In the aftermath and in anticipation of a devastating attack on the modern medical industry we've come to enjoy (whether or not we take it completely for granted), I find my own recent history important, and more so in relation to that of many of you.
In the summer of 2013, I began noticing that I was becoming breathless after walking, say, a quarter of a mile or so on a gentle uphill grade. I had to do a quite a bit of walking during the course of my day's work. I didn't think a lot of it; I wrote it off to just getting older.
Following my normal routine, I had an appointment with my ophthalmologist to check my interocular pressure, which had been running borderline on the high side. During my usual chat with the doctor during the procedure, I happened to mention my recently noticed difficulty with walking. She asked further questions about it and ultimately suggested that I see my primary care doctor and discuss it with him.
At first, I said, "Oh pshaw!" in my head, then after another couple of days of work, I decided to check it out. The upshot was that my doctor told me I should get an imaging check. After shooting me up with a radioactive solution and closing me into the imaging bed, I was told I had blockages in my arteries and would need stents.
After further examinations, they said stents could not be used, because the blockages were too close to the "Y's" in the arteries. I would need bypass surgery.
The next morning, while lying on the OR table, I mentally prepared myself to die. I have a will, so I wasn't too worried for my wife, and my two boys are all grown up and on their own. The anesthesiologist stgarted sticking needles in my arms.
y wife tells me I fought to remove my tubes and stuff from my face and had to be restrained for a while to keep from hurting myself. I recall none of this. I finally came around in a room full of monitors, plastic bottles and tubes, the tubes all sticking into my arms. My lovely wife Debbie was there, and I was exceedingly happy to see her--especially when I remembered that I wasn't sure I'd ever see anything again!
After several more days of intensive care, restricted, then gradually less restrictive movement and horribly bland food, I was released to three months of home rehab and recuperation. Then, it was back to work on a light work status for a while.
There were a couple of setbacks during that period; one of them pretty serious. I endured it under great care bu doctors and nurses, and by my wife after I was able to go home.
Why should I be dead? Absent the caring work of the people at the hospital, and the doctors I still see occasionally to this day, i would never have lasted this long. I would be dead.
It's for this reason I despise the debacle they call Obamacare and any other government intrusions into medicine. To have faceless, uncaring bureaucrats making bull-in-a-china-shop decisions about life and death matters the medical industry deals with in a thoughtful manner is the height of barbarismn. It would have killed me, and many of my friends.
Thursday, March 21, 2013
The Thirteenth chapter of my new novel. Thanks for reading, and all comments are welcome.
Wayne C. Grantham
“You don’t take a bullet for your partner, Dogface! You keep him, and yourself, from getting shot!” came over the helmet radios, at the close of the exercise.
“I got hit in the back of my thigh with one of those hockey pucks of theirs,” Annette said, trying in vain to rub the bruised area through the stiff plastic body armor that covered her body.
“That’ll teach you to keep your....thighs down,” Mars chuckled. “I know what you mean though. I took one in the ribs.
“Two more weeks of this shit, then we get our battle suit training,” Mars reminded Annette between deep breaths as they slogged through the sand toward the armory. She looked very much like a more slender version of him in their Star Wars-inspired plastic body armor.
As they struggled along, very tired after the drills, Mars remembered his realization that the deep, dry sugar sand was part of the day’s workout. He hadn’t found any reason to alter that thought.
“Be careful what you wish for,” she said around her own huffing and puffing, “My brother went through training last year. He said that the first couple of weeks of battle suit training are the hardest part.”
“So I’ve heard,” Mars said, breathing almost in rhythm with Annette as they left the sand and climbed a rocky hill to the armory. “But it gets us where we want to be.”
The steep, broken slope antagonized what few muscles weren’t already on fire from the day’s abuse. They topped the hill, nearly staggering, and crossed a grassy field to the pavement surrounding the armory building. There were a couple of members of the day’s training group entering the armory ahead of them, some already inside and others strung out behind. Finally, they stepped through the open door into the locker room. Several trainees from other platoons were pulling their armor off, or were in various stages of partial dress.
“I’m still not used to your co-ed locker rooms.” Mars admitted in a voice only his partner could hear. He pulled his helmet off and started unclipping the plastic armor on his arms.
Annette did likewise. “C’mon partner,” she said with a smirk and a chuckle. “You’re too old not to have seen a girl naked.”
As he removed the chest plate from his shoulders, Mars could see that he’d dropped a few pounds and built a little muscle since the beginning of his militia training. Annette, a full fifteen years younger than Mars, revealed a beautiful figure--both very feminine and muscular as she stripped off her armor and the padded underwear that was worn underneath. Mars tried not to stare, though his eyes kept wandering back, as they always did. There were a couple of other women in the process of changing to street uniforms, making Mars’ attempts at nonchalance require serious concentration.
Mars emerged from the shower to find that many had dressed and left the locker room, to be replaced by several of those who had been following him to the armory building.
“Old timer,” said a twentyish fellow four inches taller than Mars. “Aced out early again, I see. Ya have to keep up, Bob! Keep yer ass down.”
“You’re just slow, Beanpole,” Mars returned as he pulled on his drawers. He tried for a smile, even though the gut really was annoying. “That last hill too much for you? All this grown man stuff wears you out early, eh?”
Annette picked that moment to step out of the shower room, blonde hair brushed out and her towel draped carelessly over her shoulder.
“Hey, Chula!” yelled the tall militiaman. “Whadya want with a partner old enough to be yer papa?”
“Shut up, Oscar!” She glared, walking over to her locker. “Mars is a man who’s seen the elephant. I’d rather have him at my back than a neophyte like you!”
“Bullshit!” Oscar started pulling off his armor. “He’s old. He won’t be able to keep up.”
“Oscar, Mars has been in fights with men who shoot back. For real.” She angrily began pulling her fatigues on. “You’ve never been in a gunfight with real bullets, and without armor. He has. He’ll be watching my back while you’re diving for the nearest rat hole.”
Oscar threw down his torso armor, which bounced of a bench and clattered across the floor. He stepped over to where Annette, still without her shirt, stood her ground.
Mars, dressed except for his boots, stepped between them.
“Drop it, Beanpole!” he said, “You don’t want to get your blood smeared all over these clean lockers.”
