Roswell Fanatics

1830 4 miles East of Montserrat Missouri

They had intended to get to the area of the two silos before the end of the day, but human….or even human-alien hybrid…intentions are only that….as the saying goes, men make plans and God laughs.

It was Bryan’s unit that took the casualties today and that was largely why they wouldn’t get to the area of the silos before dark, and both commanders figured it was a poor idea to come up on an ally who was ignorant that they were coming in the middle of the night. Dying fighting Skins was bad enough, but dying because a friend wasn’t expecting you to call was a particularly bad idea. At least, they hoped Col Taylor would be a friend. They had, in fact, nothing but the word of those he had talked to in Dugway and Ogden that the man was even sane.

The slowdown had started just before noon, when a scout vehicle from Bryan’s regiment hit a mine. The country was scattered with such ordnance as earlier in the war both sides had used them. And it was impossible to even decide if the one that overturned the Scout Humvee and killed 22 year old Specialist 4 Shaughnessy and 19 year old Private Darby was one recently set by a Skins hunter-kuller unit, or if it was a ‘friendly’ mine that had laid in the dirt for the last four years or so, until the unlucky Humvee had found it. Either way, it clearly didn’t matter to the young men.

So the progress of the convoy was delayed for almost three hours while combat engineers searched for more mines. Ultimately they found and harmlessly exploded five more, but the delay had ended any chance they had to get to Colonel Taylor in daylight. And that was why they were camped near the thriving metropolis of Montserrat Missouri, once a thriving town of 1600 people but now reduced to a few dozen people too poor or too sick to go elsewhere.

Max’s regiment had ended up in the rear of this game of leapfrog and with scouts back to the West of them and Bryan’s Regiment 4 miles East bivouacked in the remnants of the town, Max had hopes of eating a quick meal and insuring the routine things were done that would let him be well-rested for whatever the morning brought.

But despite getting to bed early, the sleep wouldn’t come. Max thought of the two young men who’d died today, and all the mines and other ordnance he’d seen used over the last five years. It would take years for the country to really be safe again…even in the unlikely event that Colonel Taylor could somehow pull a rabbit out of the proverbial hat. More likely, he thought, it would be Skins triggering the old booby traps and stepping on the old mines….like it had been over in Europe after its many wars, where it seemed like every construction project had run afoul of one side or another’s unexploded ordnance.

His thought turned to her finally, and he looked at her picture.

“I was stupid, you know…,” he said to her, “…perhaps we both were.” Max was glad that Kyle and Tess had each other…glad that Tess hadn’t gone away. But the plain fact of the matter was that as much of a contribution as Tess had made her powers…all of their powers together…paled by comparison with the power of the four 105mm Howitzers that were attached to his regiment….ordnance that could smash building six miles away.

“Why did we ever think it would make a difference if you went away…or if Tess went or stayed?” he asked the sixteen year old girl in the frame, as if he really believed she might answer him.

He didn’t understand…or perhaps he just didn’t want to understand. Wars, in the industrial age, were fought with logistics and materiel…warfare was a beast that consumed huge quantities of fuel, food, ordnance,and yes even people….people like Shaughnessy and Darby.

“Perhaps if we’d done something politically instead of militarily…gotten the government actively involved fighting Skins in Europe and Asia…?”

But even as he said it he knew better. Enough people in the government had known…but until the threat became undeniable, until both Europe and Asia had fallen, no one would take action…and by that time it was already too late.

The tears fell from his eyes as he pleaded with her…that face of innocence smiling out at hin from the small frame…, “What did I do wrong? How could I have done it better?” It was bad enough to know he’d lost her but….how had he failed her so completely?

The questions haunted his mind but eventually logic overtook him. He needed to be ready in the morning…a thousand people depended on him. And he wouldn’t fail them….because he had spent another sleepless night wrestling with what might have been. Liz, he was sure, would have understood.

“Good night,” he said as he kissed the picture and placed it under his pillow. And maybe the nearness of the picture helped, because he eventually did drift off about three hours before reveille.

1200 ERCS Silo 1, Whiteman AFB MO

Colonel Jonathan Taylor was holding an abbreviated morning staff meeting, abbreviated because they had far too much to do and far too little time to do it to have a real staff meeting with all department heads present. The total number of people in his small command weren’t all that many, and even department heads had there hands full without avoidable meetings. Even so, someone had to keep things coordinated….decide where to put their meager resources, and the colonel’s eagles sewn onto his battle dress uniform sort of put that responsibility on him.

As the few people hurried in to the tent, he couldn’t help wondering if this wasn’t really all just a waste of time. They were violating so many of the normal standards of research. It troubled him that they really had no experimental animals on which to try this…or even captured Skins, for that matter. The Skins certainly had shown no mercy to those that they had captured, occasionally filleting them right out of their own skins when they needed camouflage…not even taking the time to clone husks from their captives. But no one had ever caught a Skin alive and somehow he doubted they ever would.

“Well gentlemen, Security seems to be late to the meeting….let’s start without the Lieutenant. We can back-brief him on anything he needs to know when he gets here. Major Young…go ahead."

Zacharias Young was a rocket scientist….literally. Every other weekend a month and for two weeks in the summertime he got to play soldier, using the mathematical skills that enabled him to be an engineer at Thiokol to plot the ballistics of 155mm howitzer shell, capable of putting ordnance into a 10 meter circle at 25 kilometers. But even though this was a war, right now his primary duty wasn’t commanding his battery of 155mm howitzers, he was back in the rocket scientist business.

“Well sir, we are making reasonable progress. Apparently the Skins ripped out the firing circuits from the command bunker to the silos….”

“Is that a difficult problem, Major?”

