Seems it has been raining forever, Walter Hamilton thinks as he takes a puff of his cigar. Looking out over the river at the city before him, he knows it will stop one day. Even so, an uneasy feeling lingers in his gut – all the hardships and misery that have led to this moment, the outcome of which is still uncertain. Through the gray mist, nothing beyond the upper porch on which he stands is evident. Not even the rising sun, hidden behind the clouds. Still, the slight drizzle and unnerving quiet has a calming affect, one that he has not felt for some time. As he takes another puff of the cigar, the end glowing brighter with it, the muffled hum of aircraft becomes audible in the distance. Looking at his watch, Hamilton knows the time is now upon them. As Major George Bradley steps onto the porch, the eerie serenity of the moment vanishes.
“General, sir, contact from Allied transports,” the Major states, a hint of Aussie in his voice.
“Colonel Hassan reports his battalion will be in jump range in three minutes.”
“Thank you, Major,” General Hamilton replies, “begin artillery bombardment. Inform all ground commanders to commence operations.”
“Very well, sir,” the Major answers, turning back toward the doorway.
“And Brad,” the General adds, “remind the Colonel that I will meet him in the city.”
“With pleasure, sir.”
Hamilton looks back into the gray dawn, searching deep for a sign. He takes another puff of his cigar. He cannot help but think of all the commanders in history who have stood in the same place where he now finds himself. One in particular stands in his mind: Dwight D. Eisenhower, who had made the difficult choice of invading France on a day not dissimilar from the present one. On that fateful morning, Eisenhower had pinned the hope of an entire world on victory or defeat at Normandy – prepared for either. Now, a century later, Hamilton faces the same . . .
For close to a decade, war with the Uchronian militia had ravaged the country. Followers of an anti-capitalist isolationism, they had wrested control of the government through revisionist thought and propagandist force. Only a minority of their leaders were elected through popular vote. The rest had either forced their way or had been appointed by their own. Interpreting the past as repressive and imperialistic, their ideology carried a guarantee that the state would provide for everyone – a type of communal populism espousing a supposed egalitarian philosophy.
Under such conditions, the general population found it impossible to resist. Many fell into their ranks rather than face the consequences of defiance. The movement soon became a form of societal absolutism – the individual had only the rights necessary for the benefit of the greater society and only for those worthy enough to have a share in its benefits. Individuals were not accountable for their actions as it related to the good of the state, and social anarchism became a norm. As a result, resistance movements based on traditional values and beliefs had sprung up all over the country – now poised for victory over such tyranny . . .
As transport planes begin filling the sky overhead, Hamilton snuffs out the final remnants of his cigar and turns toward the door. He takes one last look into the gray clouds, positive a hint of sunlight had shown through. All he could do was pray that fortune truly did favor the foolish.
“Red Thunder, Red Thunder,” Sergeant O’Neill cries over the radio, “your signal is buster.”
Positioned atop a ridge on the western riverbank, elements of the 12th artillery battery begin pounding the city. Seconds later, smoke billows into the already hazy sky as rounds hit buildings and enemy positions. Meanwhile, Colonel Jackson Emory, in command of the 76th Infantry Regiment, looks on anxiously from his transport ship. Moments later, the guns fall silent as the canopies of the 44th Allied Airborne, under the command of Lieutenant Colonel Khalil bin Nassir al-Hassan, add to the mix. At that sight, Emory enthusiastically gives the order.
“Bulldog-Green-One,” he barks over the radio, accentuated by his Southern drawl. “All landing craft proceed to designated coordinates.”
Amphibious landing craft and transport vessels, loaded with soldiers and equipment, launch toward the city mainland from the east side of what is essentially a sandbar in the river. As they approach closer and closer, an intense barrage of artillery and machine gun fire confronts them from entrenched enemy forces – some of whom even fire from the campus of the city’s former university.