Oscar aimed a fist at Mars’ chin. Mars ducked under it and kicked Oscar’s feet out from under him, helped by the slipperiness of the wet tile floor. Oscar caught himself on one knee and got up quickly, only to meet two short punches, one to the jaw and the other to the solar plexus.
Oscar fell back, gasping for breath. Oscar’s partner, who was a few years older, stepped up. He held up his open hands.
“That’s enough, Mars.” Mars held his guard and took a small step back.
“We’re all on the same side.” He turned to his partner, who had gotten up. “You’re out of line, Oscar. Drop it.”
“Bullshit!” Oscar said, but dropped his fists. He turned away, and continued undressing.
Mars and Annette stepped away, toward their lockers. “You don’t have to fight my battles for me, Mars.”
“Hey, I’m your partner, ain’t I?”
“Yes, but I’m your equal, and I could’ve handled him.”
“Y’know, I think you could,” he chuckled. “Another thing I’m still not used to--women being able to handle themselves in a fight among men.”
“Men are bigger and stronger,” she said, tucking in her fatigue shirt. “Women have to be quicker and smarter. Our boss is among those who study ways we can accomplish this. I’ve been studying under her for five years.”
Mars held his hands up in mock surrender. “I’ve drilled hand-to-hand with Juanita. Please don’t ever get mad at me!”
Mars took a step. Unused to the length of the step of the battle suit, he stepped right into a wall, and lost his balance and fell. Reflexively, he put out a hand to break the fall. The hand broke the fall, but still off balance, he toppled over onto his back.
“Sonuva bitch!” he yelled, as he scrabbled on the smooth pavement with his hands and feet to try and turn over. They had just buttoned him into his first battle suit, and verbally explained the sensors and controls, as they had earlier in the training process, using animations, training miniatures and mockups. It was his first attempt at taking a step in the actual machine. “Now what do I do?”
“Stop!” Sarge ordered. His voice came to him over his suit’s internal speakers. “Pause and think, for now. Later, you won’t have to, but for now, take it slow and think about each move.
“This goes for all of you, he continued. You move in a battle suit just as if you aren’t wearing one. It becomes an extension of your body. A step in a battle suit is just like a step in your street duds. Just remember, in a battle suit, you’re eight feet tall. You’re a dozen times stronger and can move twice as quickly. Your legs are a foot or so longer. Your arms are a half a foot longer--more with certain weapon options.”
Sarge paused. He looked at Mars’ in his suit lying in an unnatural position on the pavement.
“Ok. Mars. Here’s what you do. Roll over exactly as you would if you weren’t wearing the suit. Wait! Do it slowly, deliberately and use your eyes to keep track of your position.”
Mars brought his arms back as he lifted himself. He slowly attained a seated position. He twisted his torso and threw his right arm over. With a clatter and bang, he fell to an elbows-and-knees position.
“Not bad,” Sarge said. “You’ll make it smoother with practice. Continue....slowly.”
Mars drew his knees up under his torso and lifted himself with his arms until he was in an upright kneeling position. As he lifted one knee up to plant a foot, he almost fell over again, but he put the knee back down.
“Good. You’ll have to do that while maintaining your balance with your torso and arms, so you can come to a full standing position. Try it again.”
He put his hands down to steady himself, and pulled one knee up, then the other. He pushed his torso up with his arms and straightened his legs. After tottering around a bit to regain his balance, he stood upright, and still.
“That seemed clumsy as hell. I hope I can smooth it out a mite.” Mars said.
“You will,” said Sarge. “All of you will. The other way to get to your feet is to roll over on your belly, then do a push-up with your arms, and then pull your knees up under you. It becomes second nature.
“The key is to get used to your size, then move in your normal fashion. Women, you won’t look like women. Any of you can disguise your public voice, if you want, and make yourself sound like a man, a woman, a cartoon character or even like Iron Man. You even have a sound effects chip so that you can make a siren sound, or a foghorn blast or any of several other sounds to get people’s attention.
“A standard hand grenade might knock you down, and if a piece of it hits near a joint, it can immobilize that joint, but it won’t hurt you. Neither will most standard bangers. But remember: an armor piercing round can pierce your armor and kill you. It’s never a good idea to stand up under fire and make yourself a target. You have to remember at all times that you’re not invincible.”
“I want you all to try some careful walking. You all saw how Mars handled it. Try to avoid his mistakes. Anyone falls over, get back up. You’ll certainly have to learn to get up off the ground quickly in the field.”
Later, after each soldier had a chance to get somewhat accustomed to walking in his battle suit, they maneuvered themselves into the suit storage warehouse, all of them walking, somewhat clumsily. As Mars and Annette entered the building together, he put his radio on private. “Not bad, for a rookie, eh Partner?”
“Not bad yourself,” Annette returned. “’Specially since Sarge picked on you first.”
They both backed themselves into their parking spots and popped the backs of their suits. Tubes and wires came loose from their bodies as the suit opened itself. Restraints at their knees, feet, shoulders and elbows loosened to allow them to wriggle free and step out of the machines.
“It isn’t as tough as I thought it’d be, although I could seriously do without the catheter connection.” Mars said, stepping back onto the platform. He rubbed his chest, then his face and neck where sensor pads had left indents in his skin. Annette stepped out, similarly massaging her skin.
“Time’ll come when you’ll be glad for it. We still have a lot to learn, Mars,” she said. “And that’s even before we get any weaponry.”
“Yeah, Partner, but now, we’re beginning to know what to expect.”
As other members of the platoon shucked their battle suits, and various soldiers went in and out of the showers, similar talk was evident around that part of the warehouse. After Mars and Annette dried themselves off and dressed, Annette turned to leave.
“I’m going to the mess to get a beer. Join me?”
“Uh, no thanks, Partner. I, uh, have to meet someone.”
Annette, puzzled, watched Mars leave the dressing room as if in a hurry, without looking at her.
Three platoons, including that of Annette and Mars, were assembled in a ready room, with Sarge at the front.
Video was onscreen, showing a pair of soldiers patrolling in battle suits through Training Town. A robot appeared in a window with a grenade rifle. It fired; the grenade hit one of the soldiers, who staggered back a couple of steps and had to catch himself against a wall to keep from toppling over. His partner opened up a machine gun mounted over his shoulder, and fired about twenty or so bangers into the window. The robot disappeared.
The screen paused.
