Where Freedom Reigns

By R.A.R. Clouston

LOVE AND WAR: ANGELS AND DEMONS: BROKEN HEARTS AND BATTLE TANKS
This is an heroic American tale of love and war: the love of a father for two sons, a woman for two brothers, and a nation for two freedoms; and the Second Civil War that nearly destroyed them all.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: May 19, 2004
• ISBN: 9781483526966

Book preview

Men"

PROLOGUE

Kingdom of the Wind Spirit

April, 1918

Bitterroot Mountains, Idaho

The old man moved through the forest as if he and it were one. The gracefulness of his movement made it difficult to tell whether he was part of the wilderness or it was part of him. A dark-eyed little boy skipped along beside the old man, stopping every now and then to poke at a bug or smell a flower. Like any four year old, he was oblivious to the mystery and majesty about them. The boy was the old man's grandson; together they climbed the trail through tall pines that had stood for centuries as sentinels on the mountain known to their people as the Kingdom of the Wind Spirit.

The old man's clothes and adornments were those of a chief of the Nimiipu tribe, whom the Lewis & Clark expedition had named the Nez Perce over four generations earlier. His name was Gray Wolf. He had once been a mighty warrior, and the scar on his face and sadness in his eyes bore silent testimony to the years of pain and privation his people had suffered at the hands of the white man. However, his proud manner and quiet dignity showed that although he'd been bloodied, he had never been bowed.

Gray Wolf had been a wise and able leader of his people. He had served them well, but as he walked up the mountain that day, he knew in his heart that the life he had known was gone and would not come again; and that the age of untamed innocence was over. It had been over ten years since the last of his people's great leaders, Chief Joseph, joined their ancestors and Gray Wolf sensed that he would soon follow. Chief Joseph's eloquent and haunting speech of surrender in the Bear Paw Mountains, in which he said, Hear me, my chiefs; my heart is sick and sad. From where the sun now stands, I will fight no more against the white man, had been etched permanently in the chief's soul. On many nights he had lain awake in the darkness and wondered what might have been had his people not trusted the Great Father Chief in Washington. Now, as the white man's world was being torn apart by a brutal and bloody war, the only world that the chief had ever known was fading into the shadowbox of history. However, the betrayal and lies were all behind him now. On that warm spring day, as the deep snow that blanketed the mountain melted and ran down the hillside in streams of liquid silver, his mind was not on the past or the future. Instead, it was focused on the present and on his grandson and their time together. It was all he had left in life and, somehow, it was enough.

Gray Wolf loved the little boy as deeply as he did his own son, the little one's father; but he was part of a generation that had begun to drift away from the legend and the legacy of his people. As much as it hurt him, the chief could not be angry at this for the old ways were dying. The new century weighed heavily upon his shoulders while his feet were firmly planted in the past. As he journeyed to the top of the mountain with the youngest of his bloodline, he sensed that it would be for the last time. Yet he felt no bitterness or self-pity, only the deep and abiding love that he, and the ghosts of the warriors who walked beside him, had for the land, the sky, and all things living between.

This is a good day, little one, the chief said, drawing in a deep breath filled with the perfume of the pine needles that formed a soft carpet under their feet.

Yes, grandfather, this is a good day, said the little boy cheerfully.

Today we celebrate your fourth year of life by coming to the place where the spirits of our ancestors dwell.

Will they have presents for me, grandfather? asked the little boy expectantly, as he scurried along, taking two steps to every one of the old man.

The old man smiled gently, Yes, my child, but they will not be like the necklace you wear.

Around his neck, the little boy wore a necklace of beads made of shell and bone, and on it hung a small amulet in the shape of an eagle with outstretched wings. The chief had made it for him out of shiny metal, and the little boy wore it constantly, even while he slept. As he bounced along the trail beside his grandfather, the eagle twisted and danced happily above the little one's heart.

What will they be made of?

They will be made out of the sky and the wind and the mountains. They will fill your heart with happiness and your eyes with wonder, and when you are old like I am, they will still be with you long after the beads are gone.

When can I see them, grandfather?

Be patient, little one. We are almost there.

They walked along the sun-dappled trail and soon the trees began to thin. Suddenly, they broke out of the shadows onto a sunlit meadow perched high on the side of the mountain. Before them lay a magnificent panorama of purple peaks standing shoulder to shoulder like a parade of kings, dressed in robes of emerald and cinnamon; with their feet bathed in the crystal waters of a wild, winding river; and their heads wrapped in crowns of snow and ice. Around them, the breezes made the wildflowers dance, and the sun chased billowing clouds with flat, gray bottoms across an azure sky. It was the place on the mountain that the Nez Perce called the doorstep to paradise.

