Technology
can be a powerful tool, but it can be just as powerful a weakness
The phone call came in just before midnight. 2nd
Lt. David Paul Franken had, while sitting in his comfortable home in
Bainbridge, been keeping an eye on the news since the riots had started and was
expecting they’d call the Guard out. He wasn’t happy about the callout but his
family could use the extra money.
His duffle had been waiting for the inevitable next to
the garage door on the other side of the kitchen. Mona, his wife, had the
coffeemaker going despite the thermos being filled; this wasn’t good.
What did he forget?
Glancing at the calendar he saw that tomorrow, no, strike
that, today was circled.
oh damn …. anniversary ….
Walking over to where
she sat, at the same Formica surfaced table that he had once knelt on to
propose to her, he wrapped his arms around her, kissing her head and telling
her how sorry he was. She didn’t say anything, just holding on to his arm like
it was the only way for her to keep from drowning. They remained like that for
a time, silent.
Moments passed before
she spoke, her voice low so that it wouldn’t wake their children, “Is this
going to be like Iraq?”
“No”
“How can you be so certain? The radio stations are saying
the riots aren’t like anything they’ve ever seen before.”
He shifts around so he
can look her in the eyes, he’s shocked to see she’s been crying for a while,
she must have been listening to the radio while he was getting ready. Wiping
her tears away he says, “News reporters are nearly always saying that something
is new, terrible or never before seen; they just don’t understand. Americans
don’t usually riot for long, when they riot. A few canisters of CS, maybe some
rubber bullets and they’ll decide there are better things to do.” He kisses her
forehead as she holds tightly to him, “I don’t want you to go … something’s
wrong. Something about this isn’t right …” Pushing her away slightly Lt.
Franken looks at her, “Don’t worry baby, besides, I’ll be commanding that new
riot control cannon, the LRAD and they won’t be able to get anywhere near me.
Especially since the major had them mounted on a few of our Abrams tanks
instead of the pickup trucks they’d been using.” The young lieutenant gives his
wife one last, long kiss before grabbing his duffle and heading out to the car.
As he’s loading his gear into the trunk he hears his
wife, inside the kitchen of their three bedroom house, crying as if her heart
were breaking. A chill runs down his spine but he can’t find any logical reason
to pay heed to it.
So he ignores it ….
He gets that same chill
as he backs out of the garage and points his car towards the MP unit he belongs
to, on East Washington Road, over in Chagrin Falls.
During
the drive out Lt. Franken thinks about what he’d seen in the footage they’d
released of the riots. His wife had been far more correct than she knew; there
was a lot about these riots which didn’t make any sense. To begin with there
weren’t any demands; no statement of what they were rioting for, or against.
Then there was the reaction of the crowds to the measures that local
enforcement had used, they’d had no reaction. It didn’t matter what was thrown
at them, CS, pepper spray, water cannons, flash/bangs and even rubber bullets;
the crowds kept surging forward against the police line. The other disturbing
fact he saw, but something that the media seemed to be trying to keep under
wraps, was that there were times when the rioters appeared to be attacking the
police and sheriffs as soon as they could reach them. Whenever they came close
to showing an attack happening, the cameras seemed to do a quick cut to some
other action further down the line or even go to an interview with a police
official or politician.
It
wasn’t making much sense
But
that wasn’t even the worst thing he’d noticed
The
eyes of some of the rioters
He’d
stopped the footage several times while he watched events unfolding on his
computer, attempting to verify or deny what he thought he was seeing. Even
after several hours of trying to get it nailed down with the forensic software
he had on the computer he wasn’t certain enough to swear to what he thought
he’d seen.
The eyes of some of the
rioters seemed to be covered by severe cataracts.
On the off chance it
could be footage that had been monkeyed with by some computer SFX wiz’ he’d
checked the histogram of the video; it was clean. The video only had one layer,
no special effects were indicated.
If
this was true, then how the hell were they able to see?
His
mother, god rest her soul, had wound up with cataracts during the last years of
her life. She’d been upbeat and jovial for the three years prior to that
happening, despite the pain and the problems brought on by the cancer
treatments. She’d never complained once or let anyone catch her in a depressed
state, or even a bad mood, for nearly the complete first two years of her fight
against her ‘dread enemy.’
Until
the third year when she began to lose her sight
She’d
been a painter, an artist, for her whole life. Sight and the interpretation of
the things she’d seen were the touchstone of her existence. A master of the
realism school of painting and a photographer, she was nearly the equal of
Ansel Adams, or Thomas Kinkade. His mother had lived for the sights her eyes
could bring to her; for her to record her interpretations of what her eyes
brought to her and it was all for the simple passion of doing it. A creditable
artist in both mediums she had made a respectable living by the doing of it,
but the money was secondary.
The
cataracts had made a bitter, sullen, recluse of her.
He’d
learned a lot about cataracts as the result of his attempts to fight the
disease for her.
There
was no way that anyone could see well enough to riot with what appeared to be
advanced stage cataracts on their eyes.
So
how were they able to riot?
Many
thoughts ran through his mind as he made the forty five minute drive to the
armory. None of what he’d seen, none of what he knew, seemed to apply this
night and it worried him. At the assembly area troops had already begun loading
the armored vehicles onto the flatbeds for transport to the riot scene. They
were a good bunch of men and you could see it wasn’t their first time for this
sort of action. M-113’s with their M240/B SAW’s had already been loaded and
were in the process of being chained down. The machine guns were strictly for
effect; as long as the troops followed protocol there shouldn’t be any need for
them. Supply vehicles and troop transports led the convoy; they’d be proceeding
directly to the assembly area. Walking to the back of the line he found that
his driver had lined up the Abrams to load and needed only one of the ground
guides to finish the job.
SSgt. Williamson could
probably have loaded and chained the vehicle in his sleep, he’d mustered out so
many times. The man was well experienced with many tours in the Regular Army to
his credit.
The Lieutenant tossed
his duffle onto the side of the tank; climbing up easily. SSgt. Williamson
waved to him lazily, continuing to smoke his cigarette as the younger man
loaded and stowed his gear. Standing beside the turret the Lieutenant began his
inspection of the LRAD. It nearly looked as though the unit had been meant to
be there, the main gun had been removed and the LRAD mounted in its place,
along with a remote surveillance camera. Not only could the operator see what
was going on with the tank buttoned up, the commanders directing the action
back in the Tactical Operations Center could share the same view.
“Does
the Screamer pass inspection, sir?”
So the Sergeant already
had a nickname for the boxy looking device, guess that made his acceptance of
it official. The Lieutenant grins as he climbs into the Tank Commander’s hatch
and begins running the diagnostic routines on the panel inside the hatch,
“Well, it looks good so far …” he throws a few more switches and notes the
computer’s response before powering everything back down again, “… but we won’t
really know anything until we fire this baby up and let fly on those rioters.”
