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Ambitious people understand intelligent people far better than intelligent people understand ambitious people; therefore, ambition will always triumph over intelligence. Once you appreciate this reality, civilization becomes clearer and unfortunately, more distressing.
More than 300 years have passed since the Earth ended and began anew. The end began as tremors rippled across every continent, highways heaved into the air, bridges plunged into abysses, and lakes splashed from their banks. In only eight days, all of the world’s cities were shambles of crumbled buildings or they were beneath new oceans.
People survived and eventually they recovered, rebuilt civilization, and re-established a geopolitical order. The books and information they found after the cataclysm, accelerated progress in all of these activities. These materials had been stored in vaults that had endured the worst possible conditions and kept their contents safe from the elements.
Using the vast quantity of information contained in these archives, the United Americas Trade Federation grew to become the major political and military force in the North American hemisphere. One group opposed the UATF and defied their right to rule the continent. Under the leadership of General Gregory Alleena, the Libre Voyageurs Militia fought against UATF supremacy. Their efforts continued for many years. In the year 318, they were on the verge of defeat and they were on the verge of victory—they just needed some cooperation, some information, and a little luck, and they had a plan for getting all three, and the UATF had a plan to stop them.
Use a nighttime offense when the commander and troops are familiar with the terrain, the objective is clear and will be attained quickly, and the enemy is at a disadvantage; otherwise, avoid it.
Colonel Anthony Hammond sat staring intensely at the glowing orange embers of the small, dying fire. Occasionally a tiny flame flickered up from the charred wood and disappeared into the cool, moist night air. Smoke drifted into his face, stinging his eyes. He was tired, exhausted. He had been in the field for almost a week. They had encountered at least three detachments of Libre Voyageur Militia. Each time, the enemy offered little opposition. Their progress along the land bridge had been rapid, perhaps too rapid.
They now controlled forty miles of territory that had been a Voyageur stronghold. They were within fifteen miles of one of the LV’s major supply points. It just did not make sense. He always trusted his gut; his gut told him something was wrong.
“Colonel, you were brilliant today. You showed the LV what superior leadership can do.”
Hammond turned to see who was flattering him. In the darkness, he could see an officer approaching him from his right side. As the officer came closer, Hammond recognized him. It was Captain Marcus, a company commander assigned to his battalion about three months ago. Marcus had not been in combat prior to this assignment; however, in the past five battles, he had proven himself a capable company commander.
Marcus approached Hammond and stood next to him as he surveyed the area. Marcus touched a small communicator clipped to his collar and spoke with authority, “Command secure.”
As Marcus turned to walk away, Hammond said, “Captain, sit down; I’d like to talk with you about today’s events.”
As Marcus sat down, he resisted the panic prickling up his spine. Was he in trouble? Had he performed poorly during one of the engagements?
“Do you think the Voyageurs led us here? Is this a trap?”
Hammond’s question surprised Marcus. He had expected a critique of his performance, he had not been thinking about the enemy’s plans, only his response to them. He did not know how to answer the question.
“Colonel,” Marcus ventured, “the Voyageurs thought they could beat us. It did not take them long to find out they were wrong, so they retreated, and they have been retreating for three days. They don’t want to die in a war they know they can’t win; they know they will never have the resources or leadership to defeat the UATF Army.”
“Yes,” Hammond said. “They could be retreating. They may have been trying to get away from us; however, they never moved too far in front of our lead assault group. They just kept moving. This afternoon we had four skirmishes that all ended within minutes of each other. It was a coordinated cease-fire. I think they were leading us. They want us in this location. I think this is a trap.”
“I’ll get the troops ready to move,” Marcus said. “We’ll be out of here before—”
“Not yet,” Hammond interrupted. “We don’t know our best course of action. Why do they want us here, right now?”
“Perhaps they are going to surround us,” Marcus speculated, aloud.
“Perhaps, but there’s no troop movement to support that,” Hammond said. “A few hours ago, I sent First-Sergeant Kemp and Sergeant Ventosa to run reconnaissance. They found nothing, not a trace of LV anywhere near here. Bravo Recon reported a group of LV about four miles northeast of us: a small group of seven soldiers. The other LV squads have withdrawn further north. The Voyageurs have left us here; without a chaperone.”