The old man grew silent as he surveyed all that lay before them. He closed his eyes and stretched his arms out like the wings of an eagle, as if to catch the wind, and he began to dance. It was a rhythmic dance with deliberate movements of his moccasined feet to the steady beat of an unseen drummer.

TOM, tom, tom, tom. TOM, tom, tom, tom.

TOM, tom, tom, tom. TOM, tom, tom, tom.

As he danced, he recited the words of an ancient tribal chant that had been passed down by generations long gone. The little boy watched spellbound. Slowly the magic of the moment gathered him up and the spirit of his people came upon him. He closed his eyes and began to dance beside his grandfather. The flowers and the trees seemed to dance with them; the sun's rays streamed down from between the clouds, spotlighting them. And for one brief moment, it was as if the energy of the entire universe was captured on that meadow, as the old man and the little boy made slow circles on the bosom of mother earth.

TOM, tom, tom, tom. TOM, tom, tom, tom.

TOM, tom, tom, tom. TOM, tom, tom, tom.

Then, as quickly as it had begun, it was over. The moment had passed. The old man stopped and opened his eyes, but the little one's eyes were still closed. He kept dancing in a tight little circle, chanting the words he had heard the old man say; with his arms outstretched, and the sun reflecting off his shiny black hair. The sight filled the old man with joy and he wept openly without shame. Finally, the little boy sensed that he was dancing by himself. One eye peeked open, then both, and he stopped. At first he was embarrassed but the chief grabbed him and drew him tightly to his chest and said, Today little one, the spirits of our fathers have come into you, and they will be with you and protect you forever. Then the chief held him high above his head and slowly turned in place so that the child could take in one last sweeping look at the wonder that surrounded them. You see before you, grandson, the gifts that the Great Spirit gave to our people, so that we would know him and be glad.

The little boy was wide-eyed as he took in the panorama. When his grandfather put him down on the ground, he looked up at the old man and said, I would rather have the gifts you give me, grandfather. As he said it, he grasped his eagle charm tightly as if the Great Spirit was going to take it from him.

The chief smiled and patted the little boy on the head, It is all right my son. One day you will understand. They stood there quietly for a few more minutes, alone amidst the grandeur that surrounded them. Gray Wolf knew in his heart that it was a special moment, one that would never come again.

Suddenly the silence was shattered by a strange mixture of sounds. It was a broken scream punctuated by deep-throated croaking. Several large birds appeared in the sky, locked in aerial combat; twisting and turning, they rode the strong updrafts that gave the mountain its name. The chief could see that one was a large female bald eagle that was being tormented by a terror of ravens. The eagle was bigger than the males of her species, as was usually the case, with a wingspan of over six feet. She had a sleek, dark brown body that contrasted sharply with the white feathers on her head and tail, along with a massive yellow beak and golden eyes that flashed angry glances like lightning bolts toward her tormentors. As the chief and his grandson watched, she climbed and rolled and dove high above the windswept landscape. Slashing out with her razor sharp talons, she only narrowly missed inflicting lethal wounds upon the black birds.

The leader of the ravens was a big male with a wingspan only a foot shorter than the eagle's. His feathers, beak, and feet were the color of midnight, and his dark brown eyes were fixed in an unrelenting stare upon her. Soon the eagle tired of the fight and with powerful down strokes of her wings, she climbed swiftly toward the heavens, leaving her pursuers far below. Then she was gone, disappearing beyond the tree line at the top of the ridge. Deprived of their target, the ravens circled aimlessly for a moment but the little boy was certain they were looking at him. He snuggled in close beside his grandfather. Finally, the ravens swooped down toward the valley and the sky was empty once again.

Grandfather, why did the ravens fight with the eagle?

Because that is their destiny.

What is destiny?

Gray Wolf smiled but did not answer. Instead he took a long, last look at the scene before them, then grasped the little boy's hand and guided him back into the forest. As they walked, the old man began to speak in a soft and gentle way; the way he always did when he told stories passed down to him by his father, and his father before that.

Long ago, before the time of our people, there was a tribe of mighty warriors who lived upon this mountain. It was a time of plenty because the forest was filled with game and the rivers teemed with fish. And it was a time of peace for the people, because their warriors were brave and mighty. They had defeated their only enemies who lived in the north, and their enemies were afraid of them and left them alone. So the women and the children of the tribe could walk safely on the land, and tend to their crops of maize that grew tall and fat in the sun.