“Well no sir,…not for the missiles themselves. They are solid fuel rockets…much like a simple fireworks rocket. We can set them off with a simple fuse if necessary. The wiring to the gas generators that open the silo lids are another issue though. It would be kind of nice not to have a 40 ton cement lid in the way of our missiles…but fortunately that doesn’t look like much of a problem either. The gas generators are in place…a few simple firing circuits will take care of them as well. The real problem, frankly, is the re-entry vehicle. Neither of these missiles had warheads so the shielding for reentry was left off to save weight. We anticipated that and brought re-entry vehicles with us…but of course those were for Minuteman III’s, not II’s. The II’s…except for these two silos, were decommissioned decades ago. We are trying to cut down those re-entry vehicles to fit...but without the proper equipment…well, it’s slow going.”

“Is there any way to speed it up?”

“Not safely, sir. I take it the agent is heat labile…that is, you really don’t want it exposed to three thousand degrees on re-entry?”

“No…I’m afraid that would defeat the whole purpose of our effort. The agent would never survive that.”

“Well, we could stop trying to work on both missiles…do them one at a time. That way we could get one off fairly quickly…the other might be a few days later.”

Colonel Taylor considered the words, then shook his head. “Just a couple things wrong with that, Major. The only place the agent will have any immediate effect is where the warheads actually impact…or at least airburst at low level, if we set the proximity fuse right. For most of the rest of the world it may be days…weeks…before the agent disperses well enough to do its work. We believe there are only the two wormhole centers …one in Nice, France…one in Shanghai, China. When the agent starts to work.,” ‘if the agent actually does work..,’ he thought, “we’d like to shut those portals down immediately.
If we can do that…well, none of these murderers will ever get home. If we fail to do that, the one’s that escape can perhaps evacuate…come up with protective gear against the agent, and come right back. We know the Skins are making a maximum effort but if we only drive them away…well it’ll be like the German’s letting the British escape at Dunkirk. They can then regroup and come back. The bigger problem, however, is that large force of Skins to the east of us protecting that industrial convoy. A missile launch isn’t exactly inconspicuous. When the first one goes up, they’d come boiling in on us. Even with the artillery…they’d just spread out and come at us over a wide front. They’d overwhelm us. No, the launches need to be as near simultaneous as we can make them.”

“Yessir, Colonel. In that case…it’ll probably be at least three days..and that is if I have my men do nothing else…”

Taylor nodded his head. It probably wouldn’t make any difference. They were having trouble weaponizing the agent. It was unlikely they’d be prepared to load them much before then anyway.

At that point Lieutenant Armbruster came in to the staff meeting. “Sir…I think we may have a problem…we have visitors.”

“The Skins to the east..?”

“Nossir. We have about two regiments of infantry closing in on us from the west. They’ve stopped just outside the range of our guns…not that we have crews with everyone working on the missiles…but they are flying the colors of the US Army…I mean the REAL US Army, not the one run by the Skins.”

Expressions of surprise were exchanged around the table. “Well, that’s easy enough to fake…easier than cloning a husk even. They may be imposters…or even if they are real…their command structure may be infiltrated.”

“Well sir…they are only thirty kilometers out. If they started moving again…well, they could be here in less than a half hour. We could delay them of course…for awhile at least…and if we could get artillery support…”

“No…the Major’s men need to work on the missiles. I’ll go out and meet them…”

”Do you think that’s wise sir?”

Was that wise? Hell no! There was little about this situation that was wise…an untested agent….missiles that were over forty years old…. In fact, the whole plan was wildly improbable. It’s sole virtue was that it was the only chance the world had.

“Wise or not…I intend to go out there. If I don’t come back…put up as good a fight as you can and if you can’t launch the missiles…well release the agent before they overwhelm you. Maybe it’ll take a few of them with us…”

They had stopped their advance just outside the range of the large 155mm howitzers that they knew had accompanied Colonel Taylor's eastward troop movement. Only lightly scattered scout forces would go further eastward until contact was made...but these forces knew what to look for. They had merely to ask themselves where they would set up an observation post to spot for artillery fire and their fellow scout brethren would be there. So both sides watched the other and when the newcomers were sure that they knew where the observation post was, they began the ticklish business of making contact.

The Spec 4 walked out in the open toward the observation post a white flag in one hand...his M-16 in the other. He shouted across the 600 meters with the bullhorn, "Parlez..." It was only 60 seconds later that one of those in the observation post was making his way across the open field..his own M-16 tightly gripped in one hand, a flag of truce in the other. Of course, neither side trusted the other...both sides had M-2 fifty-caliber machine guns trained on the other side's man....and both of the men walking out in the field knew their lives were held hostage to the good behavior of the rest of the people in their units.

"Who are you...and what do you want here..." asked the man from Taylor's unit.

"First regiment, Second Brigade, First Cav..."

"Well...would that make you human or Skin? We've sort of lost track..."

"Well," said the Spec 4, "we're human." It was probably not the best time to go into the fact that there commander wasn't entirely human. That would sometimes disconcert newcomers, and with two armies staring suspiciously at each other across a kilometer of open ground...well, it wasn't a good time for avoidable concerns. "Our senior staff would like to speak to Colonel Taylor...if it can be safely arranged."

"How do you know about the CO?" asked the man suspiciously.

"A kid from St. George joined up. Word got to the Chief of Staff about Colonel Taylor. We went to Dugway...then to Ogden. We know what you are planning. But there's a big Skins force moving in from the east...the Chief of Staff figured you couldn't hold it with artillery alon, ...so here we are."

It made sense to the young scout. He knew about the Skins force slowly moving in and everyone was worried about it. But you couldn't be too careful. More than one unit had been infiltrated by Skins.

"You have SiINCGARS capability?"

"Of course.."

"Have your commander come up 37.075 in twenty minutes. Maybe we can get the brass together."

It was an hour later and Bryan and Max were still disagreeing as Bryan got ready to go meet the Colonel. "I still think it should be me. I can ping the man...find out for sure if he's human or not, and if this meeting blows up...well I could at least shield...maybe get myself and my men out."