“They could be waiting for reinforcements,” Marcus said. “We’re too close to their main territory; they wouldn’t just leave us here and they aren’t going to let us move north without a struggle. They must be planning something for pre-dawn or early morning.”
“Captain,” Hammond said, “tell the lookouts to increase the watch perimeter by 50 yards. Set sensing equipment to the highest levels. The LV know we are here, but they are keeping their distance. We need to be ready for anything and what we do not know can kill us. I will be meeting with the senior officers at 5:00 AM, just before sunrise; I would like you to be there. Lieutenant Colonel Zychowski can fill you in on the plans for the day and I would like to hear your ideas about the LV’s battle strategies.”
“And Captain,” Hammond added somberly, “we are in a dangerous situation. The Voyageurs are aggressive fighters. They would not leave us to rest unless it suited a greater plan, a malicious plan.”
“I will be vigilant, sir, and I will be at the meeting,” Marcus said as he stood and walked away feeling like an important member of the battalion. Colonel Hammond had taken an interest in him. He would be attending an early morning briefing for the senior battalion officers. Lieutenant Colonel Zychowski would fill him in on the day’s plans. He smiled as he imagined other briefings in which he and Colonel Hammond would discuss combat tactics and review the battalion’s performance. Yes, this was an eventful night. He used his communicator to signal the sentries that he would be approaching them with new orders, direct from his meeting with Colonel Hammond.
As Marcus walked away, Hammond turned back to the fire and he thought ‘It has been too long since I talked with a junior officer. They are always so enthusiastic and this is a good time to train them. I need to find more time for these new, young leaders. I should just give up on Zychowski and Ukiah. Major Ukiah has to do everything by the book and Zychowski does not even know there is a book. Oh well, in six months Zychowski will be retiring and in three weeks Ukiah is transferring to the 2nd Shadow Warriors Battalion. Marcus will be here a long time, he is worth the effort; perhaps someday Marcus will have his own battalion to command.’
The late night air was cool and silent as Hammond sat alone with his musings. He turned his attention back to the small fire. The embers faded slowly as he began his ‘hour.’
The ‘hour’ was an important military tradition. Every warrior had one hour in every day in which to meditate, sleep, or engage in any activity that revitalizes the spirit. Hammond typically spent his hour meditating or reminiscing about his family. Over the years, he had learned these places and memories are important. Private places only he knows; places in sharp contrast to the reality of his daily experience.
He sat motionless in a deepening trance; his breathing was slow and regular, and his heart beat at a minimum. His memories drifted to the distant past, to times and places that seemed remote. Images, sounds, and feelings that were not clear but in some part of his being he knew how they should be. He refined each part of the picture, enhanced each sensation, each touch, each thought that made the past real.
He was at a resort in Phreen, Pueblo. His mind focused in on each image, each sensation: he could smell the salt water carried on the wind blowing in from the sea; he could see the bright white pelicans gliding just above the waves and the gulls strutting along the ocean’s edge. Each image, each sensation became clearer with concentration.
It was early summer, in 289. He was 23 years old and completing his advanced training at the UATF Army Academy. He had four days leave before beginning the final phase of his advanced training. On impulse, he and two close friends—Cliff Sloan and Hank Garcia—had packed a few things and journeyed for ten hours to get to a cheap hotel room in Phreen, Pueblo. They had arrived just before sunrise and stayed awake long enough to watch the intense orange-yellow light illuminate the palm trees and the scurrying crabs.
The rest of the day was uneventful, yet that evening changed his life forever. He was sitting alone on the beach with his back to the setting sun, watching his shadow growing longer, moving toward the sea. The sun felt warm on his back and the rhythmic thunder and hiss of the waves was hypnotic. Pushing his feet just inches below the surface, he found cool sand.
As the evening sky drew dark and the breeze shifted direction, he began to feel hungry. He stood up to begin looking for the grocery store he had seen earlier in the day. As he rose, brushing the sand from his legs and hands, he saw two women walking toward him. He could see their path in the sand and they had clearly turned abruptly toward him.