The little boy clutched his grandfather's hand tightly and listened intently as the chief began to weave the magic spell of the legend of the eagle and the raven.

"In the tribe, there lived a beautiful princess who was the daughter of the chief. Her name was Wind Dancer, because when she walked she seemed to dance on the wind. She was so fair that the wildflowers in the meadows leaned toward her whenever she passed by and the trees whispered her name. She was in love with a young warrior named Runs With Thunder and he loved her. He was big and strong and as courageous as the other warriors in the tribe; but there was something different about him, something that set him apart. It was that he did not like to fight. He was the tribe's best horseman and he always fought bravely in battle but his heart was not in it. After each battle was over, darkness came about him; a darkness that only Wind Dancer could brighten.

The chief liked Runs With Thunder but he could not give his approval to their love. Instead, he wanted his daughter to marry Blood Moon who was the younger brother of Runs With Thunder. Blood Moon was tall and strong like his brother; but unlike his brother he was quick to anger, and in battle he never showed his enemies any mercy. When they were little boys, the brothers ran and played together through the fields and forests. However, when they grew to be men, and took up the ways of the warrior, Blood Moon turned away from his older brother because he was jealous of him."

Was he jealous because the princess loved his brother?

No, grandson. Blood Moon believed he could take Wind Dancer away from his brother whenever he wanted. He was jealous because his brother had something he knew he could never take away from him.

What was it, grandfather?

A pure heart.

The little boy looked down at his chest where the eagle amulet lay directly over his own heart. Do I have a pure heart?

The old man smiled and said gently, Yes, my grandson, and no one will ever be able to take it from you.

The old man's words made the little boy happy. He looked back up at him and asked, What happened to the brothers, grandfather?

"Wind Dancer was afraid of Blood Moon and she refused his efforts to win her love. The chief loved his daughter very much but he was old. He knew that he would not live much longer and he had no son to follow him. He worried that after he was dead their enemies from the north would return and attack his people. He thought that by his daughter marrying Blood Moon, their tribe would get a powerful new chief who would protect them from their enemies. So he ordered Wind Dancer to marry Blood Moon, and the wedding day was set.

But Wind Dancer's heart told her she could not obey her father, and on the eve of the wedding, she and Runs With Thunder decided to run away. They agreed that during the night she would leave her father's tepee and climb this mountain where she would wait for him. In the morning, he would take horses and food, and tell the tribe that he was going to hunt elk. As they whispered this plan to each other, an old woman overheard them. She told Blood Moon who became very angry. During the night he came up on the mountain and hid in the forest.

The next morning, Runs With Thunder rode his great white horse up the mountain, and he came out onto the meadow where Wind Dancer was waiting for him. When he saw her, he dismounted and ran to her, and their hearts were happy. But at that moment, Blood Moon appeared at the other side of the meadow on a white horse as big and powerful as that of his brother. Blood Moon demanded that Runs With Thunder give Wind Dancer to him but he refused. So he had his horse charge Runs With Thunder and knock him down. Then Blood Moon fell upon him, and while Wind Dancer watched helplessly, a terrible fight took place. Runs With Thunder fought bravely, but it soon became clear to Wind Dancer that he could not win. Blood Moon was bigger and stronger, and his heart was filled with evil. She called out to Blood Moon and pleaded that she would marry him if he would spare Runs With Thunder's life. But he would not listen.

The two brothers fought and wrestled and rolled, nearer and nearer to the cliff; until finally, Runs With Thunder stood teetering on the edge. Hovering there between this world and the next, Runs With Thunder realized that he was about to die. He looked his brother in the eyes and said, I love you, my brother. In that moment, the wind died, and the trees and wildflowers stood still; it was as if the world had stopped. Blood Moon thrust his arm out toward Runs With Thunder, and he fell to the rocks far below."

The little boy's eyes grew wide, Did he die, grandfather?

Yes, grandson. He did. Wind Dancer was overtaken with grief and she wept openly. Blood Moon came up to her and cried out that he had tried to save his brother, but she did not believe him. To his horror, Wind Dancer threw herself off the mountain.

The little boy gasped.

"But the Great Spirit had seen the fight, and he was touched by the love of Wind Dancer for Runs With Thunder. So as she fell, he turned her into a bald eagle. Then she swooped down and gently took the body of Runs With Thunder in her talons. She carried him toward the heavens where she dropped his body. As he fell, the Great Spirit also changed him into an eagle, and together they soared and danced upon the wind.