"Max...this is in range of their 155s...I'm not sure even you can shied that well.Besides, ....if something happens to me, I'm depending upon yout to take both our forces and circumnavigate the silos...get our troops between them and the Skins. If we didn't need the support of their artillery so damn much I'd do that anyway, but we'll have a tough enough job slowing the Skins from getting to the silos even with additional artillery support....without it....,well."


Bryan didn't have to say it. Without the support of those big 155mm howitzers, even their two regiments had little chance of holding the huge Skins force for more than a day or two once contact was made. But if they could coordinate with Colonel Taylor...have his artillery pounding the Skins if they tried to concentrate their forces or outflank them...well then they at least had a chance.

"I still think it'd be safer to let me go in."

"And something happens and suddenly you put a green forcefield around you and your troops? Fat chance we'd have of convincing them we were human then...don't you think?"

"But what if they aren't? What if this is all a ruse?"

"Max..I know you think this whole mission is a fool's errand, and maybe it is. But I think both you and I know that Jefferies was right about one thing at least...that if Colonel Taylor doesn't pull off some sort of a miracle, it's all over anyway. For that reason alone I don't think this is a ruse. The Skins have killed tens of millions...probably over a million people in the Army alone. They really wouldn't HAVE to resort to some ruse to catch a few thousand...even if that's maybe a third of what we still have. All they needed to do was to sit and do what they are doing...and they win. THAT'S why I think that Taylor is really human. Whether or not he's got the miracle...well, that's another question. But we've got our orders...we are here to support him....and that's what we are going to do."

Max looked at Bryan...a lot of time had passes since he'd shown up in Roswell...recruiting aliens the Special Unit had once tried to kill. They had become friends from years of shared experiences.

"OK...don't get your butt shot up. I guess I won't bet there to help if you do."

"Don't worry about me, Max. I'll just turn on my country boy charm and sparkling personality...I'll have Taylor eating out of my hand in no time.."

Max watched the humvee drive off, the white flag affixed to the forward antenna. 'Good luck, Bryan,' he thought, even though he couldn't bring himself to believe this mission would ultimately make any difference at all.

'I’m getting too old for this,' Colonel Jonathan Taylor thought as he climbed out of the humvee., and that was certainly the truth. He’d retired from the Army once and never thought he’d have to wear a uniform again. But a retired regular officer was always subject to recall and in the early days of the war someone had sent activation orders…but that wasn’t it really, and he knew that. First, last, and always, he was a human being, and if he had to guess, they were probably within a few years of becoming an extinct species. So like it or not….there he was.

The other humvee maneuvered up the gentle rise….what passed for a hill amongst the gentle slopes of this part of Missouri. The man who got out was at least 40 years his junior…young for a Lieutenant Colonel, but wars, Taylor recalled, had a way of promoting leaders quickly. Hell, Eisenhower had been a Lieutenant Colonel in his permanent rank at the start of WWII, and he’d only made that about five years earlier.

“Col. Taylor, I’m Bryan Ramsey, sir,” said the African-American officer, snapping a sharp salute. Taylor returned it without conscious thought.

“You would appear to be a long way from home, Colonel, and about to come within range of my artillery,” Taylor bluffed. “I suggest you turn around and go back the way you came…”

“Sir…we aren’t Skins…and if we were, your 155s wouldn’t stop us. We’d just spread our forces over a wide front and make a dash for your artillery….just like that Skins force coming in from the east is going to do as soon as they spot you. We’re here to help.”

“I’m not sure we need your help, Colonel Ramsey. We’ve gotten this far by ourselves.”

“Sir…you haven’t fired those missiles yet, which means you are still working on your project. My orders are to support you until those missiles have been fired. The satellite pictures I have are at least five days old, but based upon those…and the rate of progress the Skins were making, you have at most three or four days…perhaps as little as two.

We can’t support you from the rear, and if I have to go around your flank to get to the Skins…well they might well be on top of you before I could get my troops into position.”

“But if I let you come…and you ARE Skins, you could take our positions even quicker….”

“As I told you sir, if we wanted to do that we’d just make a dash for you…all I’d really have to do was take the losses necessary….”

“Not a good reason I should make it easy for you….”


Bryan was getting frustrated. “Look sir…I’ll tell you the truth. We have two regiments and Max…well, he’s my opposite number on the second regiment…he thinks it’s all a waste of time. He used to be in to science…or at least knew someone who was…. Well, anyway Max says this is a fool’s errand. That the missiles don’t have the payload for enough chemical and that you don’t have the right kind of lab rats for a biological weapon. He says that your plan just isn’t going to work But you know, that doesn’t matter because we have our orders. He may be right, but the Chief of Staff has told us to give you all the cover we can because HE believes…and that’s what I’d really like to do, sir.”

Bryan seemed so determined…. Finally Taylor relented. “I’m not too sure this Max isn’t right, young man, but I guess we’ll let you through. I want your word that you’ll do nothing to provoke this fight. My scouts say these people are coming slowly…I need every second….you CANNOT engage these forces until they actually discover our presence.”

“Sir…a defense in depth is the more tactically sound plan…”

“Young man…this isn’t about winning a battle…it’s about winning a war. Every resource I has is going to be devoted into getting those two missiles in the air. You can expect absolutely nothing from me and my forces….no troops…no artillery…not even the use of our latrines. We are totally tasked in getting off those missiles. I don’t care if we have the Skins a kilometer away when that happens. The survival of my unit…and certainly the survival of this old hide is not that important. But I want your promise that you will not engage them…not draw them toward me….not until they are already aware that we are present.”

It made a kind of sense to Bryan. The Skins force was huge, but there were normally two ways to buy time….forward deploy for hit and get missions, or dig in in good defensive positions and let the Skins walk in to their sights. Normally the latter was the way to go, but what Taylor wanted was a third option….stealth until the last moment.