“Is there someplace around here to eat?” the woman on the left asked.
She was pretty, so pretty. He wanted to be with her; to walk down the beach together; to have other people see them and assume they were together, a couple, perhaps lovers. His attraction to her was immediate and powerful, and it embarrassed him.
“I was just going to get something to eat,” he had replied. “I’ll take you there.”
“Do you want to go with him?” the woman asked her companion. The other woman shrugged her shoulders and gave a noncommittal nod. He thought her friend did not want to go, but agreed because she had no other options.
“I’m Anthony Hammond,” he announced as they began walking along the beach.
“I’m Kathleen and this is my friend Michelle.”
What a nice name: Kathleen. He had tried to be calm, matter of fact, and glib. However, he had not been with a woman in a social situation for more than two years. They walked in silence for almost a minute. He wanted to talk about himself and learn all about Kathleen. Where did she live? What did she do? Why was she here? The best he could venture was “I think the store is just up there.”
“That’s a grocery,” Michelle announced indignantly. “We want a restaurant.”
He suddenly felt ignorant and lazy. He had spent the entire day on the beach when he should have been learning all about places to eat and things to do in the area. He had no idea where to find a café, and now his ignorance would take this woman away from him.
“A grocery has food, Michelle. You didn’t know that?” Kathleen asked in a manner that both ridiculed her friend and defended him.
Tension was growing between the two women. Michelle did not like the three-some and it was increasingly apparent that Kathleen liked him. He was delighted.
“I’m not eating in a grocery. Everything is cold or processed and I don’t want to eat on the beach; there’s nothing but sand and saltwater spray.”
As Michelle spoke, she had walked slower and slower until she stopped. Kathleen continued to walk and Michelle called to her, “It’s getting late, let’s go back.”
Kathleen stopped between Michelle and him. It was a decisive moment.
“I’m hungry,” Kathleen said. “You go on back and I’ll see you later.”
He was so happy. Kathleen had chosen him over Michelle. She had favored the unknown over her friend. However, what did this really mean? She might go to the grocery, buy some things, and go back to her room.
Michelle began walking away as Kathleen turned to him. “Let’s go,” she said with a smile that made him feel at ease and in love.
As they walked toward the store, he studied the entrance for some indication that the store would accept military script for payment. Most of the country accepted soldiers’ currency. Pueblo and the Arizona Territories had united more than twenty years earlier. However, paradoxically, the goal of a fully united land divided the people. At the time, rumors flourished about a forced consolidation and many people intensely criticized the military for being a pawn of ambitious politicians. Some stores would not serve warriors or accept any kind of UATF currency. It was their way of protesting the growing success of the UATF. He did not see any signs announcing that the store did not accept military script. They walked into the store.
Oh, that squalid little store! He vividly recalled the sand scattered on the wooden floor, the dusty cans arranged haphazardly on the shelves, and the middle-aged store clerk. The woman had watched them suspiciously and asked several times if she could help them find something. Then there was that awkward moment when she pointed to a small sign posted on the wall announcing the store did not accept military script. Kathleen had money; she would pay for everything and they could split the costs later.
As the woman tallied their purchases Kathleen asked her, “Do you sell wine?”
“Do you work for alcohol control?”
“No I don’t and I don’t think the Assembly has the right to tell us what we can and cannot drink.”
The owner looked hard at Kathleen and then at him. “I have a bottle of fruit juices that may have expired,” she said. “If you find that it has fermented bring it back and I will exchange it.”
He was not familiar with this custom: an ingenious ploy to avoid any charges of distilling and selling alcohol. He smiled at Kathleen as the woman reached below the counter and placed a bottle by the cash box.
“How much do you want for all of this?” Kathleen asked as she reached for the bottle.
“Twenty-five,” the woman said, curtly, “Pueblo bills.”
“I only have fifteen,” Kathleen said as she pushed the bottle back.
“I’ll take that fifteen and a ten script from him,” the woman said. This was a ridiculous deal: a UATF ten script was worth thirty Pueblo bills.
“I’ll give you a ten script for the juice and the food,” he announced, speaking to the woman for the first time.
