Anatomy of a Rebellion

Chapter 35

Torres and Doyle

Frostbite and hunger had forced itself into Doyle's camp. While the Lieutenant sat cozy in a Humvee and snacked on a few crackers, the remaining men of his platoon were stuck in the snow or slept in small tents with little heaters. They had arrived with no food and had procured little food since they had essentially no money. To them, the entire situation was a bit ridiculous and didn't make a lot of sense. They just knew the order came from high up – way higher than Doyle – and no one ever questioned orders, unless you wanted to get shot. They slept during the day, as most militias and militaries preferred to attack at night. They hadn't factored in that Percy knew this all too well.

So while the winter sun was still well above the horizon, Doyle's camp was struck by a sudden shot that embedded itself right into the neck of a man enjoying a smoke. The sound of gunfire was enough to wake most men and the yells of the others was enough to wake the rest. As everyone crashed out of their tents and crawled along in the deep snow, more bullets whizzed by their heads. A Sergeant named Torres dared to pop his head up and scan the distance for any signs of the attackers. The glare of the sun off the snow nearly blinded him, so he had to give up and focus on staying out of the way.

"Who the hell is attacking us? Militia or the Easy Eight?" another Sergeant asked him.

"I have no idea," Torres admitted. The sound of a bullet nearly clipping his ear caused him to bury his face into the snow. He poked it back up and said, "They're coming from out of town so I'm guessing militia. Let's head toward Union."

"Towards town? Are you nuts?!"

"If it's the militia, Major Raymond's men will help us out. If it's the Easy Eight, they won't attack us because we're too close to the residential area," Torres explained.

"That's a terrible idea," Doyle criticized from the bullet resistant Humvee. "It's clearly that bastard Raymond. We should just move straight in there and blow the place to hell."

Torres almost snapped back but he kept his mouth shut. "I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but it's just too risky to put our men on the road," he calmly disputed.

Doyle didn't hear it. He ordered, "Everyone, load up and get in before you get shot up! We're going into Union. Leave Sergeant Torres out here to freeze in the snow!" Each squad climbed into a vehicle as their Sergeant did; neither Torres nor Sergeant Callaway's squads moved from their spot in the snow. Doyle did not wait for them and sped off. It appeared as though the bullets from the attackers followed the vehicles down the road.

"That guy's an i***t," Callaway said. They stayed motionless in the snow for a solid minute before Callaway slowly moved forward. After he dragged his belly in the snow for ten feet, he sat up and looked around. From far away a round of gunfire was shot in their direction. He ducked down and said, "At least one guy is still on our ass. Let's move in bursts of ten yards."

Torres tossed his hand up and motioned for everyone to move out. It was hard to sprint through the heavy snow, so they ended up having to duck far more often than they wanted. An absurdly slow pace was set, but whoever was shooting at them did not advance. Callaway made no noises, but he threw up a hand signal to turn toward the south. Torres acknowledged; when they tried to turn, a soldier from the south forced them back into position.

"They're herding us," Torres observed.

Callaway nodded; he had recognized it as well. At that moment they were thankful Doyle had decided to run off, because the Lieutenant probably would have told them to push forward regardless. Torres and Callaway had enough experience fighting war to know better than to go forward, but all they had for squad members were inexperienced, cold and hungry fresh boot camp grads. If it was the Easy Eight, they would lose the firefight; if it was a large militia, they wouldn't have enough fighting power to break through.

"Identify yourself!" Torres yelled as loud as he could. It was quiet. Annoyed, he threw his gun down, jumped up with his hands in the air and shouted again, "I'm Staff Sergeant Kris Torres of the United States Army! Identify yourself!"

It was quiet for a moment before a response was heard, "I'm Specialist Royal Taylor, US Army!"

"Tell me, Specialist Taylor, why are you shooting us?" Torres asked.

"Don't answer that, Roy!" a voice from the South shouted. "These scumbags don't deserve an answer. They know what they did!"

"If you promise safe haven for my men, I will surrender myself. Although I request a word with your Major if given the time," Torres said. He ordered over his shoulder, "Drop your weapons and stand up slowly." His men did as they were told without wasting a moment. Skeptical Callaway did it as well, so his men were soon standing with them.

There was no response at first. A figure poked it head out from the snow about fifty yards away. Then, another was seen crawling over a split rail fence; another scurried out from a tree. "Holy s**t, these guys are everywhere!" a soldier said. "How did we not notice them?"