Reaching the eastern side of the river, the soldiers of the 76th, carrying heavy field packs and weaponry, hustle and struggle their way up the bank. Bullets whiz past them, intermittently finding their mark. The smell of blood and sinew begins filling the air. Colonel Emory quickly assesses the situation, in order to execute the objective. He sets up an impromptu headquarters near a bend of the river, shielded by a few large boulders. To the north, a tree-lined path winds its way toward the city, giving access to the city’s upper west side.
“Major Saunders, proceed north through those woods and continue inland as planned,” Emory yells into the radio handset over the noise. “Major O’Rourke, continue to hold this position. Take out the enemy positions along the wall, protecting the 102nd’s flank. By then, they should have breached the city. Follow them as planned.”
“Copy that, sir,” O’Rourke replies, the radio hissing.
“Now, Sergeant Hadley,” Emory continues, “get Major Summerfield on the horn.”
“Yes sir,” the sergeant responds.
Major Leigh Summerfield had followed in her father’s footsteps by joining the military. Ever since her first experience on an Army base, all she ever wanted to do was fly combat helicopters. She now commanded the four air support units circling above the battlefield. Her call sign was “Raven,” either because of her wits matched with her dark auburn hair or the fact that her approach signaled death from the air. Either way, it fit.
“Sir, Major Summerfield on the line,” Hadley states.
Over the continuing noise of the battlefield, Emory takes the handset from the sergeant. He bellows orders to Summerfield.
“Major, need you to make an opening at,” Emory states, studying the map for a few seconds, “. . . at grid 210. Make a hole from that point to grid 212, giving air cover along the way. Also, have a squad proceed to grid 215 to support Colonel Douglass’ approach over the bridge.”
“Copy that, sir. Summerfield out,” she replies, a no-nonsense tone in her voice.
Seated in the pilot’s seat of a two-man A-20 SkyHawk helicopter, co-piloted by Lieutenant Ben Humphrey, she radios instructions to the other A-20 pilots – Captains Cassandra Mitchell, Pete Yager, and Don Sheppard, known respectively as “Valkyrie,” “Solo,” and “Padre.”
“Valkyrie, proceed to grid 215. Coordinate with Colonel Douglass.”
“Copy that,” Mitchell acknowledges.
“Solo, continue on this heading with me. Padre, your squad proceed 1-8-0, continuing observational support. Watch our six o’clock for any incoming fire as well. Raven out.”
Accompanied by two S-5 NightRaptor helicopter gunships, Raven and Solo head to the designated coordinates. Meanwhile, Colonel Emory continues to coordinate the battle below from his riverbank headquarters.
“Sergeant, get Colonel Douglass on the horn.”
“Yes, sir.”
Peering through his binoculars, Emory observes the movements of both his and the enemy troops while periodically glancing at the map lying before him. A few moments later, Hadley hands the radio back to him.
“Colonel Douglass on the line, sir.”
“Thank you sergeant,” Emory acknowledges, taking the radio handset. “Doug, we have secured the bridge and surrounding area. Bring in the heavy stuff.”
“Roger that, Jack. Douglass out,” the radio crackles back.
Wil Saunders had studied to be a photojournalist, wanting to capture the essence of humanity through a lens. Instead, he found himself on the verge of capturing a city through the click of a trigger. Neutral at the start of hostilities, in an attempt to make an unbiased photographic record of the conflict, he had seen the ravages of Uchronian rule once too often – re-education camps, detention centers . . . and summary executions for anyone who resisted. There were some who said it was better to be executed.
When his sister, a journalist herself, was killed by the Uchronians for being too outspoken, Wil, like many others before him, joined a local group of resisters. He never found their father, but was certain he had been sent to a detention center. As he moved up through the local leadership, resistance groups all over the country joined and collaborated together in their efforts under the likes of Hamilton and other resistance leaders. It had all led here, and they all knew the price of failure.
Advancing north, Saunders and the 102nd Battalion proceed along the wooded path and enter a clear meadow. On the other side, the barrier – and a way into the city – stands before them. Like something out of the Middle Ages, the entire wall extends around the city. Only three feet thick at this point, it is still seemingly impenetrable. Immediately, enemy positions on the wall and nestled in the ground commence firing on the battalion. As soldiers scatter for cover and return fire, Saunders radios Major Summerfield.