“Old or new script?” the woman asked. She knew a lot about UATF currency for being in such a remote place and, especially, for not accepting it.
“Old script, a ten with the gold leaf inlay,” he replied, now more confident than ever that his money was good at this store.
“Let me see it,” she said extending her hand.
“Do we have a deal?” he asked.
Taking the ten-script note, she held it up to the overhead light, and then said, “Yes, now get out of here!”
They left the store carrying their food and wine. Kathleen pointed toward a peninsula of sand. “Let’s eat over there,” she said and they started walking toward the point.
They sat in the sand, eating their food, sipping wine, and talking for more than two hours. He had felt elated. The wine had eased most of his fears and Kathleen had eased the rest.
He sat, half-drunk, watching Kathleen as she spoke. She was a little drunk, too. He wanted to touch her, to hold her, to smell her fragrance; it was a powerful desire.
“That’s the last of the wine,” she announced as she pushed the empty bottle into the sand.
“I could get some more,” he said.
“No, that was strong and I’ve had plenty,” she said, “and that woman may not want to see us again.”
She laughed.
“What’s so funny?” he asked.
“She sold wine to a UATF warrior and—”
He cut her off in mid-sentence. “Listen to me, Kathleen. I am not a police officer. Everyone thinks warriors are police, but we’re not.” He felt increasingly defensive and uncomfortable.
“Anthony, that’s not the funny part,” she said. “My mother is Kara Nevin.”
He recognized the name; still he could not place it. He had had too much wine, too much beach, and perhaps too much Kathleen.
“Don’t you know who she is?” Kathleen asked incredulously and then continued. “No, honestly, you haven’t heard of Kara Nevin? My mother is the Pueblo First Delegate to the UATF. She is the one who wrote and sponsored the Nevin-Steward Law. Get it?”
Now he smiled and felt a little silly for being so defensive. The store’s owner had sold wine to the daughter of Delegate Nevin: one of the most powerful and conservative members of the UATF Assembly. Nevin had co-authored the law making alcohol sales illegal.
Kathleen looked at him and with a mischievous smile, she whispered, “Can you keep a secret?”
“What kind of secret?” he asked, sounding more like a UATF Army officer than a young man on a date with a pretty woman.
“My mother is writing an official position paper for the government. She will announce it in a few more weeks. She is so excited. She told me yesterday she is going to call it the ‘Reunification Ultimatum’ or something like that. The entire Assembly supports her. My dad thinks that someday she might even be elected Chief Delegate.”
At that moment in time, he had no idea that he had just heard about one of the most important events in history. He just sat smiling at Kathleen.
She smiled back and said, “Enough talk—let’s go swimming.”
He looked around the beach. In the light of a full moon, he could see they were alone.
“Go! Get in the water and I’ll meet you there,” she said. “Go and don’t look back.”
As he walked toward the water, he pulled off his shirt and threw it toward Kathleen. As his feet touched the cool, wet sand he felt a slight shiver, then he felt strangely warm. He waded further into the water until he was waist deep. The cool waves rocked against his belly and splashed cold against his chest. He heard Kathleen in the water about ten yards behind him.
Rising and falling with the waves, she swam past, and stopped a few yards in front of him. She stood in the water facing the dark horizon in the distant east. Her long, dark hair draped down her back in sharp contrast to the droplets of saltwater that glistened on her shoulders in the moonlight.
As the trough of a wave rolled past her, the waterline dropped revealing her slender body. Time stopped and, for Anthony, she was the only person in the world.
He studied her intensely. Another wave crested and subsided, lifting her up then returning her feet to the beach’s sandy floor. Another larger wave swelled, lifting her and carrying her toward him. He swam toward her as she dropped back into the water, regaining her footing. The wave’s trough carried the water level down to her waist, then just below. He stood next to her, close enough to touch her. She turned to him, offering her hand. He held her hand and she pulled herself closer to him.
They stood silently; looking into each other’s eyes as the waves gently lifted and then lowered them.
Two years later, they were married.
Meeting Kathleen, buying food and wine at the little store, and swimming in the moonlight had all happened almost thirty years ago; nevertheless, every detail was vivid. His escapes to the past were important for him; they were places of peace surrounded with tenderness and love.