“The shoulder mount automatic sells for one and one-half gold ounces, and should be carefully considered,” Sarge lectured. “It’s powerful enough to get to your adversary without taking out the building. It can be loaded with anything from bangers and armor-piercing to lead or steel bullets or even rubber bullets, with the appropriate barrel.”
He pressed a remote and another scene began to play. Two battle-suited soldiers were confronted by a tank armed with a rapid-fire cannon. The cannon fired four rounds, at which point the battle suited solders leaped straight up thirty feet, arcing in different directions as the cannon shells exploded near where they had been.
The two airborne soldiers flanked the tank as they reached the apex of their leap, and each fired a rocket from a weapon on his waist. The tank burst like a can of water hit by a bullet, then burned with a number of secondary explosions.
The two soldiers landed on their feet thirty feet apart from each other. Once again, the video paused.
“In this one, the men have waist-mounted bazooka tubes. They hang down against the thigh when not in use, but tilt up to fire. Extra rockets are attached at the small of your back, and the tube has to be manually reloaded by the soldier’s partner. The rockets can be armor piercing, as shown here, or any of a number of others: tear gas, star shells, incendiaries, trank gas, smoke, etc. Also, the suits are outfitted with anti-grav kits, which your training suits didn’t have. They’re a fairly new accessory, fitted at no extra charge, to allow the soldier to leap away from sudden danger. We’re working on better power packs, so the soldier can stay airborne longer. Sometime soon, we want to make them flying suits, to fly as well as a car.
“The bazooka outfit will set you back a little over two ounces, depending on your choice of rockets.” Sarge turned off the video. “I’m letting you go a little early this afternoon. Pick up the manufacturers’ brochures for the weapon systems that interest you, look ‘em over, and I’ll answer questions tomorrow. Have a good.”
As the militiamen perused the stacks of brochures, Annette paused over a flyer for a forearm-mounted small caliber minie gun. It showed a headline “Fires 50 .12 Caliber flechettes per second.” She picked it up and slipped it into her bag.
Over the next several days, after the troopers received their own battle suits with the weaponry installed, they learned to operate the weapon systems and began working on proficiency. Toward that end, they were supplied with underpowered ammunition and had live ammo battle drills.
The got the feel for using their new ordnance, as well as the feel of getting hit by bullets and explosives.
“Ok, troopers! It’s the same town you’re accustomed to, but that’s where the resemblance ends.” Sarge spoke through the internal intercom of his battle suit. “Your enemy’s small arms will be live hardballs, which you’re all familiar with. RPG’s, bazookas and other explosive weapons will be underpowered, but will still pack a pretty good wallop. They may knock you down, and for the purposes of this drill, will be considered a kill.
“Those who do get ‘killed’ will return for further training.
“You’ve been in these suits long enough now, that you’re pretty good at all aspects of their use. You’ll get better, with continued practice. This is your body, while you’re in the field; take care of it. I don’t expect to see any of you ‘killed.’ I do expect to see a lot the enemy killed.”
The platoon, having boarded its APC and clicked the battle suits’ wrist grapplers to the overhead grab bars, tapped into the van’s cameras to observe conditions in the streets of the “town,” and to look for heavy arms. The battle suit’s computer made a map from the observed data, with which the militiaman could find his way through the streets and alleys more easily.
As is commonly done, the APC broadcast a statement requesting immediate surrender, then put down at a clearing at the edge of the training ground. The platoon spread out in six pairs and entered the “town” at several locations.
Mars called up his map, which showed not only the locations of the other militiamen, but the locations of the emplacements that had been seen from the air. He spoke privately with Annette.
“We’re headed toward that laser emplacement east of here. We’ll follow this street for about ten blocks. The map calls it B Street. See it?”
“Aye. Be careful, Mars,” she advised. “Keep watch for small stuff on the way. Slowly, now. Eyes and ears!”
Other men followed other streets, generally moving in the same direction, out of sight of each other to minimize losses. Mars and Annette took opposite sides of the street, staying close to the buildings or any other cover that appeared.
As they moved about a hundred yards along the street, Annette saw motion. “Movement your side first floor, second window.” Making herself a target, Annette stepped out toward the house.
“Careful, Partner. Several hotspots.”
Annette placed her infrared scanner on screen two. “I see them.”
Annette maintained position while Mars quickly moved around another building to the rear of the house.
“Come out where I can see you! No weapons!” Annette said on her PA speaker.
At the same moment, Mars burst through a rear door and aimed his gatling. There were six men inside. “Drop weapons,” Mars repeated the order.
Weapons hit the floor, but one robot lifted his rifle. Mars’ gatling fired a burst, which deactivated all six of the robots. Mars spoke to Annette, “All clear!” He emerged through the front door to the street.
Annette and Mars continued along the same way, carefully and slowly moving and scanning for any “life.” The buildings, which were mock-commercial and business, became mock residential: houses made of concrete for durability, with openings representing windows and with plain plywood doors. There were concrete and steel shapes representing trees, hedges and fences.
Mars halted. “Warm bodies. Eighty yards at ten o’clock.”
“Got ‘em! Pretty good-sized group, moving across. Should reach the street in a few seconds.”
Both soldiers moved behind cover, Annette behind a large “tree” and Mars at the corner of a wall.
As they watched, twenty-odd robots entered the street. Using magnification, it became clear that only six of the robots were armed and were covering the rest, who were unarmed and whose arms were immobilized with plastic ties.
“Lower your weapons and let your hostages move away!” Annette ordered over her public speaker.
The group stopped. “We will continue on. Firing on us will kill innocents.”
Internal radios: Aim carefully, Mars. You take the three on the right. Head shots.”
Six shots rang out almost as one. The six armed robots slammed to the pavement, their weapons clattering to the ground near their bodies. The robots representing innocent hostages continued across the street and out of sight.
Annette and Mars continued along the street, encountering an occasional sniper, uncovered by careful observation through their suits’ sensor array, and eliminated them. Eventually, they approached an intersection that would lead to the objective. Two of their platoon mates beat them to it, and jogged toward the intersection.
“Mars opened his platoon-wide communicator. “Careful, guys. Eyes and ears.”
Just as he said it, at least four dust-filled pops erupted at the two troopers feet. They were coated in pink dust. They stopped, paused, and walked back the way they had come. Killed.