The Sergeant chuckles, “Ain’t that the truth of it, L-T, ain’t that the truth
of it …” The two men sit there, quietly enjoying each others’ company until the
call comes down the line for the officers to report for their briefing. The
Sergeant grins as the Lieutenant clambers down and says, “I wouldn’t be in so
much of a hurry sir, they might think you’re a junior officer or something if
you come running into the briefing …” and he begins laughing raucously. Lt.
Franken thinks about it for a moment, then straightens his cap saying, “You
know Sarge, I think you may have a point there …” and walks off. As soon as he
clears the line he can hear the Abrams firing up its diesel and revving before
it drops back down to idle, hmmmm, the ground guide and transport crew must
have shown up.
The briefing went pretty much the same as any other
briefing for civil unrest except that the Colonel made particular mention that
they weren’t to hesitate if it appeared the SAW’s were needed. After the
briefing, all fifteen minutes of it, Lt. Franken approached the Colonel and
attempted to let him know what he had thought he’d seen on the news reports.
Before he’d even really begun to voice his concerns on the subject, the Colonel
cut him off with a dismissive wave of his hand and a comment about the
lieutenant letting the sight of “miscreants with special effects contacts” in a
volatile situation get to him. Lt. Franken, rather than become argumentative
about it, simply saluted the senior officer and proceeded out to the troop
transport with the rest of the men.
The L-T is so absorbed in his own thoughts and the tacit
refusal of his commander to discuss the matter, that he doesn’t see the fear in
his colonel’s eyes as he leaves the room.
Contrary to depictions in the movies, the ride out to a
trouble spot doesn’t necessarily consist of a lot of macho talk with the
veterans telling the greenhorns all manner of nonsense. Among a few who are
accustomed to working together you might get that; if they know one of the
greenhorns he might get the business but it nearly always gets quieter as you
get closer. Unnecessary chatter goes out the window nearly completely as you
close on the assembly area. Every one is listening, every one strains to hear what
he can above the roar of the diesel. Everyone, absolutely everyone, wants all
the information they can get before they step off the truck and onto the firing
line. What the movies show you is a lie, the machismo chatter, the rough jokes,
are all things done in the comfort of a secured area. Predominant during an
insertion is silence, because chatter can block out the cues you get from the
surrounding area, chatter blocks out the cues you get from nature, herself.
Chatter
… cuts you off from information you might need …
Information
is life
A
lack of information is death
No
soldier, anywhere, wants to die
A
soldier’s mission, according to General Patton, is to make the other dumb son
of a bitch die for his cause …
So
the men ride in silence
A good part of the ride takes them down I-480 westbound; by
the time they get off the interstate and start gearing down for the ride
through town a large knot sits in the stomach of each and every one of the men.
For the old hands this is a welcome feeling, they know as soon as they step off
the truck they’ll be ready. The first timers, the ‘cruits, only know they
aren’t real happy and some of them are wishing they hadn’t eaten before
boarding the transports.
The rally point is a construction supply place on
Brookpark road. It’s the only area close to the scene of the action that’s
large enough to handle the vehicles coming in. When they get there they can see
their vehicles still on board the transports, waiting to be offloaded. What
none of the men have anticipated is what they hear on arrival.
Near
silence greets them
There is none of the
usual noise you’d hear at a riot. Instead, off in the distance, they can hear
occasional shouts, shots being fired and sometimes even screams. Other than
that there is a strange, low pitched moaning and a weird sort of rubbing sound.
Nearly what you might expect from thousands of children sliding their feet
across pavement in an effort to produce noise. As they prepared their weapons,
their riot gear and unloaded their vehicles the men looked at each other
uneasily. The officers and non-comm’s circulated among them. Answering
questions, making jokes; doing anything they can think of to keep their men’s
nerves under control.
The problem is that all
the little cues saying that this isn’t a normal crowd control operation have
come to dominate the minds of all involved and none of them yet believe what
they were told about this situation.
Not the officers, not the sergeants; not even the lowest
private among them were so unwise as to still believe what they’d been told at
their briefing.
Privately, many of them wonder if they’ve finally,
actually, inserted their most personal male parts into the meat grinder, as has
been so often joked, and pushed the ‘on’ switch.
After the last vehicle
has been unloaded and all the vehicles are staged, their captain sounds twice
on his whistle, summoning the men to gather around him. The non-comm’s float
through the area sweeping the stragglers in to where he waits; even the Captain,
despite his well known mania for timeliness, was unwilling to hurry on to this
assignment. As soon as the men are gathered around him, the captain begins …
“Listen up … as you all
know, we’ve got a bunch of rioters who think they’re a bunch of badasses, using
special effects makeup, high tech protective gear and a lot of other bullshit
to bluff the local cops into thinking they’re fighting some sort of Saturday
night movie monsters …” he pauses for a moment, “… but what they aren’t
expecting, what they can’t possibly know, is that we’re an even bigger,
badder, more effective bunch of monsters, AM I RIGHT?” the men around him
give up a rousing cheer, “… The scene of the action, ladies, is about a mile ….
about one and a half klicks for you veterans … up the road from here … we will
roll in, we will take control of the situation and we will dominate the rioters until they’re all cuffed, stuffed and loaded,
IS THAT CLEAR?” The men cheer once more, the Captain’s words are infectious,
reassuring, the kind of talk they’re accustomed to hearing before moving in to
take over from local law enforcement. He has a record of wins that would be the
envy of any police chief and his bravado gives them the feeling that he’s
right, that this is just another bunch of punks trying to run a con on them. He
holds his hands up and they fall silent once again, “OK, the line of skirmish
here is a bit long but it’s not undoable as long as we use the locals to
support our line, try to get one or two in between each of you as we move in to
reinforce them. M113’s will act as anchors on either end of the line and the
Abrams, with their bright and shiny new toys will be on station every one
thousand feet, or so. Our line will be a mile long, give or take but we’re
going to force them back and into a bottleneck as soon as we’re positioned …”
he looks at Lt. Franken, “… Lieutenant, your LRAD’s will sweep down the line
before the main group, you’re going to soften them up for us because as you
move to take your positions, your LRAD’s will sweep the line with their cannons
…” he looks the lieutenant straight in the eye, “… I want the highest safe
setting you’ve got … get your beams on them ASAP and keep them cooking while we
give the boys in blue a break from the shit they’ve had to put up with ….” The
Captain surveys the men gathered around him before looking back at the
Lieutenant, “Let’s mount up and move out, LRAD’s on point and let’s see those
rioters cooked!” Moving at a fast
trot the young officer and his men mounted up on their spanking new riot
control vehicles, preparing to give relief to the beleaguered police officers
trying to restrain the crowds surging against their lines.
