Power Games: Operation Enduring Unity I by R A Peters Page B

belief.
    Some nearby soldier, valiantly but comically warding off the hulking Infantry Fighting Vehicle with his under-barrel mounted grenade launcher shouted, “Sir, the lead Bradley’s waving a white flag.”
    The colonel clasped his hands behind his back so no one could see them shake. “About time! I thought they would never give up!” What an amazing effect one lame joke could have on so many men with so little hope. By the time Anderson stood in the middle of “no man’s land” and saluted his full bird Florida colonel counterpart, the quote had been passed everywhere along the 300 man line. Growing more defiant with every retelling.
     
    *
    “Sir, that proposal is unacceptable.” Lieutenant Colonel Anderson took off his K-Pod helmet as well. More for the opportunity to slide out of the oven for a moment than as a show of trust. Even a winter night in Florida was hot for a Maine man. The armor and helmet added a good 15 degrees, easily.
    “I grant you our present situation is unfavorable, but if necessary, the gloves can come off. I will designate this entire base a Free Fire Area and call in the full weight of my air support. We have accomplished our primary objective of occupying this airfield to prevent additional atrocities. We haven’t advanced farther out of concern for inflicting unnecessary casualties, but we–”
    Florida’s newly famous Colonel Beauregard, who hadn’t even bothered to put on his IBA body armor, slapped his knee and laughed.
    “You’re something else, all right! I wish I had you on my staff back in Afghanistan negotiating with those assholes!” He paused to savor his opposite number’s sour look.
    “Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. We’re all using the same radio frequencies and the same COMSEC encryption codes. I’ve really enjoyed your XO’s pleading with your headquarters. You don’t have any mortars, no anti-armor ability, no reinforcements coming and sure as hell no air support.” His smirk disappeared as iron crept into his voice.
    “All you’ve got is blood on your hands, a president who abandoned you and 300 outgunned, outnumbered and surrounded men. Internment is the best deal you’re going to get. You have one hour to talk to your officers and see what your superiors think. If they’ll even bother communicating. They seem quite willing to wash their hands of you all. Remember, that hour ceasefire is a gift. Professional courtesy. Dismissed, Colonel.”
    Anderson didn’t even offer a half-assed salute in reply.

 

Tallahassee, Florida
    24 January: 0445
    Florida’s Attorney General Francis Pickens hung up the phone in confused disgust. Half an hour wasted arguing with various staffers at the White House and all he could get was a promise that “someone will call you back.” They still didn’t believe the governor was really in the hospital and incommunicado. They were like a dog with a bone, trying to get back in touch with him. It was even harder for them to believe that the dithering moron of a lieutenant governor wasn’t interested in stepping up.
    Pickens sure didn’t have a problem believing either. About the only thing surprising with the governor’s stroke was that it hadn’t dropped him years ago. The heart of anyone who drinks and smokes that much was essentially a ticking time bomb. His number two was just the high school dropout, hillbilly brother of some major campaign contributor. His hardest assignment to date centered on representing the governor at monster truck rallies. They only stuck him on that China trade trip to give time for the sexual harassment allegations to blow over.
    Florida sure needed some strong leadership in this vacuum and that’s what he was trying to give. Pickens had made the tough decision to expand the Guard call up to protect every federal building and he personally ordered those senior federal workers to be placed in protective custody. In some cases, they were saved straight from the hands of lynch mobs.