“Partner, let’s check this out before we proceed.” Mars said as he pointed toward the location. Mars went back to one of the buildings they’d just passed and tore the door off its hinges. He slid it flat across the intersection. Several bangs and five or six plumes of pink dust erupted.
“We’ll have to jump over the intersection. You jump to the sidewalk over there,” Mars pointed. “And I’ll jump over there, directly across the street from you. Eyes and Ears!”
They jumped to their respective sides of the street and began moving carefully along the curb, using all of their sensors.
Their objective, a flag on a short pole attached to the end of a low block wall about three hundred yards down the street, could be seen, now that they had turned the corner.
“What do you think we should do,” Mars asked.
“It seems to get more perilous, the closer we get,” was Annette’s reply. “Yet, what else can we do but go to it, being careful as possible as we go.”
“Opposite sides of the street. Anything moves, holler. Jump, if you think you should,” Mars said, stepping off to cross the street.
Annette looked around carefully. “I don’t see anything yet. Moving....”
Mars paused to look carefully at both sides of the street ahead. “On your right. The second story window. I saw a change in the light. Keep looking around; I’ll watch the window.”
“I see a photo cell in the stoop of this next house. There’ll be another one on your side.” Annette found the cell and carefully stepped over it.
Mars moved carefully, keeping an eye on the window. “Nothing new at the window. Maybe the photo cell was to activate it. “
They moved slowly forward.
“Wait,” Annette stopped. “I hear something!”
“”Yes! I hear it.”
A low rumble is heard from ahead of them, out of sight around the next intersection. The rumble was getting louder. Both soldiers took cover around the corner of buildings, waiting to see what would appear. Mars loaded his mortar.
The machine entered the intersection two blocks ahead. It was like a tank, but smaller. Unmanned and remote controlled, Mars guessed. The tank turned and fired as Mars leaped across the street, landing near Annette. He fired a mortar round and, not waiting to see if it hit, popped a rocket into Annette’s bazooka. She fired. He followed it quickly with another. As she launched the second rocket, both of them leaped behind the nearby house and threw themselves down behind a concrete wall. The tank’s cannon round puffed behind them at the near edge of the street. No more shots were fired.
Mars activated the camera in his index finger and pointed it over the top of the wall, trying to see where the tank was and what it was doing. He saw two blue blotches on the side of the tank; one in the area of its track and the other on the turret, next to the cannon, in the joint between the turret and the body. In a real battle, it would have immobilized the turret and likely damaged the cannon itself.
According to the rules of the test, the tank was dead.
“We’d better stick close,” Mars said as they stood up and moved back into the street. “We may still need the bazooka.”
They moved along the street together, both monitoring their sensors carefully, moving closer to the dead tank.
A half-dozen armed robots dashed into the street and took cover behind the tank. They began firing hardball rounds, a few of which ricocheted off both their battle suits. They took cover behind the nearest house.
“Stay here and fire bursts to keep them down,” Mars said. “I’ll go around the house for a different angle.”
A grenade popped near Annette as Mars moved away. It was a miss, but showed that care was needed. A grenade hit would put one of them out of the game. He hopped over a wall and skirted the next house, putting himself a hundred feet nearer the tank, with a different angle of fire. He peeked.
He lobbed a mortar round to drop behind the tank. It was a close miss. Two of the robots ran from behind the tank--were shot by Annette. Mars corrected his mortar and fired again. Direct hit. All the robots were out of action.
“Come forward. Carefully!” Mars suggested. “I’ll cover you.”
She joined him as they continued their advance. Without any further resistance, they arrived at their objective, a flag flying from a pole, which was attached to the top of a low wall. Annette reached for the staff of the banner.
“Stop, Partner,” Mars stepped between her and the flag. “Let me look at this.”
Mars examined the flag with each of his sensing devices. His electric current sensor showed color in the flag’s staff. “There’s an electronic connection here.”
Mars raised his left hand toward the staff, and pointed his index finger. A needle-like shaft emerged, which Mars poked gently into the staff of the flag. After a few seconds, he removed the flag and stepped back.
“What was that? Annette asked.
“There was an electron flow which, if broken, would’ve triggered the explosion of a paint bomb which would’ve disqualified us both. I merely redirected the flow and cut the flag out of the circuit.”
“So....we win!” proclaimed Annette. “Or, I should say, you win. I was about to get us killed.”
Sarge’s voice came over the internal radio. “Congratulations, men. 86% of the militiamen tested get excited and grab the flag without a scan. Well done!”
“Marlowe, you’ve shown yourself to be very adept at maneuvering and handling obstacles in your battle suit.” Major Lopez, addressed the members of the platoon. “All of you did well, except for Privates Duke and Fernandez, who were disqualified. You’ll now graduate from the training. Eric Marlowe leads the class with his partner Annette O’Malley won the mock battle and thus start their careers as First Privates.
“As mentioned in your contract, we’ll have an overnight a month of practice/training and you can come to your armory anytime, with an appointment, and stay a few days to drill in your battle suits. You just have to schedule it so someone will be here to set up and run the range.
“Best if you can do this with your partner, so you can continue to learn to better work with each other.”
Sarge motioned to Mars and Annette as the group broke up to go back to the APC. “As your drill instructor, I’m going to grab first claim. I’d like both of you to join my platoon, if it’s agreeable. You’ll remain partners.”
Mars looked at the blank face of Annette’s battle suit. He put his radio private to her. “I’m good with this Partner, how about you?”
“Of course, Partner,” she said. He wondered if there was a hint of sarcasm in the way she answered him.
At the end of the training, after a shower and donning their street uniforms, there was a short ceremony in which they were formally accepted into the Freestate California Militia.
After everything was concluded, Mars and Annette left the auditorium together.
“So, how ‘bout a beer and a burger before we leave?” Annette asked Mars.
“Well, I, uh....”
Annette’s eyes flashed, she grabbed Mars’ arm and pulled him over against the wall.
“You know, Partner, you’re really starting to piss me off!” She dropped his forearm roughly. “Is there something wrong with you? Or is it me?”
“Do you want to pick a different partner? You haven’t called me by name since we were first paired together at Dos Rios....Partner!” She raised her voice at the last word enough that she drew some looks from other militiamen nearby.
“Ok, look Par...uh, Annette, I think the world of you,” he said in what he hoped was a soothing voice. “And, no. I absolutely do not want a different partner. Ok, let’s go down to the mess. I guess I owe you an explanation, and an apology.”