The modified Abrams tanks, now with the nomenclature Riot
Control Vehicle or RCV, which were being deployed were prototype vehicles. They
were first of their kind; being a radical departure from the M113 APC’s or
MWRAPS formerly used by the MP’s for crowd control. Abrams tanks were chosen
solely for the purpose of utilizing their bulk to counter-balance the barriers
mounted to the front of the vehicles and to provide a stable platform for the
massive three hundred fifty pound sound units mounted on the turrets. Slightly
beneath the twin speaker arrays of the LRAD’s was a camera unit. The cameras
were acoustically isolated from the LRAD by means of what the movie industry
once called a ‘blimp’. The men crewing the riot control vehicles took one look
at the camera unit mounted below the speakers and came up with a far more
prosaic name for the assemblage.
One
which we need not dwell on ….
The cameras, as
previously mentioned, allowed both the tank commander and the officers at the
Tactical Operations Center (TOC) to see the effects of the cannon on the
rioters in addition to providing a second set of ‘eyes’ to whatever takes place
at an incident.
Riot barriers mounted
to the front of the tanks were meant to work with the standard K-rails being
used for many purposes by cities and corporations everywhere. To look at one
from the front you wouldn’t see much difference between the barrier and the
average K-rail except that the K-rail is constructed from concrete and the
barrier itself is crafted from a titanium/steel alloy. There are the usual
methods for connecting the barrier to two K-rails, but they’re left with a two
inch gap on either side of the barrier to allow for the barrier to be
disconnected by simply raising it with the bulldozer style hydraulics.
Last but far from being
the least of the modifications, was what the engineers did to the turret to
assist with crowd control. The turret’s drive was equipped with a motion
control box very similar to what they used on CNC metal working machines. The
tank commander had the capability to automatically sweep a crowd with the LRAD
if he should decide it was needed. Once the program was set in motion it would
continue until either the commander interrupted the cycle or the Abrams’ power
system quit.
The only other riot
control equipment on board was the usual CS dispersal unit. The engineers had
considered it an archaic response, so great was their faith in the vehicle
they’d created but they’d included the device due to the insistence of the
advisers from the military police companies whom they’d hoped would purchase
the units. The engineers had conceded only after they were threatened with
having the contracts withdrawn.
These technological behemoths were the hope of the
governor who’d dispatched them to the riot to get order restored before the
morning rush hour began. Things had not been going well for the police at the
scene. Between the reports of what the officers saw, the raw video footage
which was not ever going to be seen by any civilian and the reports beginning
to drift in from the hospitals; the governor was rightfully concerned that even
these marvels of riot control technology might not be enough.
They
were, however, the best hope anyone had at the moment.
So, unknown to the men who were on their way to the riot
which was causing upset all the way up to POTUS, everything seen by their
cameras was being routed from their TOC, to the NSA and from there to every
ranking politician at the federal level.
Prayer was suddenly
thought to be very fashionable at the federal level once again.
Lt. Franken, SSgt. Williamson and their men, however,
were blissfully unaware of any of this; their only concern was to bring relief
to the officers who currently stood the line.
Cannon to the right of them, cannon to the
left of them
Cannon
in front of them, volley’d and thunder’d
Storm’d
at with shot and shell,
Boldly they rode and well,
Into the jaws of Death
Into the mouth of Hell
Rode the six hundred
Some
military traditions don’t change
It’s
a damned shame that they don’t
As the tank commanders mounted up the drivers began
running through their check lists, guaranteeing their machines would function
as ordered. Revving the engines while listening to the heartbeat of the mammoth
beasts which served and protected them; running the hydraulics through their
range of motion, extending and retracting the riot barrier; tilting it until it
was fully against the tank’s hull as additional protection against theoretical
anti-armor munitions which, incidentally, was also the storage position for the
alloy plate. Until finally all five of the drivers waited for instructions from
the tank commanders in their turrets.
While the drivers were engaged in their pre-mission
checks the tank commanders were no less busy, powering up the LRAD units;
verifying that the intricate systems they were about to unleash in a live
situation for the first time all read in the green. Running checks on the IVRS
and chatting with the Commo Section in the TOC about how well the video feed
was going through; making last minute adjustments to their comm-links and
asking Tactical if their beacons were reading correctly. Questions were asked;
then answered and last minute adjustments were made on both sides.
By the time the radios at last became silent, the Captain
was in the TOC watching the multiple feeds from the Riot Control Vehicles’
cameras; watching their positions on the situation map displayed on the main plasma
screen mounted directly above their separate screens and listening to their
chatter on the link between the IVRS and the TOC. Despite his feeling of
uneasiness he tapped the button on his headset, linking him to his men and gave
the order, “Move’em out …”
The gigantic armored vehicle containing SSgt. Williamson
and Lt. Franken smoothly moved forward, turning right onto Brookpark road and
proceeding west at a steady pace. The LRAD was warmed up and showing green on
all boards. Half murmuring to himself Lt. Franken absently toggled the switch
on his headset, “All RCV’s report …” A soft murmur as the tank commanders gave
the status of their vehicles and weaponry, he replies, “Roger that Green Team …
light up the LRAD’s, give me two niner zero zero hertz at one four eight delta
bravo, copy?” Once again the headset
channels the soft murmurs of assent. Bringing up the local map on his console
he studied it intently for a few moments then keys the mike again, “On my mark we’re
going to button up all RCV’s until we have the area secured, copy?” Another
wave of assent, “Keep me updated people, transmit anything you see that you think
I might need to know about and ask questions about anything you aren’t sure
about, copy?”
The men conn’ing the RCV’s give their consent; as they do
so the tanks roll on up to West 130th street, the lieutenant is
engrossed in checking the view from each of the cameras under his command so SSgt.
Williamson quietly keys the IVRS saying, “Mark …” clangs can be heard down the
line as each of the vehicles secures their hatches. Keying the internal channel
the lieutenant says, “Thank you Sergeant …” Smiling the older man responds,
“It’s my job to watch out for you sir, that and help you take care of the men
….” The two men continue their ride in silence, no words are necessary because
the pair have been working together for over three years. Lt. Franken has learned
in that time that despite his having graduated from The Point, he really didn’t
know that much; he’d come close to losing the gold colored bar on his lapel
completely, a couple of times and if it hadn’t been for the intercession of
SSgt. Williamson he might have found himself demoted the full way down the
line.
All
the way down to buck private.
Coming up on the commercial bus company at the edge of
the riot, SSgt. Williamson quietly gave the order for the tanks to hold on
station; then he keyed the internal system and said, “Sir, I think you need to
take a look at this …” Without a word the L-T brought the camera system on his
main screen; then zooming in on the riot in front of them. A quiet “What the …”
escaped his lips before he became absorbed in studying the scene before him.