“Zulu one, zulu one, do you read, over?” he yells into the radio, over the noise.
The radio hisses and whines, as a reply comes through.
“This is Raven, over. What is your situation, Major?”
“Situation normal, darlin’,” he flirtatiously responds. “We have encountered expected resistance. Be extremely appreciative if you’d take out the wall and clear the area, over.”
“Copy, on approach,” Summerfield responds, again in a no-nonsense tone.
“Roger that,” Saunders replies, a hint of dejection in his voice.
She sure is military through and through, he thinks. No amount of flirting will break that exterior while engaged in an operation, especially not one as important as the current one. Even so, despite being a hard-nosed Army brat on the surface, Wil had seen, not to mention experienced, the softer side of Major Summerfield. He understood the importance of the cause. But for his own state of mind, he could not lose himself in the process. Otherwise, it would defeat the entire purpose.
As the 102nd continues to engage the enemy, the approach of Raven and Solo is muffled by the sounds on the ground. Four missiles come seemingly out of nowhere through the cloud cover and streak toward the city wall. Four more missiles follow, and a massive hole opens in the wall. As Wil is shaken from his thoughts, the Uchronian soldiers who had been manning the wall flee in fear. Swiftly the 102nd moves into the city, their primary objective to head north and destroy the Uchronian artillery batteries still firing on Major O’Rourke and the 104th Battalion. They will then turn east to hook in with Colonel Hassan and the 44th. Having parachuted into the northeastern side of the city, the 44th’s objective is to head west-by-south toward the city’s center, hold that position until hook-up and engage any Uchronians attempting to escape in their direction.
Meanwhile, Ian O’Rourke and the 104th have found themselves in a fire-fight of their own, as bullets and mortars rain in all around them. Pinned down on Saunders’ right flank further down the wall, the artillery bombardment did not have the anticipated affect. Many Uchronians still hold their ground, attempting to hold back the encroaching enemy. For O’Rourke, this is not his first time under such intense fire, nor is it his first war. It seems he has known conflict almost his entire life . . .
Born in the heart of Belfast, Ireland, on the anniversary of the Easter Rebellion that had occurred a century earlier, a second rebellion erupted at almost the exact same moment. In an attempt to reunite Northern Ireland with the rest of the country and finally end British dominion over Irish lands, Ian joined the ranks of his fellow Irishmen as soon as he was old enough to pull a trigger. When the conflict finally came to an end, the British relinquished all rights to the north.
With Ireland whole and united under one government, the Irish population celebrated the end of the centuries-old conflict. Ian O’Rourke did not. He had found a niche for himself, and he wanted more. Not satisfied with service in the Irish army, he resigned his commission and sought adventure elsewhere – a path that eventually led to the current conflict. He enthusiastically offered his services.
Now, he and the 104th had to make their way north toward the newly created entrance to the city. As they slowly advance, seemingly to the point of a standstill, green smoke begins emanating from the center of the city – Colonel Hassan’s signal that he and his men have reached their objective. They would now wait patiently for the rest of the command to reach them. The signal could not have come at a more opportune time, as the men and women of the 104th surge with renewed energy. In what seems only a matter of minutes, they overrun the crumbling Uchronian positions and enter the city.
As the battle rages on the northwestern edge of the city, a rumbling sound can be heard from across the river-spanning bridge to the south. With all the other bridges demolished by the Uchronians, this is the only point – thickest at this spot – at which heavy armor can move into the city. As the noise increases, Lieutenant Colonel Malcolm Douglass’ 7th Armored Battalion, composed of Normans D-7 tanks, breaks through the mixture of fog and smoke that hovers around the bridge. Overhead, the hum of an A-20 helicopter is faintly audible.
“Zulu five, zulu five,” the radio broadcasts, “this is Douglass, over.”