The men of Chen's squad led by Royal swooped in rather quickly despite the snow, the sights of their rifles never once leaving the chest of the soldiers from Doyle's platoon. By the time they were tearing off the knives and grenades attached to the soldiers, Wakeman's squad was just making itself known. It was Wakeman who greeted Torres when he said, "Of course the veteran stays out of plain sight while the greenhorn officer takes to the road. Why did Doyle and the rest of the platoon head toward Union?"

"Because he's an i***t, Sergeant," Torres answered. "I hope you have men waiting for them. They have LUVs; one open top, like a jeep, and the other two are closed top Humvees. Mounted guns on the closed tops, high caliber on one of them, armor piercing; guided missile on another; the rest should be anti-personnel."

These details were relayed over the radio. The two men that it affected the most were Specialist Roberts and Private Hart of McGill's squad, as they were the only two acting as guards near the entrance to Union. They were not supposed to engage the enemy, no matter what. Their purpose there was to quietly stand and wait to see if Doyle actually tried to enter town. Roberts was the first to see the vehicles slowly approach. Instead of leaping to his feet, he rose slowly; any trace of boredom disappeared and both of the two young men felt their lips curve downwards into a frown. It seemed as though the vehicles crept along. The time it took for them to reach Roberts and Hart felt like an eternity.

The vehicles were led by one of the Humvees. It moved past the two men, plowing the snow nearly on top of them. They remained perfectly still. The jeep was right behind it; seated in the passenger seat, his arms crossed over his chest and his brows furrowed, was Lieutenant Doyle. It was the man in the backseat, Sergeant Dawson, who ordered the vehicles to stop. Doyle watched but said nothing. When his attention turned to Roberts and Hart, he showed no change of expression.

Dawson jumped out of the jeep and shouted, "You two!" He approached them with an accusing finger pointed and two lackeys following. "You have ten seconds to hand over your weapons!" Neither of the two moved. It wasn't so much that they were frozen in fear as much as they weren't convinced Dawson would actually harm them if they failed to comply. When those ten seconds passed, Dawson went straight for Roberts.

The Sergeant grabbed Roberts by his arm and went to twist it around. However, Hart was quick to respond. He slammed his body into Dawson, sending them both to the ground. The impact of the hard ground was softened by the snow, but Hart had knocked the wind out of Dawson when his shoulder connected with the Sergeant's ribs. The men who followed Dawson raised their guns at Hart and began to shout orders. He moved away from Dawson but did not drop his gun and did not show his hands to the soldiers. He sat in the snow, next to the recovering Sergeant, motionless like Roberts.

"Shoot him!" the Sergeant ordered.

The two men hesitated. "Sergeant?" one of them asked, unable to believe what he just heard. "Lethal force isn't warranted."

For disobeying a direct order, the questioning soldier was killed on the spot by Dawson. The Sergeant then turned his pistol on Hart and ordered him one last time to stand up, drop his weapon, and show his hands. When he failed to do so, Dawson fired one shot, which struck Hart in the gut. Roberts flinched at the sound of the gunfire, but his eyes stayed forward. They strayed only briefly down to the dead soldier in front of him, then quickly over to Hart. Blood hadn't just leaked onto the snow, it had exploded out onto the snow. Hart put as much pressure as he could onto the wound, mainly in a futile attempt to see if it would help with the pain he felt. He tried to scurry back, but ended up merely rolling over in pain. The exit wound exposed, Roberts realized why there was so much blood.

Just as Dawson went to shoot again, Doyle slammed his hand onto the dashboard of the jeep and shouted, "Leave him alone, Sergeant! We can worry about them after we get the Major!"

Dawson and the remaining lackey headed back to the jeep. Roberts watched as the convoy moved itself into town, leaving the two young men to themselves and the dead soldier. As the last Humvee passed them, the gunner gave them a sorrowful glance. After all, this wasn't a situation any American would want to the find themselves in.

Rested on the roof of a*****e were Wallace and Rita. They watched the incident carefully, and when the troops continued moving, Wallace radioed in, "Looks like they shot one of the guards. One of the soldiers was killed by his Sergeant, must have disobeyed an order." Once finished, he turned to Rita and said, "The man in the jeep looks familiar. Lock in on him."

She moved the rifle she carried up and looked through the scope. "That's the same officer who was here before," she said confidently.

"Thought so," Wallace nodded.

"Want me to take him out?" she asked.

"No," he ordered. "Wait. Keep yourself on him, but don't shoot unless I say so." He turned his attention back to Roberts and Hart and saw that a medic was just reaching them. Before he could comment on it, Rita grabbed him and forced him into the snow. He didn't have to ask why. It was stupid of him to kneel in plain sight like that. She had pushed him down just in time; one of the gunners passed a sweeping glance over the rooftops.