The full length of the
police line visible from his vantage point was chillingly quiet. Officers
looked at each other and then back to the mob massed before them uncertainly.
There was a certain amount of pushing against the riot shields which the
officers held in position but it was
largely as a result of the crowd being pushed forward from the back; not from
any active resistance by the rioters.
The officers were confused, this wasn’t what they’d come
to expect and their confusion about what to do next was clearly written on
their faces.
The
rioters, almost appeared to be asleep
This was a massive change from the intel’ they’d received
and required gathering new intelligence.
“Stand down on the LRAD’s … be ready to use them on my
order but do not, I say again, do not engage without a direct order from me …”
quiet assent again traveled through the headset. Then another instruction on
the same channel, “SSgt. Williamson, take me to their operations center, all
other units take your positions and hold until you receive further instructions
…”
“Sir?”
“Yes?”
“Shouldn’t we be giving the order to disperse?”
“Not until we find out just exactly what’s going on …”
“Yes sir …”
“Proceed with my orders, now …..”
Moving
at a dead slow pace the armored giants take their places along the riot line.
At each location they carefully move into position; emplacing themselves
precisely thanks to the GPS beacons on each vehicle and the coordination by
their TOC control team. The officers cautiously opened spaces between
themselves as the behemoths move in to give them what protection they can. The
rioters try, uncertainly, to insert themselves into the space left vacant by
the officers only to find themselves being gently forced back by the riot
shields attached to each of the vehicles. No resistance is offered which
further adds to the confusion on the part of all the law enforcement personnel
gathered there, not one of the officers can take their eyes off the rioters on
the other side of the skirmish line. Their behavior has been so atypical and
bizarre that no one is sure what to expect next.
Lt. Franken is as uncertain as
anyone standing the line as he dismounts then makes his way into the operations
center searching for the officer in charge. It doesn’t take long, the PD
command center is laid out pretty much the same as his own command’s TOC. The
Officer in Charge is easy enough to pick out, he’s clearly a veteran of many
years and is dressed in SWAT tactical gear. The important distinction is that
unlike some officers who go straight from college, to the academy and
immediately fasten rank to their lapels, his equipment is worn; well used. The
deference given him by the other officers would have been sufficient clue by
itself but his appearance cinched it.
His
weariness at the present situation is also evident
The
man is slouched back in the ‘command chair’ studying the video feed of the
situation outside while the cameras pan back and forth but the situation
remains the same across the entire line.
You
could take a slice of the scene from any point of the line and it would be
indistinguishable from the rest.
Quick
glances at his uniform reveal that he’s a captain and his name is Sanderson,
Lt. Franken approaches him, “Captain?” Cpt. Sanderson looks up then studies his
uniform, the man’s voice is a low growl, “You seen action before, Lieutenant?”
“Two deployments, sir …”
“How come you’re only a butter bar?”
Wincing,
Lt. Franken replies, “Conflicts between duty and good judgment sir ….” Cpt.
Sanderson studies him a bit longer, “Good judgment won, I take it?”
“Some folks might say that sir …”
Cpt.
Sanderson returns to his study of the video screen before him, motioning at it
and he asks, “So what do you think of what we’ve got here?”
Turning
to view the screen for himself, Lt. Franken watches as it completes two slow
traverses before answering.
“I’ve
never seen anything like it before sir, I’ve no idea what they might have in
mind …” turning back to the senior officer, “… did they make any demands? Is
there any clear cut reason for the riot to have started to begin with?”
Cpt.
Sanderson gazed at him steadily as he said, “No sir, there is not … as a matter
of fact, this whole thing seems to have started as some sort of brawl at a
local restaurant. The odd thing is that most of the injured weren’t hit,
kicked, stabbed or shot; they were bitten.” The lieutenant stared at him incredulous,
not quite understanding, “Bitten?”
“Bitten”
Lt.
Franken gave the matter some more thought before asking, “… and it went from
just a few people to …” he gestures at the screen, “… this, in how long?”
Reaching
for the coffee sitting on the map table the captain tells him, “It didn’t take
long, really, the whole fight started when three or four drunks were refused
service at the restaurant because they were, well …” he sips the coffee, “…
drunk …” settling back into his chair he resumes eye contact with the younger
man, “… the waitress called us as soon as they were clear of the door. That’s
their protocol … when she saw what was going on outside though, she called us
back and told us that we’d better get there fast and bring ambulances too …” he
took another sip of the coffee as he watched for the younger man’s reaction, “…
when the officers arrived, it looked like something from one of Romero’s
movies, one of the creeps was trying to gnaw on the throat of a drunk. Another
drunk already had part of his throat ripped up but he was lucky, his buddy was
a paramedic and had one of those blood clot things, he’d slapped it on the guys
throat and was trying to call his unit for the pickup …” Sipping more of the
coffee the captain continued, “… so we’ve got the drunks with their throats
ripped out, or with people trying to rip their throats out. The would be
killers trying to either rip some throat or mob the drunks to rip their throats
out and some very scared witnesses inside an all night restaurant. Then the
boys in blue roll up, sirens blaring and jump out of their cruisers, yelling
orders … so what do you think happens next?”
“What?”
“What do you think happens next?
Guns are drawn and the officers are shouting orders …”
The
lieutenant shrugs, “Normally I’d expect for the attackers to stand down and lie
down on the ground … but I’m getting the feeling they got something else.”
Nodding
the captain said, “… and you’d be absolutely right, what they got was for the
assailants to forget all about the drunks, and try to attack them … the
officers, of course, taz’ed them in an effort to get compliance but the freaks
didn’t so much as flinch.” He stared at the camera feed, “… then one of the
officers opened fire on them; emptying his mag’, reloading and again firing
until his weapon was empty …” he continued to stare at the screen. After a few
moments Lt. Franken asked him, “Did he get the perp?”
Absently
the captain responds, “Oooooh yeah, he got ‘em alright …”
“How badly were the perp’s injured?”
“There were two of them …”
“How bad?”
“He
nailed them both in the chest, seventeen rounds in each one, center of mass,
real easy to count all the holes, real easy …” the captain’s eyes never left
the monitor as he fell silent once more.
“Sir,
how’s your officer handling the shooting? I understand a lot of times it can be
very stressful …” The captain’s reply was not quite audible …. Lt. Franken
cleared his throat,
“Sir? I’m sorry but I didn’t quite catch your answer …”
“I guess you could say he’s handling
it OK …”
“I’m glad to hear that sir, what
about the families of the perp’s?”
“Oh, they’re OK, just a little
confused …”
“What’s to be confused about?”
