaven.” Jones waved at the UAV.

“What are you waving at, Cap'n? There ain't nobody in any of the planes, is there?”

“That doesn't mean they can't see us,” Jones replied.

“Ha,” Madison said. “They're waving at us.”

“I'll wave back,” Rowe said, and he dipped the wings from side to side.

The phone rang and Rowe picked it up. “UAV ops, Major Rowe.”

“Major Rowe, this is Lieutenant Townsend, Quick Response Team. I still haven't been able to get hold of Colonel Hicks, but as soon as I do I'll get back to you with . . .”

“Never mind, Lieutenant. We've already conducted the operation,” Rowe said.

“Uh, yes sir,” Townsend said.

“You give Colonel Hicks my regards now, you hear?”

“Yes, sir.”

Rowe hung up the phone. “Quick reaction team? Quick, my hind clavicle.”

“I told you they'd see us!” Jones said happily and this time when he waved, all the others waved with him.

“Don't you feel a little dumb waving at a plane there ain't nobody in?” one of the men asked.

“They saved our lives,” Dooley said. “I'll wave at it until my arm falls off.

“What is going on?” Ohmshidi demanded angrily. “We have our people killed in Arkansas, and in South Carolina. You do know what can come from this, don't you? Something like this can spread, and the next thing you know others will be trying it. We need to do something, and we need to do it quickly.”

“I have something in mind, Glorious Leader,” Franken replied. “South Carolina has seceded and I . . .”

“No state has seceded!” Ohmshidi said angrily. “Secession is not legal. There are still fifty states in the American Islamic Republic of Enlightenment, and I will not hear of anyone saying that any state has seceded.”

“You are absolutely right, Glorious Leader. What I meant to say is that there are some in South Carolina who have made the false and illegal claim that they have seceded. But, there are still many in South Carolina who are loyal to Moqaddas Sirata and I think there is where we can make a resolute demonstration that will be seen by anyone else who might have such treasonous ideas. I intend to conduct more military operations there.”

“Yes. Do so.”

“I strongly recommend these two guys as pilots for your Blackhawk,” Jake said. “They were both Chief Warrant Officers, both of them received the DFC for their service in Iraq and in Afghanistan. Dan Lambdin and Bob “Clipper” Bivens. And for the Apache, Mike Lindell and Tom Hunsinger. I've served with all four of them, they are outstanding.”

“Have you spoken to them?”

“Yes, and they are chomping at the bit, but I told them that you would have the final word.”

“Listen, if you recommend them, that's good enough for me,” Tom said. “Where are they now? I'd like to set up a training mission as soon as I can.”

“They'll be here by midafternoon.”

“Good. I plan to brief everyone tonight, and conduct the training operation just after midnight.”

In 2006 as a sophomore running back for the Crimson Tide of Alabama, James Algood had made honorable mention all-American. Then, in the Cotton Bowl game against Texas Tech, Algood came out of the backfield to catch a pass that was thrown too high. Going up for it left him vulnerable, and he was hit hard by two Texas Tech linebackers, twisting his leg like a pretzel as they brought him down. Although he managed to hang on to the football, he felt an excruciating stab of pain when his knee went out.

Algood was carried off the field in a stretcher and taken immediately to ER, where surgeons worked hard to prevent the injury from rendering him permanently crippled.

“Algood, I can't tell you how sorry I am this happened to you,” the coach said when he came to visit Algood a few days later. “You are one of the finest young men I have ever been around. And I'm not just talking football, I'm talking about your value as a human being.”

Algood managed a chuckle. “Why do I think that sounds a little like a eulogy?”

The coach ran his hand through his hair and sighed. “I won't lie to you, son. I guess in a way it is.”

Algood was silent for a long moment. “You're saying I won't play football anymore, aren't you?”

“That's what the doctors are telling me,” the coach replied. “Unfortunately, that also means that your football scholarship is gone. But, if you want to stay in school, son, you let me know, because I promise you, I will find a way.”

Algood thanked the coach and said he wanted to think about it. After the coach left, Algood cried into his pillow. As a young black man, it had seemed to him that there were only two paths open to him: a dead-end job working at the peanut oil mill, as had his father, or a life of crime, from petty to grand.

The first in his family to graduate from high school, Algood had come to the University of Alabama for one reason, and that was to get a ticket into the NFL. Now that ticket was snatched away from him in one career-ending play.

Algood completed that semester, then dropped out of school and joined the army. To his surprise and delight, the army had replaced football as his core and motivation. He went to Airborne training, Ranger training, and Special Forces training, and rose quickly through the ranks to become a Sergeant First Class. His proudest moment was standing at attention at a special awards ceremony at Fort Benning, where he was presented with the Distinguished Service Medal, a medal only one notch below the Medal of Honor.

Again, fate conspired against him when the United States Army collapsed. But he was being given a third chance, having joined the army of United Free America. And in this army, he was a captain, chosen to be second in command of an assault team organized to rescue Dr. Urban.

It was now 0230 and Algood and the others on the team were in a Blackhawk helicopter, its doors removed, beating through the dark toward a spot just north of Mobile, where they would conduct a training exercise. Tom Jack had chosen a barn just off Sewell Road because the approach to the barn, and the relative position of the barn, was very similar to the layout of the Tanner Cotton Oil Mill.