He took her arm gently, and guided her toward the door, but as they started walking, she pulled her arm free to keep a little space between them.
The enlisted mess had only a few occupied tables as they entered. It was between meals and most of the militiamen were leaving for other locations rather then opting for the mess. After they were seated, each with a beer, Annette, still with an angry look, asked, “Mars, I don’t get it. We work well together, we each hold up our end well, and we don’t fuck up. What’s going on?”
He took a big swallow of his beer. “When Juanita first suggested that I have a partner, I resisted it. I preferred to work alone. When she told me the person she had in mind was female, I resisted even harder. I didn’t need a woman to slow me down.
“Why? As a homicide detective, up in San Diego, I had three partners over a period of ten years. They’re all dead; killed while partnered with me.”
“Oh!” she muttered, eyes downcast. “I’m so sorry!”
“I spent a lot of time after each instance, wondering if there’d been anything I could’ve done to prevent it. Wondering whether I’d been alert enough. Wondering if I’d thought of everything before we went in.” He paused and continued. “Wondering why it wasn’t me.”
“You’ve been out of that place for months now,” she said, her hands clasped around her glass. She lifted it and sipped. “We’ve been partnered here for nearly six weeks, and longer, with Dos Rios. I’ve never complained or criticized you, because, well, dammit! You’re taking to Freestate life well and I’ve seen no mistakes in our work together. I only hope I cover you as well as you do me.”
“In California, we’re accustomed to the notion that we have to accept women in dangerous work like this for the sake of ‘equality,’ whether they’re any good or not. I’ll take it a step farther: you can’t criticize the women you work with either. Most women aren’t suited for police work. They’re not physical enough and they aren’t tough enough. Or they put on a false bravado that falls apart if they get slapped around a little.
“To my good fortune, all three of the partners I had in San Diego were good at their jobs. All three of them were men, which I used to think, was my good fortune. I didn’t have to worry that they’d fall apart over the breakage of a fingernail.”
Annette’s eyes involuntarily went to her fingertips, then she looked up. “A nail?”
“I’m serious! Or that they had the strength to pull me to cover if I was wounded. I always thought I was lucky. My partners weren’t.”
“So now, you’re worried about me.”
“Less now than at first. I know you’re strong and no shrinking violet. You handle yourself well. You’ve the makings of a fine fighting man, and I’d never wish for anything less.” The cook set their plates in front of them. Mars took a drink from his glass. “I just get nervous about a personal relationship with a working partner. Both here and at Dos Rios.”
“Because I’m a woman?”
“Well, yeah!” He looked into her eyes. “Partly. It’s frustrating as hell. We might have to run into an inferno together, and we might be killed. You....might be killed.”
“....And you might be killed.” She smiled an understanding smile, then reached over and patted his hand. She left her hand resting on his. “Mars, that could happen whether we’re together or not, and even if we were working in offices.”
“So, what’re we gonna do?” Mars said, looking into her eyes with a degree of discomfort.
“Well,” she said, noticing his unease, “we’re friends. We like each other. I’m sure you had that much of a relationship with your previous partners. I’m not here to trundle you off to bed, or anything like that. What d’you say to just hanging out more together and getting to know each other? I don’t like that wall you try to keep between us.”
“You don’t know how hard that wall has been to maintain.”
“Don’t look at me as a girl when I’m in the battle suit. I’m just as big, strong and agile and well-armed as you are. But, as you know, if we get to know each other in the field and off, we’ll become more powerful fighting together than both of us would be separately.”
“Well,” he said around a swallow of beer, “that really stokes my manly ego,” he chuckled, then more seriously, “but nothing would please me more.”
Annette laughed over the rim of her beer glass. Mars liked it when she laughed. “We can check out the other stuff as we go along--but we are partners in the militia. What kind of sports do you like?”
“Sports? To watch, or to play?”
“To play, of course! Watching is sitting on your ass!”
“Ok. I play catcher and first base in the police softball league. I can bowl....sorta.” He paused in thought. “I’m on top of the department in pistol combat and fair with a rifle. Not so good at skeet. I used to play hockey. I ski....”
“You play hockey?” she said with a nod of approval. “That’s cool! Er, so to speak. You have a good build for it.”
“I said I used to play. I haven’t had skates on in a few years. I haven’t skated since ice rinks were declared too high in energy use.”
“Bull!” She scoffed. “Wait’ll you see the rink in San Javier. We’ll fly over there tomorrow!”
“Well, I’ve never played hockey, but I skate for fun.” She finished off her beer. “I’ll get a car and pick you up at ten!”
Posted by Col. Hogan at 8:08 PM
Tuesday, March 05, 2013
The Twelfth chapter of my new novel. Thanks for reading, and all comments are welcome.
Wayne C. Grantham
Minutes later, out in the parking lot, they approach the HumVee.
“You expect us to be able to escape the forces of evil in this relic?” Smitty laughed.
“Careful! She’s sensitive.” Mars cautioned with a chuckle. “By the way, this was Ms MacDougal’s work truck.”
“How did you get hold of it?”
“I was a San Diego cop, remember?” Mars smiled a sly smile and held the keys in his open palm. “It’s actually a lot better vehicle than it looks like.”
Mars and Smitty drove away in the HumVee. Mars was at the wheel. He drove toward the freeway, fast. Mars got on the I-80 westbound and sped across town. A heavily used freeway, I-80 was in almost as bad repair as 94, down in San Diego. He turned down Old 99, southbound.
“No! Cut across here, to the airport,” Smitty pointed as they approached Fruitridge.
Mars maintained his speed without hesitation. “We'll never get away in your plane. They’d shoot us down before we got a hundred miles. We'll take the freeway.”
The HumVee raced south to get out of town as fast as possible.
“Think they won't be watching the freeways?”
“Old 99 has plenty of escape routes, all the way to Los Angeles--or into the desert.”
As they rolled along Old 99, they found that it was in really good shape. Less use, apparently. They were out of the Sacramento urban area in a matter of minutes.
Mars wondered briefly whether the punk was still stranded in Galt as they passed the road leading to the little town. Since traffic was nearly nonexistent late at night between the larger towns, they were able to make very good time.