“About how two grown, normal,
healthy men can go from being good family men who go to church every week; to
being throat chewing psychopaths bent on killing anyone in their path …. and
all in less than twenty four hours …”
“Damn”
“Then
there’s the other thing that’s confusing everybody …”
“…
what else could there be?”
“Come with me …” the
captain rose from his chair and the lieutenant followed him; as they passed
through the tent’s entrance the cold air hit Lt. Franken with a refreshing
sharpness. He was glad for it, the weirdness of the present situation was
beginning to get to him. He’d arrived on the scene with the impression he knew
exactly what was going on, now Lt. Franken wasn’t that certain he knew anything
at all. The cold reminded him of reality, that some things just don’t change,
you shoot a man in the chest, he goes down.
Simple
You
shoot him a bunch of times he goes down quicker, always.
Seventeen times was a
bit much, but given what the rookie saw he could sure understand expending that
much ammo. It had to be pretty tough for a virgin to go out on a call like that
and find himself staring into the face of madness.
The captain hadn’t said, but it had to be a rookie,
right?
Right?
The two men walked
around to the back of the command center and stood beside a large paddy wagon.
The captain grasped the handle and looked at the lieutenant for a moment then
said, “This is what the families, and the rest of us find so baffling …” then
pulled the door open.
There
were four men in the wagon
Well,
they looked like men, anyway …
Their
clothing was disheveled but none of them appeared to notice. The moment the
outer door of the wagon opened the four lunged at the door, eyes blank;
drooling while reaching for the two men on the other side of the bars as if
their lives depended on it. Lt. Franken stepped back involuntarily, his hand
covering the Beretta at his side without any thought on his part. They made an
odd rasping shriek as they tried to force their way through the bars. Lt.
Franken felt a hand cover his as soon as it hit the Beretta; his head whipped
around to see who it was, the captain stood there with a grim expression on his
face as he pinned the soldier’s gun hand down, “You won’t need that, son …
they’ve tried to get through those bars every time the door’s been opened. They
don’t want and won’t accept any food or drink we put in there with them. It’s
like they don’t see it at all.” He looks back at the paddy wagon, with the
prisoners pushing against the bars, “… the only thing they seem to respond to
is human noise and as soon as we caught on to that and ordered silence on the
line, they quit trying to fight us …” looking back at the lieutenant again, “…
they tell me these super high tech cannons you boys have will do the job, force
them back to someplace we can contain them and let us gain control of them …”
he slams the door shut on the foursome and steps forward, as much in the face
of the lieutenant as any drill instructor has ever been, “They say these things
will even drive animals back into their pens, so … tell me this son … will
those things do the job? Will they keep my men alive and help us protect our
citizens?”
Without hesitation Lt. Franken snaps out, “Yes sir,
without a doubt …”
Captain Sanderson stood there a moment longer then
turned away, as he walked back into his command center he called back over his
shoulder, “Then let’s get this show moving lieutenant, I want my people to be
able to eat breakfast knowing they did a good night’s work …” and then he
vanished into the command center.
Lt.
Franken stood there for a moment, trying to get his bearings; then walked off
to his RCV, making calculations and estimates as he walked.
His
walk back to the RCV is uneventful, but thought filled, the RCV is now parked
in position at the center of the line; SSgt. Williamson is sitting on the edge
of the driver’s hatch as the lieutenant walks up. Both men remain silent while
the L-T mounts the great beast; by the time the tank commander has regained his
post the driver has put his headset back on. There’s a moments silence before
the internal comm system kicks on; as usual, the SSgt is waiting for his
officer when the mike is keyed.
“What’s
it look like out there?”
“It’s
the damn quietest riot I’ve ever seen …”
“How
are the local’s handling it?”
The silence is notable before the SSgt speaks again,
“They’re as scared a bunch as I’ve ever seen sir, and it’s not like most of
them don’t have a fair amount of experience at this sort of thing …” another
pause, “… they’re seeing something they’ve never seen before, and frankly sir,
neither have I …” The lieutenant bites his lip pensively then keys the IVRS, “
Green Team this is Green Team Actual, we’re going to handle this one a bit
differently than normal …” with that advisory he begins to explain the part of
what he’d learned from Captain Sanderson that they need to know; then
concluding with, “… and since that’s the case, we’re going to open the LRAD’s
on them with no warning. We’ll also ramp up the decibels to two zero zero,
copy?” Murmured assent comes down the line, “On my mark, bring the LRAD’s on
line, three, two, one, mark …” The massive sound cannons begin their muted
whine as the circuits driving them warm up, in a few moments the green ‘ready’
light comes on. The lieutenant secures his hatch then waits a few more moments
to allow for all units to have reached the same stage before giving the next
order, “Set LRAD controls to ‘synched’ …” this meant that the action of the
turrets would be controlled from his turret. The MP’s and police holding the
line outside the RCV’s were then instructed, “All support personnel, set riot
shields and take position on my mark, three, two, one, mark” with that instruction
the entire riot line dropped back one step, bracing their shields on the ground
with their weapons ready behind the shield. They also drop their heads below
the edge of the assembled shields. This will give them additional protection
from the effects of the sound cannons preparing to launch their assault against
the force assembled on the opposite side of those same shields.
If
the assembled mob had any idea of what their actions meant, they gave no
reaction, other than to slowly drift forward into the now vacant space.
With
the sound cannons now on line, Lt. Franken gave the order, “Fire!” and with
that order sound poured from the massive speakers and the turrets began a
synchronized dance with the outer four vehicles performing synchronized sweeps
across the immense crowd arrayed before them. The command car was performing
slightly differently being out of synch with both the right and left flank and
concentrating most of its attack on the center of the mob.
The
attention given to this seminal event was record breaking, ranging from the
grizzled, road weary sergeant in the police command post, to the captain apprehensively taking in the view from each RCV’s cameras and all the way up the
chain of command to POTUS herself.
Right
then, at that moment, every man jack of them was engrossed in prayer; hoping
that these new riot control systems would live up to what their creators had
claimed they would. Every test, every round of eliminations had shown these new
weapons to be effective on nearly every living thing they’d ever been tried
against. It didn’t matter what species it was, the LRAD had driven it back to
whatever area the controllers had designated for holding.
This was to be the greatest victory
of this riot control system
But there was one, small problem
An unprecedented difficulty
Their new, high tech weapons system
had only been tried against living organisms …
This, was an unprecedented opponent
The living dead
As the invisible beams swept across
the crowd slow changes began to take place. Initially they became restless,
looking around and seemingly trying to detect the source of their irritation.