“Zulu five, roger . . . Valkyrie on approach, over,” Captain Mitchell replies.
“Valkyrie, stand by to cover our two o’clock. Spot for enemy positions, and engage. Over,” Douglass responds.
“Copy, sir. Standing by. Approach looks good.”
“Roger that, continuing forward.”
Suddenly, a mortar round impacts the bridge’s exit ramp, twenty feet in front of the lead tank which Douglass commands himself. The machine gunner atop the tank opens up in the direction of the mortar’s approach, as the two S-5 helicopters under Mitchell’s command vector toward the area. Incomprehensible chatter fills the radio between the tank convoy and the air group, as orders and coordinates are relayed. Enemy machine gun positions open up on the soldiers and tanks advancing on them, who in kind return the fire. Another mortar round strikes the bridge just above the second tank, sending a girder into the river. The bridge shakes slightly, but is otherwise unharmed.
A moment later, the lead S-5 launches two of its side-mounted Amazon H-1 sidewinder missiles. Seconds after, the missiles find their mark, pulverizing dirt and enemy soldiers alike. Smoke emanates from the wreckage. The other S-5 veers left of the impact, spraying rounds from its Gatling gun. The bullets rip apart another fire team just as they load their next round of mortars.
With the lead tank continuing down the former expressway, a deafening thunder echoes from its gun turret. Instantaneously, an impact crater forms in the five-foot thick concrete and steel barrier that blocks the main approach to the city. Another tank shot opens a hole in the barrier. Overhead, Mitchell flies over and sends bullets toward the Uchronian soldiers that remain to defend the gap.
Douglass signals the trailing tanks, which form a two-line column as they exit the bridge and continue forward. Once inside, the battalion divides into three groups. Elena Flores’ 101st Battalion, which has been holding the area since crossing the river, falls in with the tanks as they head through the open approach into the city, with Major Peter’s 103rd Battalion continuing to secure the bridge and surrounding area. Their objective is to head due east with a squad of tanks to secure the southern portions of the city. Major O’Rourke will head east-by-north with the 104th to hook up with the bulk of Douglass’ tank battalion and secure the northern portions. After destroying the artillery batteries, Saunders will head east-by-south with the 102nd, falling in between the 101st and 104th, hook up with the rest of Douglass’ command and move toward the city’s center. Executed as planned, the first wave has made its way into the city.
At mid-morning, Colonel Lincoln Shaw’s 61st Regiment crosses into the city to reinforce Colonel Emory. By late afternoon, only isolated pockets of resistance remain. Even though a handful had managed to flee the city through the sewer system, pre-planned escape routes and other secret passages, most Uchronians had been trapped by their own defenses. With that in mind, several Allied squads continue sweep-and-clear operations as Emory radios headquarters.
“General Hamilton, Emory. Over.” the radio crackles.
“Report,” Hamilton replies.
“Sir, we have taken the city.”
As a cry of hoorah echoes throughout the building, Emory continues his report.
“Casualties are lower than expected, about one hundred fatal. By current counts, I’d say the exact opposite for the Uchronian militia. I estimate close to two thousand prisoners so far, with enemy dead around the same. Currently, several squads are engaged in mop up operations as we speak. We should have the city fully secured by nightfall.”
“Well done, Jack,” Hamilton remarks, reeling with pride.
“I am sad to report, however,” Emory pauses for a brief second, his voice sounding strained, “that Elena has been fatally wounded. It was a sniper, sir.”
At that news, a somber mood falls over the headquarters. Hamilton hangs his head in grief. Elena Flores had been with him and Emory since the beginning, rising from private to major over the past decade. She was one of the finest officers he had ever known, always doing her duty and getting the job done. She had plans to become a teacher after the war, never wanting to see blood or bullets again. Hamilton knows, they all know, it will be a loss felt long after the war fades into memory, for both her comrades and the generations yet to come. Collecting his thoughts, Hamilton looks back toward the communication display.