“Ok. I've sent the data to Governor Hancock and your boss.” Smitty said, sitting back in the seat. He briefly closed his eyes, tired. “They can look it over, compare it with what they know about the California military, and make defense plans.”
As the HumVee rumbled through the southern edges of Modesto, a pair of headlights appeared in the rear view mirror. Mars noted the lights, was undisturbed. While traffic was very light in the wee hours, there was always the odd trucker or late-night traveler. He said nothing. Smitty, operating the in-dash computer, noticed nothing.
“What's the rest of their plan?” Mars asked.
“After they capture Pedro’s Power station, they plan to redirect the microwave beam to a ground station of their own, to both steal the station and its power output. Then, while Freestate is without most of its electrical generating capacity, they plan to follow up immediately with another surprise military attack.”
“How could they pull that off? They're cash strapped. Where are they gonna get a space ship?” Mars looked briefly at his passenger. “Freestate is rich, and tons of technology. There has to be more to this. You do have an army--?”
Smitty looked up. “We take it seriously, and we're good. It's just not our whole life. Plus, virtually the whole of the population goes armed.”
“It is their whole life.”
“Not really,” Smitty continued. “Theirs is a strictly gun controlled state. Almost no one handles weapons until he enlists. It’s much better to learn firearms handling and safety as a child.
“It’s almost universal that parents either teach their kids how to handle firearms safely and effectively. Most schools have self defense programs. I started....”
Lights flashed behind them. Smitty looked back.
Mars floored it. “I’ve been watching him. We'll outrun him.”
“Can't outrun a radio.”
“CHP's stretched thin in this part of the state. Probably not another one within twenty miles.”
“They could get local cops to help?”
“Agreed. Before we get to Turlock, we’ll get off 99 and take secondary roads. I know my way around here pretty well.”
Mars made a sudden turn onto a side road. The patrol car, still a good distance behind, followed.
“For a truck, this thing's surprisingly fast.”
“He's still there, and now he has a friend.”
Mars drove on calmly, unperturbed. “Well, we’ll have to see how well they drive off-road.”
The HumVee sped along a two-lane paved road. Two CHP cruisers followed, sirens wailing and lights flashing. Mars made a sudden turn onto an unpaved farm road, placing a stand of trees between the HumVee and the pursuing police. As he made the move, he reached for the headlight switch, bumping another nearby switch with the side of his hand.
When the two police cruisers made the turn, headlight beams, as shown in the dust left by the HumVee’s passage, bounced wildly up and down, side to side. As the HumVee’s headlights went out, the steering wheel suddenly came loose in Mars’ hands.
As Mars reflexively pulled the steering wheel toward his chest, the HumV servos whined and the car changed. The vehicle left the ground and began gaining altitude.
“What the fuck!? I hit a switch with my hand as I turned the lights out, and the truck went airborne!”
“Cool! This damn thing's a convertible! Keep lifting. They'll never figure out what happened to us.”
There were clicks of switches and whines of motors. The dash rolled up to reveal the aircraft-style instrument panel.
“This thing can fly? I don't know how to fly a plane. You take over.”
“You're flying it, and doing pretty well so far.” Smitty said. “Make all your moves carefully and gently until you get the hang of it. I’ll navigate, and I’ll guide you when need it. These are a lot easier to fly than old fashioned airplanes.”
Smitty reached over and flipped some switches and made adjustments on a pair of screens that lit up on his side of the dash. “Pull the yoke toward you to climb, away to dive--but gently. Otherwise, drive it like a car. I’ll help you. Turn the wheel slightly to the right.”
From the apparent movement of the lights on the ground and the feel of the HumVee, told Mars that they were describing a slow right-hand curve. He turned left, and swept back over to the left. Smitty spent a few minutes helping him understand the controls, and schooled him in the functions of the dials and gauges on the new dashboard that had appeared.
It was a clear night, and dark; the Cheshire cat moon already having set. The faint light from the stars was all he had to see by, and the sparse lights on the ground.
“I can’t see very much....”
“There’s not much to see. Watch your altimeter,” Smitty pointed. “And your heading. Keep between 250 and 270 degrees. We’ll head for the ocean.”
The craft continued to gain altitude.
“How high should I go?”
“Maybe we'd better get down a bit lower, so's not to get picked up by anybody’s radar.” Smitty pointed out a couple of slow-flashing red lights in the distance. “See those lights? They’re on top of towers, tall buildings--stuff like that. Go above ‘em, not between ‘em. And keep an eye out for the lights of other aircraft. Have you figured out how to get speed out of her yet?”
Mars took his foot off the gas pedal, airspeed dropped. He pressed down, more speed.
“Yeah. I think I like this flying stuff!”
“There are sensors and beacons in the car that warn against obstacles and hazards, but they'll only work in Freestate....but our radar works. You’re not accustomed to interpreting the radar yet, so I’ll do that. You’ll just use your eyes, for now.”
“Bring her down to about five hundred feet. Gradually. That should put us about three hundred or so from the ground. I'll watch radar and you keep it as low and as fast as you can without hitting anything. Watch for flashing red lights until we get over....Whoa! Climb!”
The pale shadow of a broken line materialized in windshield. Suddenly realizing that it was a ridgeline, Mars pulled back hard on the yoke. Simultaneously, there was an explosion near the top of the ridge, just as the HumVee passed over.
“Shit!” Mars yelled. “Gimme a little warning! You were supposed to tell me about hills and stuff.”
“Sorry! I was watching you instead of the radar.”
“And what was that fire?”
“How about doing a little evasive action? I think that was an air-to-air.”
“An air-to-air missile?!” Mars looked around, but there was nothing to see. “Why didn't it chase us?”
“Air cars don't radiate much heat. Apparently it was an old-fashioned one that didn’t have signature tracking.” Smitty said, also taking a quick look. “Good thing you swerved.”
Mars turned the wheel to the left, looking for an aircraft.
“I still don't see anything.”
“Be glad you can't. If he gets close enough to unlimber the Gatling, we're Swiss cheese.”
Mars swerved back to the right and dove behind the ridge.
“How're we gonna stay ahead of this guy. We can't see him, and he's sure to be a far better pilot than I am--than I'll ever be!”
“First, stay low and don’t fly in a....”
“Hey!” Mars pointed at automobile headlights on the ground ahead. “I’m pretty sure that’s Highway 101!”
Mars headed toward the sparse traffic line below.