The point of origin of the sound they were hearing. The people observing the
reaction were dumbfounded, it had not been their experience that anything alive
would merely look around when hit by the sonic beam. Compliance had been easily
gained with settings only half of what they were presently using; orders came
down from the very top, increase the power to the beams and remove any safeties
that would prevent all available power from being used.
Lieutenant
Franken was far ahead of them though, inside the modified Abrams tank he was
seeing what Captain Sanderson had hinted that he might; he was already
disabling the safeties, “All units, all units, disable safety interlocks and
take your outputs to maximum. I say again, disable safety interlocks and take
all outputs to maximum.” Soft voices confirming his instruction came back
through his headset just moments before his own captain’s voice came in on the
channel directing him to proceed with that very instruction. Inside each of the
specialized vehicles his instructions were being followed, and in seconds all
five of the RCV’s were howling their fury at the crowd in front of them.
Huddled
behind their riot shields the military and civilian police officers gave thanks
for the protection offered by the counter wave earmuffs they’d each been
supplied with. Hunkered down inside their 113 personnel carriers the
infantrymen were equally thankful. None of them, not even one, could have
anticipated what was about to happen.
Experience, training and political
expedience were the keys to the judgments being made about how to handle the
apparent riot in front of them. The fact of atypical behavior was not a factor
in their decision, the powers that be, who were directing the operations were
under the impression that this was all theatre; being played out on a grand
scale with the assistance of high tech toys. The ability to conceive of a
change of such significance was beyond their ability.
Nothing
… had changed since the charge of the light brigade.
Nothing
At no point did the reaction of the
crowd come even a little bit close to what the LRAD’s designers had
anticipated. At no point did any of their models, tests, or even experiences
parallel what was about to happen, to any degree. When the sonic beams first
raked across the crowd they appeared confused, not discomfited or in any degree
of pain, merely confused. Then their heads began to swivel around seeking out
the source of the sound. Eventually they found the source of the sounds. They
discovered the existence of the LRAD’s and the Abrams tanks the devices had
been mounted on. Slowly the assembled thousands became focused on the five
tanks, the two armored personnel carriers and the mere hundreds of police and
military personnel arrayed against them. One by one the rioters began to howl
their own protest, screaming their rage at the forces they’d only just become
aware of …. and that was when all hell broke loose.
To those watching things seemed to
change suddenly; one moment the crowd seemed docile, nothing more than an
inconvenience to be driven back to their homes before breakfast and then in the
merest tick of a clock they became a ravening horde intent on the destruction
of everything before them.
In
less than a second the massed wall of humanity inundated the men and women
sworn to defend their city. Some were trampled before being stripped of their
armor and bitten to death, others managed to get off a few rounds from their
weapons before having their throats ripped out by teeth yearning for the blood
and flesh under the armor.
For the first few
moments of the assault the crews of the armored fortresses were stunned into
inaction by the sudden change and ferocity shown by the attackers. Lt. Franken
was one of the first to regain his equilibrium, slamming his hand against the
button controlling the CS gas as he shouted into his headset, “Gas them! Gas
them! Gas them! Full dispersal of riot agents immediately!” He knew that the
troops outside the armored vehicles wouldn’t have a chance to mask up but he
was counting on their training to buy them the time they needed. Civilians
wouldn’t have that training and the gas should shut them down immediately.
Clouds of smoke billowed out from each of the tanks and obscured any chance of
seeing what could be happening to the troops on the line.
At
video display terminals across the country, governmental leaders sat at the
edge of their seats, holding their breath; hoping against all evidence they’d
seen to this point that the riot control gas would work as the men using hoped
it would.
The
problem is, that riot control agents were meant to be used against people with
functional nervous systems.
They
weren’t engineered to be used against the dead
As the smoke drifted from the scene
it was very clear that things had gotten even worse. The Abrams tanks were
completely covered with people working feverishly to wrest the LRAD units from
the turrets. Whole sections of the line had been torn apart and what could be
seen of the police command center was being dismantled by waves of humans
trying to get inside. Small groups of people could be seen attempting to
maintain cohesion as they came under assault by the mass of attackers. The
crews of the 113’s had unbuttoned and attempted to bring down the numbers of
the undead now engaged in their killing frenzy with their SAWs. Not even
sweeping the crowds with 7.62 death was enough to stop them, as a matter of
fact it didn’t slow them even the slightest bit and the crews had been torn
from the personnel carriers and ripped to shreds.
Inside the turret of the command car Lt. Franken was
frozen by the scene, nothing they’d thrown at these people had made any
difference and the channel linking him to his own commanders was silent,
whether from the antenna being ripped from the vehicle or … something else … he
didn’t even want to guess. He was in a quandary, they had the best equipment,
state of the art, the best troops possible and police officers with tactical
gear that knew no equal in the free world.
But
they were being decimated by a force armed with nothing more than bare hands
and teeth …
So he sat there frozen
by the horror and ferocity of the scene before him, right up until the camera
was disconnected; rendering his only contact with the outside world the IVRS
and the turret’s periscope. As he sat there, protected by the steel cocoon around
him a voice came over the IVRS. A voice with screaming and weapons fire as it’s
background, a voice of relative calm within the sea of insanity.
“Lieutenant …”
He stared unbelieving
at his microphone …..
“Lieutenant, are you still there?”
Dully, he replies, “Yes
….”
“Have you got any resources left, son?”
“No sir ….”
“Then run them over with the armor, run the bastards the
fuck …” then the headset went dead.
A moment passed and
then he keyed the microphone again, “ All units, all units, if you can hear me
… if you’ve nothing else … begin rolling on the bastards, I say again, if you
have nothing else left, roll the bastards into the ground, move, move move!” He
switched to the internals but the Abrams was already moving, he could almost
see the Staff Sergeant grinning, “ ‘bout damned time you woke up, sir …” the
immense vehicle swung in a neutral pivot, “… let’s get some …”
Slowly, ponderously, the massive vehicle put its treads
into motion. Rolling forward after the riot barrier was raised and retracted
into place. There were slight hesitations that caused the hydraulics to whine
slightly as ‘obstructions’ were encountered; then summarily crushed under the
alloyed steel plate. Soon, however, the Abrams was freed of obstacles and
moving.
As it swung past the former riot line Lt. Franken became
concerned with how little he could see of what was going on outside. They were
in a close combat situation but there was no way to discern who the ‘bad guys’
were or how to find their own troops. Clicking over to the internal intercom
system again he asked his driver, “Williamson, how the hell do we keep from
running over our own men?” Brief laughter answered him before the sergeant
responded, and the tracks swung in another neutral pivot … swerving noticeably
past the point where the sergeant had stopped the tracks,
“Sir, when I was with
the 2/64th we didn’t worry too much about the support troops …” the
transmission made its protest evident as the sergeant suddenly stopped; the
vehicle slid forward about two feet and then just as suddenly reversed
direction, “… they were taught to keep eyes on us and follow our lead, no
matter how crazy it looked …” The sergeant then put the tank through a series
of sharp starts and stops followed by a few turns. Every time he did so, the
response of the vehicle seemed to get a bit sloppier, a bit more ‘mushy’.