The streets were empty. At least, they appeared to be empty. The cliché "it's too quiet" fit the situation perfectly. Doyle grabbed the radio on the jeep dashboard, and switched it over to the PA system. His voice rang out through the streets when he said, "My name is Lieutenant Michael Doyle, and I've been sent here directly by Secretary of Defense Beau Leoni and Attorney General Jacob Overfelt with orders to arrest Major Percival Tad Raymond. As of today, the town of Union, Nebraska, is under my control."

He waited patiently, but the only response he got was the sudden appearance of Roo, who strolled out of a nearby building. It was silent as he walked in front of the convoy and stopped. The Humvee which led earlier had moved back, so that Doyle had a front row seat to the center of town. This meant he was exposed to Roo. However, Roo had come out completely unarmed. He beamed at the Lieutenant and said, "Can I help you, officer?"

Everyone had their guns aimed, but no bullets were fired. Doyle frowned, "I know who you are. Otto Welborn Jr., rank: Corporal. Born in Clifton, New Jersey; received the Silver Star for actions in East Asia."

A dog barked; a white mutt was barely visible in the snow as he rushed around the convoy, happily wagging his tail. Doyle lowered his hand towards the dog when it reached him. The dog sniffed his hand and licked it wet. The Lieutenant smiled and patted the dog on the head. The shepherd then rushed to Roo's side and sat there, yapping twice at him. Roo did not move. He was a bit shocked that Doyle had that information available to him and he wondered what else the Lieutenant held in his hands.

"So these are the kind of men you have helping you, Major?" Doyle asked to the wind. Roo tensed, knowing that the Lieutenant was about to read off his record. "Arrested in Newark, New Jersey, for the r**e and murder of a young woman. Jewish descent, if I remember correctly."

Roo scowled. He would never deny that it happened. Those in his division knew very well why he was shoved into a military uniform and sent overseas. Yet it was the people of Union he was afraid of. They had accepted Skipper's men without asking their history; would they still accept him knowing that fact? What of the rest of his friends, would they be questioned? He swore he could hear Warren cracking his knuckles in anger; he certainly wouldn't view Roo the same way.

Doyle saw the change in Roo's attitude. It was preciously what he was going for; upset the soldier in the front of him and at the same time upset the town's view of Percy's followers. "Uncomfortable?" Doyle asked.

"If I could go back, I wouldn't be here. I never would have harmed her," he admitted.

Wallace clicked his teeth, which caused Rita to look over. He could feel her curious stare. He answered the unasked question, "It just shocking to know he assaulted someone, but I want to know the rest of the story. The way he said that, it sounded like he loved her. It would make an interesting drama movie."

"At least he provides a good distraction," she added.

"If only Jordan was here," he smiled.

"It's upsetting that this is what it's come to," Doyle said. "The fantastic Major Raymond recruiting rapists. What is even more upsetting is that our glorious nation is being destroyed by the privileged few. The powerful, corrupt men like you who have used the deaths of others as mere stepping stones have destroyed this great country. You know, Major, I once wanted to be you. Do you have any idea how many young men joined the service after you freed Turkey? The glorious United States Army is thankful for your service, even if it was only done for personal gain."

Across the street, atop a rooftop, Jordan and Conroy had scurried up. They stood tall proudly. One of the gunners noticed them, but before he could say anything, Jordan shouted through a bullhorn, "Glorious United States Army? Our Glorious Nation? This Great Country? Those are the words of a lying man!"

"Who the hell are you?" Doyle asked, unmoving from his seat.

"F.J. Attaway, reporter for the New York Times and secretary for the Libertas Fraternity!"

"What?" Doyle questioned again.

"Oh, f**k," Wallace muttered, convinced Jordan was about to get himself killed.

"I find it rather disgusting that a man would dare call America a glorious nation!" Jordan said through the bullhorn. "America has used the boots of its soldiers to trample nations all over the world. The great policeman, the glorious liberator, the defender of mankind's rights! What a joke! It's our wish that nations may be free, but only if they bend to our whim! Haven't you heard of the atrocities by American soldiers? Those who paraded into foreign countries and r***d their women, killed their children! Afterward they dared to raise the stars and stripes above the captured enemy land, as if the destruction of another country was something to be proud of! The saber of the American officer has stabbed and gutted the heart of mankind!

"And what of freedom here? You speak of privileged few but fail to mention the names of fascist politicians who have used their power and trust to monopolize the private sector under the strong arm of the government! For the benefit of Her people, they all say. Another lie from greedy henchmen, who look only for the profits from their unionized companies and special interest groups. Those bastards who wage war against other nations, who assassinate democratically elected leaders, those who call upon our youth to die for personal profits are unfit to be called great! And now, again, America raises Her fist against the rights of man: this time, Her own people; cutting off our air, destroying our right to speak, and worse of all, murdering our freedom for the sake of some fleeting safety!"