“Can you land this thing?”
“No time like the present to find out.”
Smitty pointed. “On the dash, way over to your left, there’ll be a switch. It’ll drop the tires.”
“Yeah,” Mars flipped the switch. “The same one that got us airborne in the first place.”
The HumVee swooped down behind an eighteen-wheeler. The tires appeared and the car set down roughly, bounding and swerving. Panels folded away until the vehicle took on the appearance of a HumVee once again. The headlights appeared.
“As long as he didn't actually see our landing, we're good.”
Smitty heard a helicopter, craned his neck out the side window to look at the sky.
“There the bastard goes! He's on the same heading as we were.”
“Good. We'll cruise for a while, then go back up.”
“Gettin' kinda cocky, now?”
A couple of days later, in between appointments for interviews regarding his trip to California, Mars slid into a pub for a beer or two. He sat on a stool alongside a younger man in a militia uniform. When the drink he ordered was set before him, he turned to the soldier.
“Eric Marlowe. Folks call me Mars. Good job defending the coast,” he said, raising his glass.
“Good to meet you. I’m Corporal Hoshi Nagashima.” They shook hands. The soldier raised his own glass. “It wasn’t much of a battle, once we got mobilized,” he replied. They drank. “We lost some civilians, some of those caught at the landing sites. Sad, but they fought well.”
“Sad, indeed. But they kept the Californians dug in until you guys could get there. Brave folks!”
“Y’know?” the militiaman said, setting his glass on the bar and motioning for a refill, “I hear those California soldiers never get to learn to handle weapons until they actually join their army or get drafted. California established conscription a couple of years ago. How do they expect to put any kind of an army on the ground?”
“Yes. I’m told you start self defense training in your childhood downhere.” Mars said as he turned on his stool toward the younger man.
“Well, it isn’t exactly as simple as that. Kids whose parents send them to school get training in weapons and hand-to-hand almost from the start. Our parents start teaching us, well, most of us, at a young age, if they aren’t going to send us to school. My mum and pop started me when I was six, with a .22 revolver. I progressed to large-bore rifles and pistols before I started my teens. I took my first buck at fourteen, which pop taught me to skin and dress, and how to tan the hide and butcher the meat for the freezer.
“That was the same year I joined the junior militia and began my military training.”
“Impressive,” Mars said. “You’re a young guy.”
Hoshi took another pull from his glass. “Hoping to be a sergeant after we finish mopping the floor with the Californians.”
Mars found all this very strange. Then, thinking it through, he realized that most great military societies in history taught their youth use of weaponry and tactics and prepared them for war, almost from birth. On the other hand, this was not a military society....or was it?
California youth were taught, at home and in school, to hate and fear weapons of every kind. He knew from first hand experience that it was almost impossible to make a top fighting man out of a California youngster. Most of the younger police officers were afraid of their own handguns.
He varied from almost all Californians in that, as a teenager, he was taken by tales of hiking along the Sierra ridges and the trails running the length of California, through Oregon and Washington into British Columbia. It had become illegal to hike in the Sierras in the early 21st century for reasons of ecology, and because of the danger. The state could be liable for injuries by allowing inexperienced individuals to wander about in an unsecured environment. At the time, a license, with many rules regarding training, size of party, equipment to be allowed and sanitation methods to be employed, was required for short hikes along certain easy-to-reach portions of the wilderness.
Young Mars wanted none of that. He’d read the stories. He’d built animal traps and snares, setting them up in the back yard. He knew what he needed, and already had a lot of it from hikes he’d taken in the Cleveland National Forest during high school vacation periods. He’d worked illegally for months to get a few hundred dollars together to buy a backpack with the necessary gear and a few supplies.
After first buying his way into a day hike with a group from the Bay area, he later went on a three-day hike with a group of individuals, many of whom already had experience in the wild. As they hiked their way along the switchbacks, gaining elevation with each step, Mars observed and learned.
At one point, he slipped away from the group and wandered away on his own. He caught fish and snared small animals when hungry, and gathered nourishing nuts and berries that he’d memorized from his wilderness books at home. He made a game of avoiding the search parties for a full week, before faking a fall and allowing himself to be rescued. Everyone was so happy that he’d miraculously survived his ordeal.
Mars looked into his beer. Because of their inexperience of California’s youth, many guardsmen were recruited from the Midwestern states. More experienced with sporting arms and with the outdoors, they were offered a bonus to leave their home states to work in California. Disastrously, the officers were not.
“You’ve had an interesting upbringing, from my perspective,” Mars said. He took another drink from his glass.
The militiaman continued. “My parents weren’t as good as they thought they were at teaching the academic subjects. I’m bringing myself up to speed now, to fill in the areas in which they weren’t up to date. I’m studying on that in my spare time.”
Mars finished his beer. “You know, I think you’ve made some good choices. We in California should be allowed similar opportunities.”
“My wish is to enhance my life,” said the younger man with a smile. “Every generation better than the last, as they say.”
“Hoshi, in light of recent events, I think it would be good if I became a militiaman. How do I go about that?”
“You’re older than most, but there’s no upper age limit. There’s nothing to it, if you’re fit enough and smart enough not to be washed out. I expect you’ll make it. Be at the Hall Saturday morning at eight. Lysander and Revolucion.” Hoshi pointed. There’s training, then some drilling. After Sarge gets to know you, he’ll recommend a couple of units that might suit your interests. One of the units accepts you, and you it, you’re in.”
“Is that all there is to it?” asked Mars. “How do they decide whether to accept you?”
“Whether the unit’s shorthanded, will be their first priority.” Hoshi motioned to the bartender for two more beers. “You have any military experience? No, you don’t have to tell me. It's the captain who'll want to know.”
“Who’s this “Sarge” you mentioned?”
“Smartest on-the-ground soldier I’ve ever known,” Hoshi replied, respect clear in his eyes, “in my meager experience. He led the squad that held off the Mexican landing at Santa Rosalia in ‘38. He came up with a brilliant strategy, considering how little we knew about their military.”
During the months he’d been living in Freestate, he was continuing to learn how to live in Freestate. The people he met through work, the shop owners and Dos Rios clients he worked with, those at pubs, restaurants, lounges and other public places at which people gather--everyone had a very different outlook. While California working folk seemed depressed and lifeless, or hedonistic and manic, Freestaters appeared enthusiastic and creative. They worked hard at things they enjoyed doing and yet seemed always to have time and money for relaxation when they wanted.