“The only people with anything to worry about are the
people trying to do us good people harm …” he then threw the vehicle into a
sudden reverse spin.
Despite being fairly
certain he knew the answer Lt. Franken looked out the periscope mounted in
front of him, it was completely obstructed by, something. Pounding could be
heard on the hatch,
“Sergeant, why exactly does the tank’s response appear to
be getting sloppier?”
Grim laughter followed
by, “Trust me sir, you just don’t want to know …”
A moment of thought …
and Lt. Franken was sure that he knew the reason … the realization was causing
his stomach some issues.
Shortly after the
line of men attempting to quell the perceived riot was over run, all video feed
from the vehicles assigned to the ‘problem’ was completely cut off. Video feed
from remote cameras and personal helmet cams was spotty at best, coming in, in
fits and starts while occasionally cutting out entirely. Most of the view was
obscured by the rush of bodies through the area but when the video signal was
clear, one thing was shockingly clear.
The human race was in serious
trouble
The cameras showed each man, or
woman, who’d taken on the duty of defending the city being mobbed by more
attackers than anyone could have imagined. They were literally being buried by
the sheer numbers of attackers and not one of the firearms they had brought
into play were making even the smallest dent in the numbers.
Even those occasions when there was
a clearly visible hit no blood was evident and the bullet didn’t do much more
than push the attacker back momentarily; who then resumed attacking what, or
who, ever was immediately in front of them. Several of the rioters could be
seen to have been shot down by the powerful M240/B machine guns mounted on the
113 personnel carriers; the seven point six two rounds having literally ripped
their bodies in two …. but it didn’t do much more than slow them down, even cut
in half they continued towards their intended targets.
The
worst of it though, the most horrifying aspect of the entire scene set before
the governmental observers wasn’t necessarily the ferocity or the determination
shown by the rioters. There was an aspect to it all which chilled them to the
bone …
The
rioters were not only attacking the people before them with everything they
had; they didn’t just rip limbs off and bite their throats open. One aspect of
the attack left every politician watching wanting desperately to be told the
entire thing was a sham, a con job. A cheap and tawdry way to elicit more funds
for the police and military; if they’d thought for a minute that everything
would come to an immediate halt on the delivery of additional funding for those
stalwarts they would have signed the bill and delivered the checks themselves.
You
see, the rioters weren’t just killing the soldiers and police … they were, they
were … well … eating … them.
There
were occasions where something happened and a rioter would go down; then stay
down but those were few and far between. Camera resolution was not sufficient
to show what the difference might have been so they were left with a hope that
something was possible but no information as to what that was which made the
difference. That information would have to wait for the after action
investigation.
Which didn’t appear to have a chance
of happening any time soon.
On the battlefield, Lt. Franken and SSgt. Williamson had
an even worse view. Despite the sergeant’s best efforts their periscopes were
completely obstructed by the people who were mobbing them; attempting to batter
their way through the Chobham armor and, well, do something to the people inside
the tank. Even more worrisome were the sounds coming from the turbine driving
them and the readings from his gauges. The driver was doing his best but even
with the advanced skills he could muster there didn’t seem to be any way to
avoid their attackers, let alone defeat them. Eventually, the air inside grew
close and the protesting turbine had to be shut down or risk the destruction of
their engine.
Even through the six hundred millimeters of armor the
angry crowd could be heard howling for their blood …. and flesh.
Inside the now
overheated vehicle the two men looked at each other resignedly, both are
exhausted at all levels. Neither one is certain what to do or even if anything
can be done. SSgt. Williamson removes his helmet, laying back against the cold
steel of the tank’s hull; closing his eyes and undoing the top of his shirt and
body armor. Lt. Franken takes his headset off; tossing it to the floor as he
leans against the tank commander’s post. Both men are silent for a few moments.
Without opening his eyes the older man sticks his hand
out and says, “My name’s Frank, I worked in Commo before I got a taste for
these big bitches … went from being a boy to being a man on C’s and then heavy
metal …” The younger man took his hand, shaking it and says, “I’m David … I’ve
got two of the best little girls a man can have and another baby on the way. We
never thought this would be anything other than a way to have some extra money
in the house …”
“Two and a half
kids, huh?”
“Yep”
“Guess that means your wife is pretty damned good lookin’
too …”
“You know it Frank, you damn sure know it ….”
More time passes while
the two men sit there, silent …
“I had a wife once …”
Minutes pass before the
lieutenant asks, “Mind if I ask what happened?”
“She just wanted the bennies and the green card …”
“Damn …”
“Yeah …”
The crowd outside the
stalled vehicle continue their clangor as the two men sit quietly. The air
grows increasingly stale inside the tank. After the humidity can be felt
increasing the two men lock eyes, staring at each other as naked as two men can
be when faced with the fury of nature.
Almost two quietly, too
calmly SSgt. Williamson asks, “So David, got any ideas on how we can get you
back to your wife and kids?”
“None at all, you got anything?”
“Not a damned thing”
Frank removes a cigar
case from his fatigue pocket, pulls one out and inhales the aroma of it deeply
before looking at David, “You mind?”
“Got another?”
“You smoke?”
“Nah, but I was
planning on trying one before I die, anyway …”
Frank pulls another
cigar from the case, he shows the younger man how to clip the cigar and light
it; then they sit there watching the roof of the tank. Listening to the
screaming and pounding on the outside of the hull; wondering how many of their
company are left. Time drags on as the air becomes increasingly stuffy and
smoke filled.
Finally, Frank stands, as best as he can in the cramped
quarters of the tank; then walks over to one of the storage compartments lining
the walls. As he puts his hand on the catch he says, “You know, I would have
preferred to die in bed with some woman half my age, twice as smart as Dr.
Suzuki and good looking enough to make my ex jealous as hell …” he undoes the
catch, looking at the duffel bag stuffed inside, “… but, I guess we don’t
always get much say in the shit, do we?” He pulls the duffel out, setting it on
the floor between the two of them before crouching down and unclipping the lock
ring, “I was saving this stuff for my retirement, a way to have some fun every
now and then, remembering some of the guys I knew when we still used these …”
Reaching inside the bag he pulls out a pair of M3A1 submachine guns, “They
phased these out back in ’92 but I had an armorer friend of mine slip me the
parts for these two. A part here, a part there, no one ever noticed …” Two
magazine pouches followed as the sergeant walked his lieutenant through the
process of loading and charging the automatic weapons. “These babys’ll spit
lead at about four hundred or so rounds a minute …” Williamson smiled at
Franken, “… it should make quite an impression on our new friends …” he hands
the second magazine carrier to the lieutenant who gravely fixes it to his web
gear.