“You realize that what you are asking….well it kind of condemns your people to death sir. You aren’t going to be able to hide the launch of those two missiles, and if the Skins are that close….well, by the time the agent in the warheads of the missiles diffuses back to here…even if it works….well there won’t be much left of your people…”

“There are casualties in every war, son. In this case the only important thing is to win it.”

“Are you that sure your agent is going to work, sir?”

Taylor looked at Bryan. The thought went through his mind, ‘Son, I don’t have a fuckin’ clue if this will work,’ but he didn’t say it. “You have your orders, son…and that’s the way I want this played.”

“Yes sir.”

“I’ll have one of my Lieutenants coordinate the movement through our area. Go quickly…don’t bunch up…and don’t stop. Do NOTHING that will help the Skins detect us here, understood?”

“Yes, sir.”

Max watched from the right seat of the humvee as the convoy slowly drove past the missile silos. There really wasn't much visible except for a few tents and ISO shelters above the ground. The bulk of the support facility and the crew quarters were buried underground....capable of surviving a near miss from even a nuclear weapon...if it wasn't too close. But it wasn't a fortress...not really. The only offensive capability was the small battery of six 155mm howitzers whoch didn't even seem to be manned at present. Basically all the Skins would need to do to take this place was to surround it and drive on in. The artillery would get a few of them but not many. Artillery unsupported by infantry was easy pickings. And 155mm howitzers had no direct fire capability whatsoever. They couldn't hit ANYTHING within 3 kilometers because they couldn't lower their gun barrels enough to bring them to bear. In fact, for close shots they actually fired almost directly into the air, spending most of the range of the projectile simply going up and falling back down. Max could envision the scenario already...the Skins spreading their forces widely and making a dash for the facility...the 155s scoring a few hits as they came closer...but not enough to stop them. Once the Skins got within the 3 kilometer circle the facility was doomed. They'd dash in quickly firing their own long range weapons...everything from fifty caliber machine guns to TOW missiles and everything above the surface would die quickly. Then they had only to wait out the survivors...or hell, just put demolition charges on the entrances...bury the survivors of Taylor's command alive.

And that, Max realized, was why Jefferies had sent them. Supported appropriately by their own battery of 105mm howitzers and with the long range capability of the 155s, they might have had a fighting chance, but they wouldn't now....not with the orders that Taylor had given Bryan. Had Max been given free reign, he'd have engaged the Skins forces at maximum range...retreating over terrain his own combat engineer troops would have had time to prepare...to plant mines...to have prepared defensive positions.

An attacking force typically was at a great disadvantage to a defending force...particularly one backed up with artillery. Max would have wanted his people firing from positions of advantage with preplanned escape routes...killing Skins by the hundreds as they advanced...only to find empty positions...artillery fire, and mines once they achieved their hard won objectives. It was the kind of hit and get tactics that the infantry had always employed against superior forces...trading ground for time...and bleeding the enemy down in the process. And that was the important thing to Max...whatever killed the most Skins.

But Taylor's orders precluded all that. He had made it clear that he wanted to rely on stealth...no contact with the enemy...at least not until and unless the silos were about to be captured. And maybe if Max had believed that whatever agent Taylor had would really work...maybe then it wouldn't have bothered him so much.

As they left the edge of the camp, even Max's driver was shaking his head. "Man...no bunkers...no sandbags...nothing dug in but the silos themselves...The Skins could engage these guys with TOW missiles from 4 clicks out...and there'd be nothing left of them."
Max nodded his head sadly. He didn't mind dying...not if he could kill Skins doing it...and maybe they all had only a few months...but Taylor was going to get all of his own people killed with his plan...that was a virtual certainty. Any force small enough to get between the silos and the Skins without detection would be too small to do much good...or would it?

He looked again at their own small battery of 105mm howitzers. 'I wonder how many beehive rounds we have?' he asked himself. Max had an idea he needed to discuss with Bryan. It wouldn't win the war...or even stop the Skins from making it to the silos. But it might give the people in the silos SOME chance to get away and Max would get to help kill an awful lot of Skins before they got him....

"Max...that plan is suicide for the spotter. You can't ask anyone to do that. He'll be too close to the impact point of the beehive rounds. Fired over that distance they are going to spread out...your spotter will be inside the footprint. I mean...we aren't supposed to shoot those things around unprotected friendly troops AT ALL and you'll be asking for someone to cozy right up to the Skins and call in fire on them."

"Look, Bryan... If we do what Taylor wants, then Jefferies might as well not have sent us here. The Skins will either get to the silos or not and we'll be sitting on their flanks...north and south...and won't be able to do a damn thing about it. Even if Taylor and his men get those old missiles to fire...if the Skins are within 10 klicks of them we couldn't provide enough support to even give them a fighting chance of bugging out to the West....and from their current rate of advance, the Skins will be on top of them in three days.
All I am saying is that if we have someone in front of them spotting...just before they get within 10 klicks he can guide artillery round onto the advancing troops. And if we put our artillery HERE," said Max, indicating a site on the map, "..in prepared positions, we could probably lure them into coming north after the artillery rather than continuing toward the silos that they probably don't even know are there. That could buy Taylor and his people some time...more time to finish loading their precious 'agent,' and more to the point...time to bug out and save their own hides for whatever time we have left. Look Bryan...if we do NOTHING...even in the unlikely even they can get those missiles off, all of them are going to die. Why not give them at least a little bit of a chance?"

"Uh-huh....and who are you going to pick to be the spotter...the guy you aren't going to give a chance to? Answer me that, Max." But even as he said it, Bryan knew. "No you don't, Mister. We don't need regimental commanders being artillery spotters. I don't care how badly you want to kill Skins, I don't care if they killed your girl...I'm not letting you do this?"

"Why not, Bryan? Hell...you were in the Special Unit. Ten years ago it wouldn't have bothered you that Max Evans...alien...got killed?"