They were immediately armed and ready to go to battle when a fight came to them, and because of this, Freestate was a very peaceful place to live. If there was trouble, it almost always involved a recent immigrant, who wasn’t yet accustomed to living among individuals who took the job of protecting their own lives, families and property as a given.
It was mostly men and women who just happened to be in the area that were able to foil California’s first attack on the west coast. The upcoming one would be a tougher fight, particularly if California succeeded at removing Freestate’s main power source. If their electric power went away, Freestate’s militia would have a very difficult time defeating the California Guard on its second attempt.
“We fight as individuals. We have a military structure, but we don’t employ the individuality-numbing regimentation that is traditional in most military organizations.”
Mars stood at parade rest in the middle of his platoon of recruits. He was the oldest of the eight men and four women who made up the platoon. His partner at Dos Rios, Annette O’Malley, was one of the women in the platoon. Their Drill Instructor, Gunnery Sergeant Bill Preston, Sarge to just about everyone but his wife, stood facing them, hands behind his back, giving part of the recruit orientation to the group.
“We enter a battle zone as a platoon of twelve. We enter with an objective. You will have a partner when going into battle. While each of you is an individual, we fight in pairs. You look out for your partner; he looks out for you. The platoon travels together, and usually pursue the same objective. Pairs work together as we describe in the pre-engagement chalk talk. If a pair sees an unexpected advantage to be taken, you take it. You should keep your sergeant informed, but you don’t have to. Your comsets keep your APC pilot aware of your movements and physical condition.
“Radio communication is easy, though, and we expect platoon members to stay in touch with each other, and with your sergeant and your APC, in case of the unexpected. There’ll be a lot more on this in class, but I want you to know that we aren’t a bunch of marching morons. Your own ideas count. Acting immediately to seize an advantage, without going through command wins battles. We’ve found that this strategy pays off.”
Mars had arrived at the Militia base as advised by the militiaman, Hoshi Nagashima, on Saturday morning next. When Annette learned he was entering the militia, she informed him that she had been planning to join. They began on the same day.
After a short lecture on the nature of the militia and its structure and expectations, he had signed up.
The contract was short and simple, the recruit could resign at any time, except during military conflict. He, or she, would not be paid for his service, except during conflict. “Uniforms, training, battle armor and weapons are to be purchased by the individual, as wanted and needed over time.
“That won’t be as difficult as it sounds. Many businesses give discounts to militia members, most employers give a bonus pay rate and many of our training sessions are sponsored.”
Mars survived three weeks of mostly classroom training on tactics and strategy. Since he disliked sitting at a desk for long periods, he was convinced that the field training would be easier. He was introduced, on video, to the many weapons and armor suits available to Freestate militia members. In his fourth week, the platoons were sent out for field exercises. The first was called “How Not to Get Shot.” He and his platoon were engaged in several live fire scenarios in various kinds of terrain with semi-animated pop-up robots firing back with rubber bullets at line-of-sight sensors in their body armor.
If the live soldier hit the robot, it fell, out of action. If the robot hit the soldier’s body armor, it turned pink. He was out of action. And, it hurt!
Mars’ first few days of live-fire training found him hit three or four times a day. Eventually, he learned to avoid the uncannily accurate fire of the robots most of the time.
After one of his days of training, Mars went to the office to speak with Juanita. She was reading a message on her monitor as he entered. She waved at a chair into which he sat as she talked. She finished the conversation and clicked off.
“It’s gratifying to see that you’ve enlisted in the Militia,” she said after exchanging greetings. “You’re seeing the value of our way of life.
“While you’ve been in training, the Governor has put his people to work people analyzing Operation Lights Out. They're working on a counterplan.”
“Analyzing? Counterplan?” Mars laughed. “Shit! I've skimmed through Blue’s Plan. He can't hope to defeat Freestate without an ace-in-the-hole. Taking away Freestate's electric power'd give them the edge they need.”
“Impossible! We get most of our power from Pedro’s Power. It’s a space station, owned by a norteamericano engineer who set up business here twenty-odd years ago, name of Pedro Goldman”
“Can the Californians get into space?
Juanita looked up from her monitor. “Are you kidding? All they have is an ancient NASA shuttle that the feds abandoned at the old Edwards Air Force Base.”
“Then that’s how they’re gonna do it.” Mars stood up and paced. “I’ll bet they’re fueling the damn’ thing right now. Counterplan, my ass! We have to secure and defend that power station! Tell the governor to get a platoon, at least, up to that space station right fucking now!”
“Governor Hancock doesn't think they're ready to act yet.”
“Governor Hancock sounds like a California-style bureaucrat, to me.” Mars shook his head. “It’s better to secure the place now! It’ll be easier to keep it than it will be to retake it.”
At the same moment in Governor Ballou’s office, Zeno Horiuchi is on the carpet.
“I had him in my sights!” Horiuchi explained. “He turned suddenly and the bird missed.”
“Aren't they heat seeking?”
“Of course. That damn aircar must not radiate much heat. I'm lucky the bird hit the hillside or it might've come back at me.”
Blue paused, thinking how that might’ve saved him a lot of trouble, later on. He shook off the thought and banged his fist on the desk. “This means Hancock has the plan. We have to push the date of the attack up.” He glared at Horiuchi. “You're supposed to be a fucking professional.”
“They just disappeared.” Horiuchi was still confused by the incident. “They must’ve crashed into the ocean. If they didn’t, I’d have caught up with them.”
“I can't count on that! I told Yi to bump up the schedule for getting the shuttle ready to go into a countdown. Hustle your ass down to Williams and keep an eye on things. I want to be ready to lift off in a month.”
“You’ve gotta be kidding! In a month? My men and I are ready anytime, but that shuttle needs a lot of work!”
Blue leaned forward and leaned on his spread palms on the desk. “We have to get the power turned off right away, before they think we can. We can’t take a well-defended space station. It’s that simple.” Blue used his hands to push himself to his feet. He chuckled. “If it’s not ready on time, you and your men can finish it on the way up. As long as we stay a step ahead of them, we can conquer Freestate by catching them without the power to run their fancy weaponry. They’ll be busy trying to convert their computers to steam power.”
Posted by Col. Hogan at 10:08 PM