“Understood, Jack. She was a fine officer, and an even better person,” he comments, choking back his emotion. “Continue current operations, and secure all locations. We’ll dispatch supplies and medical teams immediately. Have Major Peters reinforce Colonel Douglass’ right, grid 219, with ‘F’ company, and have Summerfield do an aerial sweep of the northern woods a final time. Report back at 1800 hours.”
“Understood, sir. Emory out.”
Despite the loss of many good people like Elena – not just this day but over the course of the conflict – Hamilton allows a brief smile to wash over his face. Still, he hangs his head in sorrow. As a professional military man, he knows the human cost of war. They had all voluntarily made that choice years before, and that this was only one step toward ultimate victory. Everyone had been willing to pay the price for it. Again, Hamilton thinks of the past, and all the worst that war had wrought centuries before he had been born. It seems to never change with the ages, he thinks. Like all soldiers confronted by the events on a battlefield, though, he savors the victory with a vow to never forget the sacrifices made to accomplish it.
As dusk settles in, Colonel Emory reports that the city is secure in Allied hands. With that news, Hamilton prepares to enter the city.
“Brad,” the General hollers.
“Sir?”
“Prepare my jeep. I promised to meet Colonel Hassan in the city.”
“Yes, sir.”
The General’s jeep bumps along the pock-marked bridge, as Major Bradley steers around debris on the roadway. As they pass on the other side, a security squad from the 103rd guarding the bridge salutes. Approaching the outskirts of the city, Bradley is amazed by the wreckage – statuesque architecture and once-white structures are now ash-gray and fractured rubble. The outlines of smoking buildings, gutted by tank fire and artillery shells, are barely visible.
“This was a beautiful city once,” he comments to the General, “it’s a shame we had to inflict so much damage on it.”
“It’s alright, Brad,” Hamilton responds, “we’ll rebuild. Just like we always do, out of the ashes.”
Major Bradley shakes his head in agreement, continuing to steer the jeep forward. On a typical day, traffic congestion would have made it impossible to get into the heart of the city in a reasonable amount of time. However, it takes only a few minutes on this particular day, as the jeep comes to a stop at a quaint Victorian brownstone. Hamilton immediately jumps out. Despite numerous, aged wounds and a bad knee, he is quite spry for a fifty-nine year old veteran. Bradley knows the General has looked forward to this moment, revealed not only in his face but in his step as well.
Escorted by his staff officers, Hamilton enters the brownstone. Inside, Colonel Hassan and three of his officers are seated at a table, drinking tea. Standing up, Hassan welcomes the General.
“Ah, General Hamilton, it is a pleasure,” the Colonel states, in a distinct Middle Eastern accent.
“The pleasure is mine, Colonel,” General Hamilton replies. “The efforts and sacrifice of you and your countrymen cannot be measured.”
“General, my men and I are grateful for the opportunity to assist the nation that did the same for ours decades ago.”
“I had just entered the Academy when that conflict broke out. It was a shame I was not able to participate in freeing your country from that tyranny.”
“I myself was just a boy at the time, but I remember the joy I and my fellow Iraqis felt. It was a moment of hope, and a time for which we had all prayed.”
“Colonel, I believe that time is upon us once again. Our nation, my officers and I feel the same at this moment. We are grateful for all you and the other nations of the free world have done. Shall we make our way?”
“Yes, of course.”
Stepping outside, both men and their officers take in the air and survey the area. Amidst choking smoke and a disagreeable odor, soldiers and tanks continue to patrol the streets, probing for any danger that may still be present. Everyone in silent agreement knows that the more familiar sounds and smells of civil society will soon replace the current scene. It is almost palpable to them. Otherwise, for what other purpose had they fought other than for that promise?
Loading into their respective jeeps, the group, with the General in the lead, proceeds up the crater-filled expressway in the direction of the former – and future – capital building of the United States, a familiar red, white, and blue-patterned symbol rising above it. Taking a puff of his cigar, Walter Hamilton can only smile.
©2004 Steve Sagarra
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