By habit, he began to breathe a little deeper, filling his lungs with the cool night air and raising his heart rate. His hour was ending. He shifted his awareness from his memories to his current situation: his back was stiff and his legs were cold. The fire had died out and did not provide any warmth. As the night air descended, a cold mist spread across the camp. The night’s perfect stillness intensified his senses.
He stood, stretched, and yawned. He fumbled with the tiny buttons on his watch trying to see the time. He touched the right spot and lit up the dial—just after 3:00 AM. He looked up and noticed a large cloud cover directly overhead. ‘We must be in for some rain,’ he thought.
Almost imperceptibly, the tree branches rustled, and then the area was silent again. The night seemed to grow darker as clouds obscured more stars, as if the clouds were lowering to the earth. As he walked around the fire pit, kicking dirt on the few remaining smoldering embers, his footsteps, and movements sounded unusually loud. He did not like to make so much noise. He knew the sounds could panic one of the sentries. Accidents had happened before. Warriors can make lethal mistakes. He had heard of sentries killing warriors because they sleepwalked. That had never happened under his command; still it was always a possibility.
About fifteen yards away a dull red light blinked slowly in the blackness. It was a perimeter motion detector, the newest electronic gadget devised to replace warriors or to make them less alert to danger.
Every development had begun as an aid, something to improve upon the warrior: improved hearing, sharper eyes, steadier aim, faster running. Gradually these devices improved to the point that warriors stopped watching, stopped listening, relied less and less on their own abilities and entrusted the tasks to these devices. Everyone under Hammond’s command knew he would not allow this to happen in his battalion. He had personally sabotaged equipment to test the awareness and self-sufficiency of his troops. Every warrior standing watch knew Colonel Hammond could defeat the devices, sneak up on them, disarm, and demote them on the spot. Hammond’s warriors stayed alert, if only to watch for him.
From somewhere on the far side of the camp he heard a thud. He stood motionless and stared into the blackness of the night. The camp had grown darker from the cloud cover that was blocking the starlight, yet he would have seen even the slightest movement in the dim light. He saw nothing. He closed his eyes and listened as carefully as possible. He heard nothing.
Just as he opened his eyes, an intense white light exploded in the northern sky, shattering the blackness of the night. Seconds later a thunderous boom washed over him as he realized the bright flash had temporarily blinded him. The explosion’s strobe light had burned the camp’s image onto his eyes. He turned, expecting an attack and then he dropped to the ground.
He crawled forward a few feet and huddled behind a huge fallen tree. He tried to see through the darkness. He heard soldiers shouting and breaking out weapons. Someone started firing and others joined in. He could not see the enemy. He was not sure where they were. The bright flashes of weapons firing were everywhere. He reached into his pocket and grabbed a small combat device; was this the time to deploy it?
Where is the enemy? How did they ambush us? Hammond felt desperate as his vision slowly returned and he realized they were not under attack. In their panic, the soldiers were shooting at each other. Sentries fired across the camp at other sentries. They believed the enemy had surrounded them. How could he stop this madness?
He relaxed his grip on the device and began to crawl along the ground next to the tree trunk. He rose to a crouching position and lifted his head to see over the tree. He saw someone stand and begin shooting toward a grove of trees; then others joined in and it appeared they had found the enemy.
Cautiously, he began to stand up. Then he felt an intense, searing pain that began in the back of his neck and shot quickly through to his throat. A sharp pain radiated up the side of his head as his teeth snapped shut and he felt his shoulders hunch tightly forward. The sounds of the battle rapidly faded from his awareness and he lost all sensation in his body, his knees buckled, and he fell to the ground. For a moment, he felt nauseous and then he felt cold, wet earth pressing against his face. He could not feel his arms or legs. He could not call out for help. The world was gone; he was loosing consciousness and in his last thoughts, he was sitting on the beach with Kathleen and she was laughing—he wanted to stay there.
On the other side of the camp, Marcus also witnessed the blinding light. He had dropped to the ground and was clawing at the wet dirt as he made his way back to the center of the camp. The explosion, then the deafening roar of weapons seemed unreal at first, and then he realized they were under attack. Hammond was right; this was a trap!