"Yeah, well rather a lot has happened in the last ten years, hasn't it Max? Hell, a hundred -seventy years ago my ancestors were being sold on the auction block...times change, and...damn it Max, I've lost too damn many friends in this war, I don't want to lose you."

"But I'm the only one that can make this work, Bryan. When I call in the artillery I can shield myself as the flechettes come down. I couldn't take a 105mm hit and survive, but those flechettes are only a half gram.."

"A half gram coming at 6000 feet per second can leave a hell of a hole in you, Max, and there are 8000 of the little buggers per round."

"I'm not going to be calling fire in on my position, Bryan, I'm going to be targeting Skins.."

"Max, you'll be danger close with every round and we'll be firing...who knows how many rounds? What's the chance that you WON'T get hit?"

"But if I'm shielding..."

"Yeah...and you can shield for what....four or five rounds?"

"At least that...probably more..."

"So on the sixth round you stop a half gram of metal flying at 6000 feet per second...."

"And if I do, I heal myself and call in the next round.."

"Yeah, well that gets you maybe to round seven...assuming the hit isn't somewhere instantly lethal. Then what?"

"Then...then...," 'How do I tell him I don't give a shit? How do I tell him I lost the only thing that was ever important to me...and that I took it away from myself? How do I tell him I just plain don't care...that I don't WANT to go on anymore?'

"Look Bryan..Jefferies sent us here to do a job...we lost good men getting here....and for what? To sit on our asses and watch the Skins roll over Taylor and his men? Because you know damn well that will happen..."

"But if he gets off the missiles and the agent works...?"

"Then it'll be working at the wormhole gates in Europe and China...it sure won't be working here and if the Skins are close enough to see those missiles go up...and they won't have to be very close for that...all those people...all those people Jefferies sent us here to protect...they'll all be dead."

Bryan shook his head. It really did make sense, sort of, but still he wanted to resist it. Because deep in his heart, Bryan knew that it didn't matter if it made sense or not...it wasn't about making sense. It was about his dead girl friend...and his wanting to be with her at last....

As a military commander Bryan knew it shouldn't matter to him...if the plan had military merit...and it did...but Max was his friend...they'd been through too much together to pretend otherwise.

"Look," said Max, "...Taylor is eighty-two years old...he's a relic, I don't care what rank he is...hell, they were stupid enough to promote me. But Jefferies is the acting Chief of Staff and he sent us here for a reason. I don't want the kids we lost getting here to have been lost in vain."

Max had said it like he meant it...and maybe he even did...but Bryan knew this really wasn't right, even as his brain started to figure out how to make the plan work. "I'll think about it, Max...."

"Bryan...that's all I'm asking."

It was two hours later before Max was back in his own regimental area. As he got in to the sleeping bag he took out the picture and smiled at it.

"With any luck at all, Liz," he said quietly, "..I'll be seeing you in three or four days...I love you, babe....I always will...."

The plan was worked out over the next morning, It was eventually decided that the battery of 105s would be placed in the north and dug in heavily, with half of Max’s regiment defending the artillery and the other half ready for rapid reaction to support Bryan’s regiment which would be deployed to the south but be ready to rapidly outflank the Skins and come in from the East…behind the Skins, once the engagement started.

The sappers….the attached combat engineering troops, were preparing some help for Max. Since the long distance weapons of the Skins would be able to engage Colonel Stuarts position within three kilometers….and since the chance of stopping them would be virtually nonexistent at less than tec kilometers, since the infantry troops couldn’t be moved up to engage them in time, it was decided to build strings of Claymore mines at nine, seven, and six kilometers distance east of the silos. Just before the Skins got to 10 kilometers, Max would call in artillery on their positions…then retreat.

If all worked well, the Skins would either attack the artillery, opening themselves to attack from the north and the east, or retreat back toward the east, buying more time for Colonel Taylor. The rings of Claymore mines weren’t part of the plan…they were the secondary plan in case the primary should go wrong. If for any reason the Skins didn’t retreat or take the bait…if they pressed on westward, Max would continue to call in artillery on them while retreating from mine field to minefield….setting off the Claymores as the Skins approached each line.

It was the only way they could reasonably plan to stop the Skins from overrunning Taylor’s area without actually putting troops in front of them, and even Max had to admit that if the Skins continued their leisurely progress westward at the current pace, Taylor’s people would likely have more time than they would if they provoked an immediate fight by bunching up in front of him.

The plan was for Max to do this alone in a single hummer. Using that to get him from spotting position to spotting position…from minefield to minefield. It would take most of the day to prepare…then they’d be moving out, leaving Max and a single Hummer to face the advancing Skins column.

As Max was leaving the planning meeting he was surprised by the young Private who saluted him and said, “Begging the Colonel’s pardon,…Command Sergeant MajorGrayson requests the Colonel to come to the motor pool.”

Bob Grayson had been in the Army for 33 years. He would have long since been retired if it hadn’t been for the war. He looked younger than his stated age….and probably was. It was widely believed the Sergeant Major had lied about his age on his enlistment papers but the statute of limitations on that crime had gone by decades ago. Max and Grayson had not hit it off particularly well when he’d been assigned to the regiment as the Executive Officer two years previously. Max knew Grayson had been kind of close to the previous commander, LTC Wayne Johnson, who had died in a Skins ambush only four months after Max had been assigned and for awhile Max thought he’d resented his elevation to command to replace Johnson. The last 18 months or so had been cordial enough….but Max realized his Sergeant Major had been soldiering longer than Max had been alive and liked to do things his own way.

As Max got to the motor pool area, Grayson was supervising three of the enlisted men getting a vehicle down the ramp from the back of a five ton truck…a vehicle the likes of which he’d never seen.

“Sergeant Major…”

“Yeah…oh, excuse me sir,” Grayson said saluting.

“You wanted to talk to me? And what is THAT?”

“I did sir, and that…..well that is an FAV sir.”

“An FAV?”