It probably looked weird, seeing two men standing on a snow covered rooftop without jackets, yelling through a bullhorn at heavily armed soldiers. Doyle stood for the first time, exposing himself completely. He was aware of the danger, and guessed correctly every visible man had a rifle pointed at them.

"I dare you to come down here and say that to my face!"

"Why don't you come out and show us how you won those medals?" called one of Skipper's men. He wasn't visible, but it was clear what he was saying. "Show us how you bravely faced the sailors of Corpus Christi!"

"Show us how you gloriously murdered our brothers!"

"Step out from that jeep and show us the pride of the American army!"

The sudden shouts forced the soldiers to better view their surroundings. Thanks to Conroy and Jordan appearing on a rooftop, one of the soldiers carefully inspected the top of each building. The reflection of the sun off the scope of Rita's gun caught his attention. He wasn't positive, but he swore he knew it was a sniper's scope. He found it odd they weren't that far away – about a block down – but recognized they were on the tallest building in sight. With steady aim, he fired a single shot at the reflected light of the scope.

The bullet hit Rita on her right shoulder; the pain forced her hand to close, which pulled the trigger of her rifle. Doyle, who was standing in the jeep, fell out and landed in snow. Wallace, unsure of what just happened, looked over at Rita to see her quickly going to aim again. Unfortunately, she wasn't able to raise the rifle because the gunshot wound had caused her to lose control of her arm. He realized she had been shot not because he could see the wound, but the pained expression on her face.

He panicked; if it was a man who had been shot, he wouldn't have worried so much. However, since it was a woman, he automatically assumed she was unable to handle the pain. He reached his arm over her and grabbed her injured shoulder. She winced and the rifle slipped out of her hands. As it skidded down the slanted roof, the same soldier who first shot at them fired off a burst at the red dot that was forming in the white snow.

The first round missed. Wallace practically shoved Rita under him to protect her from the bullets, and she in turn tried to push him away so he didn't get shot, either. The second round came from one of the Humvees. The bullets came within inches of Rita. She tried to move over, but with Wallace in the way, she ended up following her rifle by sliding head first down the roof. Wallace spun around and sat up; with his quick move he was able to stabilize himself and grab her foot just in time. By sitting up, he may have had better balance but he was also a better target. A couple more rounds of gunfire were shot towards him.

He realized staying on the roof was a bad idea, so he flung himself forward and wrapped his arms around Rita as she started to plummet with him. Somehow, he managed to twist them around so when they did roll off, it ended with him landing on his back and she on top of him. Unfortunately, despite the otherwise perfect execution, Wallace's left arm landed slightly under him; the result was a compound fracture. His yelp of pain was much louder than Rita's and managed to echo down the empty streets.

Meanwhile, Doyle was being helped to his feet. The bullet had struck him in the chest, because Rita's aim fell downwards after she was shot. Doyle received only a large bruise; his flak vest under his uniform had done its job.

Roo had his own moment of panic. Stuck in the middle of the road with no protection, he knew the soldiers were ready to kill after firing on Rita and Wallace. Doyle was still trying his best not to let his rage get the best of him. As for Dawson, he had enough. When a medic rushed across the street to get to Wallace and Rita, Dawson shot him. The man with the Red Cross painted on his helmet fell into the snow face first, not moving.

"That was a medic!" Doyle shouted.

"Doesn't matter!" Dawson argued. "If they're aiding the rebels, they're the enemy!"

"You're relieved of duty!"

Rita, who was doing her best to subdue her own pain and help Wallace, took the brief argument between Dawson and Doyle as her chance to rush into the street and pull the medic out of harm's way. The soldiers recognized her as the woman on the rooftop, yet none fired on her. They saw she was unarmed, injured, and going to the aide of the fallen medic. They may have been hardened war veterans, but they were not heartless men.

Dawson didn't care. He immediately went to unloading the rest of his clip at Rita as she tried to drag the medic to a safe place. He was only able to get about five shots off – all of which missed – before Doyle, fed up, punched Dawson. The two ended up scuffling in the snow while the other soldiers looked on. They wondered whether they should jump in and assist the young officer, or try to defend their veteran commander.

Doyle was the first to stand and repeated, "You are relieved of duty."

From the church tower, Goldwin viewed the situation through binoculars with Percy nearby.

"It's symbolic," Goldwin said.

"What is?" Percy asked.

"Those two," he answered. "Not just that unit, the entire American military – no, the entire country is going to be divided like that."