He felt disoriented and terrified. All around him, soldiers were firing their weapons. How should he direct the attack? Where was the Colonel? A warrior fell to the ground, then another. No one knew where to shoot. Soldiers were shouting, falling, screaming, and shooting in all directions. Did the LV have them surrounded? What should he do? He looked around furtively, straining in the darkness to see some hint of the enemy. He could not see the enemy anywhere.
Something was wrong. He could not hear the sounds of enemy weapons, only the continuous firing of his own troops. Yes, something was wrong. There was no enemy, no threat. Fear had invaded them and the warriors mistook each other for the enemy.
Where was Hammond? Marcus looked toward the area where the Colonel had been an hour earlier and he did not see the leader. He turned to the other direction and saw a stand of small trees.
“There they are!” he screamed. “Get them!” He jumped to his feet and began shooting the trees, and then he fell to the ground while continuing to shoot and scream for back up. Several others joined in, and then more and more warriors pelted the trees with everything they had. Bark burst from the thin trunks and a few small trees fell to the ground, sheared off by the cascade of bullets. The soldiers destroyed the grove.
After a few moments, Marcus stopped shooting and called for a cease-fire. Seconds later the shattering staccato of the weapons stopped and a deafening stillness fell upon the camp. Marcus signaled to two soldiers to approach the trees to see if any of the enemies remained alive. He knew he was joining a fantasy of fear, yet he could not think of any alternatives for calming the warriors and regaining control over the situation. Better to join the fantasy and get it over, than to argue with agitated warriors.
He crouched low, watching the soldiers approach the trees. He looked to his left at others huddled down and anxious. Step by cautious step, the soldiers approached the grove. Then they circled in opposite directions surrounding what little remained of the trees. Marcus felt his heart pounding and his hands trembling.
“The cowards have run away!” one of the younger warriors shouted.
“Silence!” another whispered in a forced hush.
However, there was no silence. As Marcus listened, he could hear the pleas of the wounded. He knew he must help them. How much longer will he play this absurd game?
“Torch it!” Marcus ordered as the two warriors completed circling the grove. “I don’t want anyone to go near those trees.”
Three warriors with magnesium thrusters moved toward the trees, still cautious about the dangers that might remain.
“Now!” Master Sergeant Xavier announced. All three fired at the same time. The blazing white chemicals showered the trees making them burst into flames. The roaring fire cast stark shadows across the camp.
“Get the trauma teams here now!” Marcus commanded.
Warriors began moving in all directions. Everyone had a job to do and knew how to do it. Strangely, after a battle, order replaces terror and a sense of purpose springs from senselessness.
“Captain!” someone shouted from a distance. “Colonel Hammond is gone!”
“Where is Lieutenant Colonel Zychowski?” Marcus asked.
“He is dead,” First-Sergeant Quern replied.
“Major Ukiah?”
“He is also dead.”
“Major Kluge?”
“Two serious chest wounds, we must get him to a CTU as soon as possible. He has lost a lot of blood, but I think he will live.”
Now, Marcus was in charge. Everyone senior to him was dead or injured. They needed to get Major Kluge to a central trauma unit as soon as possible. Colonel Hammond was gone, probably dead. Marcus needed time to think, time to put things into perspective. What should he do next?
“What are your orders, sir?” Xavier’s question startled him.
“First, re-establish the security watch,” Marcus said. “Then, I want the trauma team to use every available warrior to help the wounded. Get me a link with headquarters, I need to report this immediately, and then I want the six most senior combat-able warriors to meet with me here in ten minutes.”
“Yes sir,” Xavier said as she backed away and began shouting the orders that assigned warriors to the trauma team, re-established the security watch, and called up Corporal Richards to set up the link with Shadow Warrior Headquarters. The Master Sergeant was one of the best; she set the standard in the unit and inspired confidence.
Marcus took a deep breath and stared at the small grove of trees. What will he tell headquarters? How do you explain an attack that may not have happened? No matter what he reported, he would look incompetent. He had failed either by permitting a surprise attack during his watch or by permitting a fatal panic among the warriors. Who shot first? What was that explosion?
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