“Yessir, a fast attack vehicle. We really aren’t authorized any of these but I found one in a warehouse it Tooele. The troops here been fixing it up.”

“What for?”

“Well….to tell you the truth sir, I thought it might be kind of fun for the Sergeant Major to use to get around and see all the troops…but when I heard what you were planning…..I think it’ll help you sir.”

“Are these things even any good?”

“Good sir…Oh hell yes. Back when I was a pup I drove an older version of this with the Ninth Infantry Division back in the early 80s. Just regular dune buggies really then…except for the ordnance. We kicked ass, sir. Hell, I remember Desert Star 85…a big exercise down at Ft. Bliss. We’d already kicked butt at Hunter-Liggett and the tank generals…those mothers ruled the Army then, begging the colonel’s pardon,…well they screwed around with the ROE…didn’t let us go off-road, claimed it would hurt the environment…on an artillery range no less, even though they let the Bradley’s and the Abrams…but even with the cards stacked against us…we still won. But military procurement…you know,” Grayson shrugged his shoulders, “Congressmen didn’t want $50,000 dune buggies replacing multi-million dollar tanks and infantry fighting vehicles built in their districts….so eventually the whole program got scuttled. The Special-Ops guys kind of gradually resurrected it in later years. This one…well, it’s about a mid 90s one. It’s got a fifty cal for the gunner…a TOW missile fired by this sight here sir. The guys are getting a second TOW round…to put in reserve. It’s kind of a bitch for one man to reload though….any chance you might want a driver on this mission? I’m probably the best qualified in the unit..? This is better than a hummer…do a 100klicks over the desert…may rattle your insides around though….and the Skins have probably never seen one. They might not even realize you are Army…at least until you open up on them.”

Max smiled at the Sergeant Major as they sat having coffee while the three enlisted men went over every inch of the FAV. Grayson had drilled him on use of the TOW launching system until it was indelibly engraved in his brain. He was already familiar with the Browning M-2 machine gun. The senior noncom had pushed hard to get the job as the driver, but Max had explained it to him repeatedly. He could shield himself five or six times in quick succession, but if he had to shield a second person as well….he’d be open to shrapnel in only a couple of rounds. In the end Grayson understood the logic, and was contenting himself with making sure Max was as well prepared as possible.

“The scouts are saying there are a couple of tanks with the Skins…older model Abrams. Those tankers always think of their main gun as a direct fire weapon, sir. They see it…they shoot it. Now the book says the effective range of that 120mm smoothbore cannon is about three and a half clicks…two miles plus. But that’s because they are used to shooting at other tanks…not soft targets like Colonel Taylor’s troops. Sometimes people forget that that smoothbore is still a cannon….bigger than our 105s, except no rifling in the barrel. Against an area target…if they just want to lob it in there…the sucker is good for about 8 clicks. Now generally tankers just don’t fire at anything they can’t see, and they won’t have spotters to help them…but this time it might just be different, sir.”

“Why is that, Sergeant Major?”

“Well sir…you ever see a Minuteman missile launch?”

“No I haven’t…”

“Well I have, sir. They used to fire those suckers out of Vandenburg Air Force Base in California…I saw one launched once. I was down at Hunter-Liggett. You ever been there, sir?”

“No….by the time I got in the Army, the whole West Coast was already fallen. Why do you ask?”

“Well, sir, those bases are just about 100 miles apart….and it was a daytime launch. A launch by one of those…well, it’s about as subtle as a kick in the balls. When the first one goes up, the Skins are going to know it. They won’t have any trouble triangulating from observers in their flanks to figure out where the silo was and at that point there is a very good chance that someone is going to remember the main guns on those tanks. They can start lobbing in HE from five miles away. Now if we had copperhead rounds sir…well we could get those tanks. But we don’t, they don’t make copperheads for 105s, and unless you can get fire support from Taylor’s artillery,…well, you may have to take out those two tanks with the TOW. The hard thing will be reloading that thing for the second shot by yourself,….you sure you wouldn’t reconsider sir? I’d take my chances not having you shield for me…”

Max shook his head. “From the sound of it we can’t expect much help from Taylor’s artillery…all those people who might man the 155s are the same people who are trying to get the missiles ready. But Sergeant Major….what I’m doing is risky enough with me being able to shield against incoming. I’m not about to have you in the same situation unprotected.”

“Sir…with all due respect…there are a few people around who believe that what you are doing is suicide…”

“Do you believe that, Sergeant Major?”

Grayson took a deep drink of the coffee as he looked in to his commander’s eyes. “Sir…none of us are getting out of life alive…if you know what I mean…but…hell sir, I’ve had a lot of worse commanders than you. I’d like to think that if I died out on the battlefield I’d be dying FOR something,…you know….not just giving up…”

“Do you believe I’m giving up?”

“I didn’t say that, sir. It’s just that….well, I didn’t particularly care for you at first…not your fault. My fault, really. When I heard you were being assigned as the Exec I thought…an alien? Cripes, we are FIGHTING aliens. And then when Colonel Johnson bought it, and they made you commander…well, I thought I’d seen the Army do some damn dumb things in my time, but this one takes the cake.

But you were always out there towards the front, and I saw you personally save a number of these young kids. I should have known better, really. Hell, sir,…I had great great grandfathers fighting on both sides of the Civil war…a couple redneck Rebels, one a Union officer….one a Buffalo soldier.

I’m part Irish, part Swedish, part Choctaw, part African-American, and about a quarter Thai on my mother’s side. If there’s one thing a Grayson ought to know it’s that where you come from doesn’t necessarily matter, it’s what you do that counts. And frankly sir, I should have treated you better right from the start. I guess now that I’ve gotten used to you…kind of broken in, you might say, …well I’d hate to lose you. Now I know you’re a soldier and you are going to do what you have to do…and sometimes soldiers die in battle. But I’d feel real bad, sir, if I thought you were going out there for any other reason.

