Anatomy of a Rebellion

Chapter 47

Offutt II

When Barton's eyes opened, he found himself not in Nebraska but in a snow covered wasteland. His ears rung and his torso throbbed in pain. He looked down at his blood covered uniform and hesitantly at his hands which had tried to cover the wound. Pure chaos had erupted around him. There were a dozen soldiers in his vision and not all of them were still alive. The beautiful snow was peppered with falling ash and blood, while the shouts of those who were still alive were barely heard against the loud roar of their guns. It was an ambush, and he was defenseless against the attackers.

Someone turned around and knelt down as bullets flew by. A golden cross from around the fellow's neck caught the sunlight. The man extended a hand and said, "Are you alright? Get up, Baron!"

Baron… he had been given that nickname because the Army did a masterful job of spelling his name properly. Since the "t" wasn't added to his name on all of his gear, he was referred to as "The Baron Barton" and not his rank from then on. The first to ever call him that was a man that Barton had nicknamed, "The Chaplain" even though the Sergeant was certainly no real Chaplain. It was this man, Warren Taylor, that grabbed Barton and helped him to his feet. Most of their squad was in shambles, yet somehow Warren kept his grace. He was like an angel.

"Are you alright? Get up, Sarge!"

The mountain range faded away from view as reality hit. Pulte was being unceremoniously dragged down the hall and shoved into a cleared room. Vargas was extending his hand to him; Barton accepted it and was back on his feet. A firefight had broken out and his squad was doing all they could hold their position. Barton was unable to aim his gun properly because of his bullet wound.

"How long was I out for?" he asked

"Like, ten seconds maybe," Vargas answered as he provided covering fire for Barton.

"I was back," Barton quietly said, "on Rila Range. That's not going to happen again."

Vargas had never heard Barton speak that way before. He wasn't sure if the squad leader meant that his memories wouldn't return, or if he was speaking about the complete loss of a squadron. Vargas personally didn't see the need to dwell on such things. To him, they had already won this battle and all the fools that dared to keep shooting at them were merely suicidal. Whether he was killing Americans or not, it didn't matter to Vargas; there was someone that stood in the way of Barton's goals, of Major Raymond's dream, and he would eliminate them regardless. It was easy for him to pull the trigger and kill the idiots that dared defy them.

Just as Barton was about to push through the pain and join in the gunfight, it abruptly stopped. That unsteady silence that followed each battle rocked the hallway. Barton broke it when he yelled, "Has anyone been shot?" Then he muttered, "Besides me?"

Then the shouts came. The first names that he picked up were Privates Cavallas and Melton; then Corporal Corleone's name was called out. These were the men who were already dead. The only person who was injured but not killed was Specialist Paez, and he hobbled about on a kneecap that had been completely shot off. Barton could only sigh, although the action did little to ease his tension or the pain that his men felt. He was ready to order them to advance despite the dead, but he was halted mid-step when someone shouted, "Pulte's in shock!"

Barton twirled around and sprinted as fast as his body would allow to Pulte's location. Every single step jolted that bullet wound, but he paid it no mind. His speed sent him sliding into the room Pulte rested in. The other men that surrounded Pulte moved for Barton. He dropped to his knees and had grabbed Pulte's arm before he was even able to take in the sight. He could feel his comrade's arm trembling violently in his strong grip. Pulte choked and gasped for each breath while he tried to shake away the chill that entered his bloodstream. Somehow, the presence of Barton brought Pulte's distant gaze back to reality.

He grinned. Through the pain and the fear of everything he felt, Pulte grinned at Barton. "Do you remember when we were both just Privates, and we were on Rila Ridge, and our convoy was attacked?" Barton asked. "Do you remember how bad I was hurt, how my entire stomach was ripped open? I wouldn't stand up, and I just sat there screaming? So you hit me. Man, you hit me hard. A square punch right on the jaw. And the Chaplain said –"

"Get… up."

That was the last thing Pulte said. A soft howl for a final breath escaped his lips and his once quaking body twitched one final time. Barton observed the sight for a moment. He had seen a hundred or more men die, sometimes by his own hand, but he had never stopped to appreciate the sight of the dead. A dead body was doll like; the eyes gazed at a destination unseen to the living, the lips were parted just enough for the life to slip out, and the body waited patiently for time to do its bidding. It was surreal. With much respect, Barton carefully closed Pulte's eyes.

Barton stood and wiped the blood of Pulte that had gotten onto his hands off on his uniform. It was not an easy thing for Barton to lose someone, especially a man like Pulte. Yet somehow he was able to lock away those intense feelings of sadness away deep in his heart long enough to carry out the mission. If they failed, they died; if they succeeded, he could spend his entire life crying for the dead. So he did just as Pulte had said, "Get up."

He stomped out of that room with the rest of the living in tow. He shouted his orders, "Alright! Let's get to the basement and get that damn security room under our control! If we stand around here like trees we'll get cut down! Vargas, take point and clear out that basement!"

"Yes, Sergeant!"

He watched as he men hurried to carry out the order. With the condition he was in, there was no reason for him to take point and slow everyone down. It would be too dangerous to his squad. Paez had stayed behind with him; the Specialist had slumped down against a wall and held his broken kneecap. Barton approached him and without any words, tore a piece of cloth off from a dead soldier near them and used it as a makeshift tourniquet. Then he slapped Paez on the shoulder, smiled, and slowly made his way to the basement. Before he even reached the stairs he could hear the gunshots of Vargas and his men ring out and fade away.