Frank
eases the duffel over to get the last few items out of it, four pineapple style
hand grenades, David looks from the grenades to Frank, “Will those things even
still fire?” Frank shows David the top of the grenade, “Took the old fuses out,
rethreaded the top and then installed modern fuses …” carefully he hands two of
them to David, “I also removed the original explosive and filled them with PETN
…” he smiles as the lieutenant comprehends what this means, “Yeah, they’re
probably somewhere around one and a half times more powerful than they used to
be …” he tosses one of them in his hand, catching it, “… just make sure you’re
not where they’re going to land when you throw them …”
After
gearing up, the two crouch at the base of the commander’s stand looking at each
other. David breaks the silence, “Frank, I just want to tell you …” The larger
man grins and claps him on the shoulder, “Yeah, I know …. same here …. “ he
looks up at the hatch, “So what do you say we go get some fresh air?”
Back at the White House the command
center is buzzing with activity. Murmuring conversations as information is
exchanged, sorted, collated, digested and instructions are given. Cleveland,
Ohio isn’t the first but for some unknown reason it is the worst. All the
activity centers on the group of people seated at a ‘U’ shaped marble table in
the center of the room. A monitor and keyboard mark each seat; while food and
drink dominate the center edges of the table.
Even the coffee in the insulated
carafes has gone cold and no one has noticed enough to order more out.
The center position is held by
POTUS and she is at a loss about what to do, this is something that no one
could have prepared her for; even her grandfather was at a loss as to what
would be her best option. He’d been a Navy officer himself and was loathe to
order troops in without them having every tactical advantage he could produce
for them.
It was maddening …
The equivalent of two reinforced
companies cut down without the opposing force losing any discernible number of
their own people. As a matter of fact their numbers seem to have increased.
Resting her hands on the table in front of her she bows her head and prays as
she searches within her mind for a possible solution to this ugly, ugly
problem. The men around her remain silent, they learned during her first term
how harsh her tongue could be when she was disturbed unnecessarily. While Madam
President had never taken to the field as her grandfather had done, she too was
a graduate of Annapolis.
Without moving she asks, “Have the
comm’ links been re-established?”
Punching
the keys on his terminal an admiral checks; then looks up at her, “No ma’am …
everything is still down …”
"General Trasker, does Space Command
have any recon satellites in the area?”
"Yes ma’am, we began positioning
some of the SMDC series as soon as the situation began to get ugly, the visual
isn’t the highest resolution we’ve got, but it is the quickest eyes we can get
on the problem ….”
“Problem? Hmmmm …. I suppose that’s
one way to refer to it … put it up on the situation board as soon as they’re
available …”
“Yes ma’am”
Inside the tank the two men position themselves on either
side of the hatch. Grinning, Frank puts his hand on the release handle; then
looks at David, “Are you ready for this?” David takes a deep breath then
re-positions the two grenades in his hand. Making certain the levers are firmly
against his palm he pulls the pins and nods.
Inside the Command
Center General Trasker checks his terminal once again and finds that the
satellites are available. His hands fly over the keyboard as he first sends the
image he’s seeing to the main screen that dominates the center of the room.
Silence grows throughout the room as he increases magnification without waiting
for the order from his Commander.
He understands what she needs to see
…
He needs to see the same thing
himself, what happened?
Why was there no response from their
men?
As
the image closes in on ground level gasps are heard throughout the room, the
image grows closer and several people are heard choking then leaving the room.
Others begin crying and one brave soul even empties the contents of his stomach
into a nearby wastebasket. Those who remain in control of themselves are
transfixed by what they see and cannot remove their eyes from the scene
developing before them.
When
at last the view is as close in as it will get General Trasker whispers,
“That’s it, that’s all the more magnification we can get from these …”The
Commander in Chief is stunned by what she can see and tells him, “That’s fine
General, I think we can see quite enough …”
The scene spread before them could
have been from some drugged imagining by Dante himself. All across the area
death, carnage, both words paled into insignificance against what they saw.
Bodies ripped apart and partially eaten, other bodies bitten until they bled
out and having done so while they tried to crawl away from their attackers.
Many of the attackers had been turned into a fine liquid pulp that even from
Low Earth Orbit appeared to be inches deep. The graveyard and surrounding area
had been turned into a blood soaked wasteland. Armored vehicles which had once
been the hope of the assembled politicians and staff officers were scattered; their
high tech weaponry ripped from them by method or means unknown. Their cooling
vents appeared to be obstructed, although the magnification wasn’t enough to
insure a clear view, by bodies and body parts having been forcefully rammed
into them. Two of the tanks had even caught fire, possibly from their drivers
attempting to clear the vents. Their turbines burned fiercely until at last the
magazine of one exploded from the heat; the flare from it lighting the entire
screen briefly.
The rioters were wandering the area,
seemingly unconcerned by anything that had happened. No one could be certain
but their numbers appeared to have increased.
“Who do we have in the area?”
“Ma’am?”
“I want regular Army and Marines
sent in … don’t give me any talk about Posse Comitatus, this is far beyond
anything they might have imagined when they wrote that …”
“Ma’am, are you sure that’s the best
…”
That’s
when they became aware of action on the screen; lacking any true detail they
couldn’t tell who it was, they couldn’t see the faces or much more than just
the uniforms and the apparent race of the two men. But they could see the
action.
Without
warning the tank commander’s hatch on one of the Abrams flew open knocking back
one of the rioters still attempting to get into it. Then a couple of small
objects flew out; although they might have been hand grenades they detonated
with unexpected force, knocking several of the attackers back from the stalled
vehicle. Then the two men inside clambered out, automatic weapons firing at the
rioters around them.
It was all for nothing though …
The rioters converged on the two
men, first ripping them from the tank and then ….. the screen went black.
Everyone
turned to look, Madame President had taken over the console and shut down the
public screen. The color was draining from her face as she watched the fate of
the two men. Without looking up she quietly said, “I want every available
soldier to assemble on that area, I want every available law enforcement
officer on that line, I want those rioters, those ….. things ….. driven back to
whatever hell they crawled out of …”as she looked up from the terminal a tear
could be seen to fall from her eye, “… and I want the names of every soldier
and every officer who was down there, on my desk, in five minutes …”
No one said a word as she turned and
left the room.
Cannon to the right of
them, cannon to the left of them
Cannon
in front of them, volley’d and thunder’d
Storm’d
at with shot and shell,
Boldly
they rode and well,
Into
the jaws of Death
Into
the mouth of Hell
Rode
the six hundred