It’s been a long war, sir, and millions of people have died. Most of us have lost friends…family…sometimes loved ones. But if we don’t keep fighting…well sir, the bastards will win. We don’t have good men to give away…to lose for no good reason. I don’t know if Taylor’s plan will work or not, but I know I was once part of a huge Army and now we are down to…what….ten thousand or so? We took an oath, you and I….and I’d hate to think that anyone would give up….desert, before the war is over.”

Max looked at the Sergeant Major, knowing he had three kids, one a young Captain back in the Lincoln National Forest, two daughters living in California…daughters he hadn’t talked to in three years, with grandchildren he’d never actually seen. Daughters who probably thought Grayson and their brother were traitors to the REAL government. In the end, he couldn’t bring himself to betray the man. “I’ll tell you what,” said Max. “I’ll promise you that if anything happens to me, it won’t be because I gave up. It’ll be because I tried to save those people of Taylor's and just wasn’t up to the job.
I’m not going to quit on you...or them.....I’m going to kill Skins as long as I can. If I can’t stop them, Sergeant Major….it won’t be because I gave up. It’ll be because I gave it my best shot, and it simply wasn’t enough, OK?”

“That’s fair enough, sir. Are you sure you won’t reconsider having a tough old non-com for your driver?”

Max smiled. “I think we need you here. Someone has to keep Bryan…that is, LtCol Ramsey out of trouble. You may have a tougher job than mine.”

“OK sir, I’ll do that. But since you’ve already broken the first rule of survival in the US Army, to never volunteer, I want your promise that you’ll be careful out there…not do anything stupid. Not get yourself killed unless you have to…”

Max looked into the man’s eyes. It should be an easy enough promise to keep. If the artillery fire really drew the Skins to the north far enough, he might possibly survive.
If not….well, he’d go down taking as many Skins as possible with him…like the Spartans at Thermopylae or Horatius at the bridge.... he would die trying...and be with Liz.

“You’ve got it, Sergeant Major…”

It took a full day and night for the combat engineers to complete the three lines of Claymores and four concealed observation posts (OP). During that time Grayson demonstrated the finer points of FAV driving to Max and Max familiarized himself with the terrain. Finally it was time for both regiments to depart to the north leaving Max and his FAV alone in a shallow valley that guarded the approach to the missile silo sites.

As Max drove forward to the easternmost OP he surveyed the FAV. He was traveling light. Ten gallons of water in Jerry cans strapped to the FAV and the same amount of biodiesel, … most of a case of fragmentation grenades and four days worth of MRE’s, and his sleeping bag….and her picture, of course.

He had the TOW missile in the launcher and one spare, and about five hundred rounds of fifty caliber ammunition. But his main weapons would be his map, binoculars, and his compass, because his job was to spot for the 105s. Personally engaging the enemy wasn’t the plan, it was the backup plan if everything went to hell. Of course, that happened a lot in war.

As he drove along through the Missouri morning he looked at the framed picture that he had strapped to the gunner’s seat of the FAV, and had a sense of déjà vu. It was a beautiful day…much like the beautiful day in New Mexico when he’d driven along with her at his side….her smile lighting up the world…at least until the damn horse had wandered in to their path.

She’d saved him then, he realized, just as surely as he’d saved her that day at the Crashdown.

“You always were so capable…so adaptable. Even if I’d been conscious…I’d have never figured out how to keep from being discovered.

It seems like whatever problems we had, you’d somehow find a way through them. It was never the royal four. Even with Nasedo’s help, I’d have died in that white room if you hadn’t brought in the Sheriff….I’d have died…Isabel…Michael..Tess. I was stupid to think that somehow I could be better without you than with you…with or without Tess….and I guess this reality proves it.”

The tears trickled from the corners of his eyes….just the wind he told himself….because he hadn’t worn his goggles….but he couldn’t kid himself….even if his once future self had somehow talked her into doing this.

“I was insane, you know….talking you in to this….and this proves it. With you we lasted for fourteen years, without you we won’t make it to nine.”

But it wasn’t the five extra years for six billion people…the 30 billion person-years….the half billion lifetimes or so that were forfeited because Max Evans had decided to play God with time…he realized that really bothered him the most, no…it was the lost fourteen years he had once shared with her....that was his greatest regret.

‘Everyone dies, Max…,’ he told himself. ‘You should have taken what God gave you the first time around. Maybe this is His punishment for your hubris in trying to dictate to Him what history should be…’

He’d once told her he didn’t believe in God….but lately he’d begun to wonder. If he himself had changed time, who was he to say what other wonders were and were not possible. Or maybe it was all just a cosmic crapshoot. Maybe it had never been about Max Evans…or Tess Harding. Maybe just by coming back in time he’d stirred the pot….scattered a few butterflies around in chaos theory. Perhaps it was never really about the royal four at all, just a reshuffle of the cards. Perhaps he could have gone back the next night and told her all was forgiven….and they’d have gotten the same reshuffle of the cards…or even a better one. Perhaps she could have stayed and….

‘Not the way you treated her, Max,’ he told himself. ‘And what she did was no excuse….you’d seen into her soul…you knew how she felt about you. You trusted your eyes….you should have trusted your heart.’

“When I found out…I asked Alex to help me with the granolith. He decoded the book…but it wasn’t much help. I didn’t need a space ship…I needed to go back in time…to stop myself from changing things….and the book didn’t tell us how to do that. I imagine finding out how to do that was your doing….you always were the brilliant one in science. Even in seventh grade when you chose me for your lab partner I was amazed at you. You always knew everything and I think you could have even done the labs faster without me to slow you down.

I wish you wouldn’t have listened to me when I asked you to do that, babe….I wish I’d just left well enough alone, and taken those fourteen years.

I’m sure you know…wherever you are…how sorry I am for the things I said…and wherever you are, ….I hope I’m worthy to join you…and that you’ll forgive me for everything…for all I said…for all I made us lose…for not trusting my heart…but most of all…for not trusting in you.”