By the time he had caught up with his men, they were ready to the clear the last room. Lined up at the door, he watched as Vargas quickly attached an explosive to the locked door. It popped and the door moved only an inch; Vargas kicked the door open the rest of the way and a Private chucked a flashbang into the room. All of Barton's men turned and covered their face for the brief moment of the explosion. They turned back to the room, their guns already aimed and ready. Someone shouted, "Suppressing!" and the bursts of their rifles followed. A few shots were fired back at them, yet it was done so in vain. Barton stumbled to the room as the shouts of, "Clear!" echoed throughout the basement.

Vargas greeted Barton at the door way and dragged him inside. It was the room they had been searching for. A few men shoved a dead body out of a chair and sat Barton down. Vargas took a seat next to him. Once more the electronic notepad was pulled out. Vargas smashed a panel open near a computer and pulled out a cord. The cord was then attached to the notepad. He asked to no one in particular, "I wonder if American technology can successfully scrambled American technology?"

An alarm whined for only a second before it faded. Vargas thought he had broken through rather easily, but was disappointed when this repeated itself several times. As Vargas struggled to break through the security of Offutt's computers, Private Tobin asked, "So, why are we doing this?"

"We need to get passed the security in order to use their guns and communication lines," Vargas explained.

"Um, no," Tobin said, "I meant, why are we attacking Offutt?"

A heavy silence hit after that question. Tobin felt everyone's eyes on him and he could only blink back in response. It was Barton who offered a reason, "Because Major Raymond – which means the Company – needs this base in order to have a strong defense against General Ellis."

"Why?" Tobin asked again.

"Because Major Raymond wants to secede from the union," Barton said. The announcement didn't really surprise anyone. There was no outrage or anger, only a quiet understanding. When Tobin said nothing, Barton asked, "Do you want to ask 'why?' for that, too? As if the bullshit we've seen isn't reason enough."

"No, Sarge," Tobin said. "I think I know the reasons."

Barton placed a palm against his bullet wound and stared at the blood that stained his hands absentmindedly. "You've all done a great job following orders up to this point. You've been great soldiers. But right now I'm not asking that of you. You can do whatever you like. I won't hold it against you."

"Are you saying we can leave the Company if we want?" another soldier asked.

Barton nodded but said nothing.

"With all due respect, that's just bullshit, Sarge," Tobin argued.

"Hell yeah, Tobin's right about something for once," Specialist Wade said. "You're telling us that we're supposed to… what, disagree with you, or something? That we're supposed to disrespect the Major and just turn our guns on our own men? Sarge, we're not part of the United States Army. Man, they ain't got respect for us. We're the Easy Eight. We're Major Raymond's men – we're your men."

There was a wave of agreement from those around him. Barton smiled and said, "Thanks, guys."

"I've broken through," Vargas announced.

Barton was back to business after that. "Offutt has fifty cals in the guard towers and seven around the perimeter. They're on manual now, let's keep it that way. Get into their communication line and link it with ours. The majority of the kids here are recruits and reserves, right? Should be easy to get them to turn tail."

Vargas did as he was ordered. As he linked the communication lines, the first thing they heard was talk about the flooding river. They listened intently for several minutes, and there wasn't a single peep about the fact their base had been attacked. It seemed impossible that there was no way they hadn't heard. The amount of Americans that Barton's men had killed up to that point meant that security had been sent repeatedly to the building they were in.

Barton clicked the talk function on his radio. "This is Staff Sergeant Richard Barton, United States Army, Easy Eight," he calmly announced. "We have control of your BDOC and have captured your post commander. We request the immediate surrender of all men and women attached to the Offutt post."

"We understand, Sergeant," someone just as calmly answered. "We're well aware of the situation in base. Request permission to remain with emergency personnel."

Barton hesitated. "What is your rank, soldier?"

"I'm Corporal Avett, sir," the man answered. "At this point in time, I believe I am the highest ranking soldier left of the Offutt post."

A glance around the room they had just commandeered showed that most of the dead were officers. Barton sneered; where they hiding out here, or had they hurriedly assembled here to strategize? Either way, it frustrated him that only the enlisted soldiers were out battling the rain and wind. Barton asked, "What are you going to do when you're done working with them?"

Avett said, "Surrender, I guess. We can't do much without weapons, can we?"

Barton switched the communication line over to Union. "This Staff Sergeant Barton, we have successfully gained control of the BDOC at Offutt. The Sea Dogs are clear to move."

"You mean to say you took a base of a thousand soldiers in only an hour?" a Sea Dog mechanic asked.

"It's not too hard when they don't have any guns," Barton answered. There was no response. Everyone relaxed while they could. Somehow they all found a way to be at complete ease despite the fact the room was full of dead bodies. Barton wondered if it was some form of desensitization, or if they were all just born to be soldiers. A sharp ache hit Barton's wound for the first time since the bullet had hit. He muttered to himself, "God, damn this is really starting to kill me." Louder, he said with a small laugh, "Derrick gets shot in the liver and is able to carry a body all the way down several flights of stairs, I get a cheap shot to my collar bone and I'm practically in tears. What a joke!"

Tension hit the room. The last time they had fought anyone other than Americans was Laredo. To them, what little time they had in Laredo was terrible and filled with a botched operation. Yet once they turned their guns on Americans, it had become so much easier. Perhaps they had the want to fight against their own country for a long while now. The question was no longer, "Who do we fight?" but rather it was, "Why do we fight?" Was it glory, honor? Did they take arms against America for power? They claimed it was for the betterment of their country to eliminate Ellis, to get rid of the complacent military that performed seemingly mindless and evil deeds. Would their country be better off if they destroyed the government, and what sort of person would grab power if they were successful?

"How many lives are we going to destroy in this war?" Barton asked himself out loud. He and his men sat in that bloodied room and contemplated that very question and their very purpose as they waited patiently for the arrival of the Sea Dogs.