He looked away from her picture the pain of his loss almost too much to bear. 'You'll be seeing her soon, Max,' he told himself, '...God willing.....'

The day was largely spent in building an artillery fire plan. Before they departed north the artillery personnel built a brief firing plan for Max, with the coordinates of prominent landmarks pre-identified on Max’s map, and labeled by target number. He spent the rest of the day improving upon this throughout the shallow valley, plotting coordinates for those areas he deemed most likely to be used by the Skins troops and identifying these to the fire team by individual code rather than coordinates, making it less likely there would be a screw up on coordinates in the heat of the battle. It went slowly, but gradually the probable targets in the area of the valley from three to ten miles east of the silos were identified. At last Max settled into the easternmost observation post and settled in to get some food.

The menu said:

• Chicken w/Salsa
  Mexican Rice
  Shortbread Cookie
  JalapenoCheese Spread
  VegetableCrackers
  Candy II
  Coffee, Mocha Flavored
  Hot Sauce
  Accessory Packet B
  Spoon
  Flameless Heater

Somehow the menu sounded better than the concoction tasted, not too surprising considering the expiration date had passed three years previously. Max didn’t want to risk a light…the Skins also had night vision goggles, so he sat in the near darkness..the picture on the floor beneath the firing port of the small bunker lit dimly by the light of a green glowstick.

“The Sergeant Major said to not do anything stupid,” Max said to the picture. “A little late for THAT advice, don’t you think?”

The picture looked up at him, frozen in that beautiful smile, but not really responding. But he continued to talk to it.

“…and then he said to not get myself killed unless I have to. It’s hard to tell about that I guess. I don’t expect that any of us have very long…still, I’d like to give Taylor’s troops the chance to get away…to have a few more weeks or months…whatever we’ve got, to go to their homes…to see their loved ones. Is that a good enough reason to die? As good as any I guess….better than dying in some stupid motor vehicle accident or something. What is a good reason to die? Can you tell me that? I remember us talking in English literature class….what was the man’s name? Macaulay I think, talking about Horatius.

• To every man upon this earth
  Death cometh soon or late.
  And how can man die better
  Than facing fearful odds,
  For the ashes of his fathers,
  And the temples of his gods?

I guess I’m entitled to claim the ashes of my fathers here on Earth…at least whoever they borrowed the DNA from when they made me. The ‘temples of his gods’…, well that’s harder. Remember we used to talk about whether or not there was a God? Ernie Pyle once said there are no atheists in foxholes…but I don’t know. If He exists…why would he have let this all happen? Why would He have let…..Boston happen?”

Max had asked himself that a million times. And in his heart he knew it wasn’t about the war itself…or about the million people who had died in Boston. Joseph Stalin….no slouch it killing people himself, had once said that a single death was a tragedy, a million deaths were a statistic. And it wasn’t the statistic he was thinking about as he sat there in the near darkness, looking out on the moonlit landscape…and down at the small picture illuminated by the greenish light of the glowstick. It was just the one death…the one that caused the tears to flow slowly down his cheeks and drop into the darkness below.

“God, babe,’ he said. “I miss you so bad…”



Ten miles away Colonel Taylor was also eating MREs, as Major Zacharias Young entered the small mess tent and drew his own rations from the box at the front. It was somewhat of a shibboleth in the military that the food was always inedible, and there was never enough of it. It was commonly believed that MREs were actually designed to give bored troops something to gripe about. But tonight they had somewhat more important issues to discuss.

“So how goes the birds?” asked the Colonel.

“No problem with number one….we could probably get it off tomorrow….if the agent were weaponized.”

“Yes…that’s proving just a little bit more difficult than we’d thought…that and protecting it from re-entry heat. But I think we’ll solve the problem….besides, we can’t really fire one until we can fire the other anyway. What’s the status of the second one?”

“Well the solid rocket booster is fine…the problem is in the guidance. Neither of these were designed to actually hit targets….just fly up in the sky and broadcast radio transmissions. But they left the capability in the first missile, while in the second they got rid of it for more payload. We can put it back, of course, but we didn’t have any guidance systems for Minuteman IIs. We are cobbling it up out of components for a Minuteman III, and it should work….but it’s going to take time. Are you sure you don’t want to fire the one as soon as it’s ready? If you did we could get half the people out of here…before the Skins arrive.”

“If we do that there is a very real chance we could win a battle…but lose the war. If we hit one wormhole and not the other, in the days that it might take the agent to spread…,” ‘assuming it works at all,’ he thought, “…many of the others could escape through the other wormhole, come back with the right sort of protection. If we trap them here…well, we get them all, the Skins Expeditionary Force will be gone. It will be a total defeat, after a massive investment of men and materiel. If we just get one wormhole and enough escape…well it will be like the British at Dunkirk. Those Skins will live to fight another day. The other problem is more pragmatic. The first one we fire, well the Skins are going to come boiling in here. It wouldn’t take much of a force to stop the second one from firing if that happened.”

"No indeed…in the immediate launch period, these things are slow. They could knock it down with a fifty caliber machine gun from two miles out. But the problem that gives us is that it will take everyone we have to fire these…cobbled up as they are, having to override so many safeguards. Once these go up…well, if they are within ten miles or so, the Skins will be on us before we can get out of here…you know that don’t you?”

“Yes I do. I’ve been talking to Lieutenant Colonel Ramsey…they have a plan. They hope that if the Skins get too close they can sucker them up north…buy us some time. But our priority, Major, is to get those birds off. They are too vulnerable. The Skins could bring airborne troops in….an attack helicopter…it could all end very quickly.

Our priority is these missiles and if we get them ready we are going to fire them…regardless of the consequences to ourselves. We can’t wait to see if the Colonel's diversion works…once those missiles are ready, we fire,…then deal with the consequences later.”

“Yes sir. I’ll pass the word…”