Blood Moon's heart was broken. He had not pushed his brother off the mountain. In that last second, he had tried to save him but failed. Now seeing the two eagles, he too jumped off the cliff. But the Great Spirit was angry with him and turned him into a raven; a bird with great strength and power, and a sharp mind and eye like the eagle, but cloaked in black from head to foot. A bird doomed forever to be a scavenger and to be known as the messenger of death. Since that day, the raven and the eagle have been mortal enemies."

The little boy thought carefully about what his grandfather had told him. Then he asked a question that caught the old man by surprise. Grandfather, if ravens are evil why did the Great Spirit make them?

The old man paused before answering. Then he said softly, The Great Spirit made the raven because without it we would never know how good the eagle is.

The little boy looked down at the eagle amulet. He took it in his hands and admired it. As he did, he tripped over a protruding root in the trail and fell. Gray Wolf reached out to grab him but his hand caught the back of the necklace. It broke, throwing the beads and the eagle amulet into the air. The eagle hit the ground, bounced once, and disappeared into a deep crack between a boulder and the hillside. The chief got down on his knees and peered into the crack. It was too small for him to reach inside it, and it was too deep for the little boy. They stood up and the little boy started to cry. The chief picked him up and spoke softly to him, Do not cry, grandson. I will make you another eagle more beautiful than the one you have just lost.

I do not want another one, grandfather. I want that one.

That eagle is gone, my child, and you must let it go. It is the way of life that beautiful things come into our lives and then pass on. We do not own them. All that we can do is to love them while they are here.

The little boy stared into his grandfather's eyes and asked, Will you pass on too, grandfather?

Yes, my child, but just like your eagle, my spirit will live on this mountain forever. And knowing that we are both here for you will make you happy.

With tears streaming down his cheeks, the little boy said softly, Yes, grandfather, it will make me happy. Then he rested his head on the mighty warrior's shoulder, and the two of them melted into the shadows of the forest on the mountain known as the Kingdom of the Wind Spirit.

September

G Day – 1

God’s Heart Is Broken

Turning and turning in the widening gyre

The falcon cannot hear the falconer;

Things fall apart; the center cannot hold;

Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world.

W. B. Yeats, The Second Coming

CHAPTER 1

One Hundred Years Later - Near Colby, Kansas

It was a time of siege and sadness in America; evil stalked the land. The light of hope that had been lit upon that distant shore in 1776, and nearly extinguished four score and seven years later, now flickered once more before the gathering storm clouds of war. If there can be any greater evil than war itself, it is civil war: a war that a nation wages upon itself. On a dark and stormy September afternoon, what had started a year earlier as a foolish protest in the Bitterroot Mountains of Idaho, on a mystical peak the Nez Perce call the Kingdom of the Wind Spirit, had now brought the Republic full in the face of war: the Second Civil War. No one knew how to turn back the hands of time or rekindle the flame of hope, but everyone knew the time for talking was done. Nothing remained now but to fight and die.

With autumn rapidly closing upon them, the Union’s VII Corps lay spread out across the vast muddy plateau that had once been the golden wheat fields of northwest Kansas. Standing guard or sleeping fitfully, in and around their armored vehicles, one hundred and forty-four thousand soldiers waited impatiently under brooding skies. They waited for the dawn that they hoped would bring an end to the incessant rain. They waited for the dawn that would bring the sun to warm their bodies and strengthen their flagging spirits. And they waited for the dawn that would bring the orders to send them across the Colorado state line into battle. Through that long, lonely night, none could know, but most could sense, that of these three things, the dawn would bring but one. And with it, the harsh reality that for many, this dawn would be their last.

In the south and west, two other Army corps, and one Marine mounted corps, each a prime example of the U.S. military’s largest land formations, lay like tight coils of concertina wire alongside the rebel nation, waiting to be sprung into battle; while the world held its breath as it watched a mighty nation prepare to tear itself apart. To the huddled masses around the globe, America had always been a bright and shining star; a magical land that lay just out of reach beyond the stormy seas of their own lesser existence. A land loved by some, hated by others, but envied by all. Over ten years of global conflict had dimmed that star, but neither friend nor foe had been able to extinguish it. Now all that would change, as America faced the one foe it could never defeat: itself. And so it was that a once-great nation under God was no longer indivisible. It was without liberty and justice for all. And the Republic for which it stood was bowed on bended knee, waiting for the blood of its sons and daughters to be spilled upon its savaged and sorrowed soil.

Over one hundred and fifty years after the end of the first war between the states, the Union had disintegrated once more. The beginning of the end had come twelve months earlier, with the seizure of a gun club by militia on a mountain in the Bitterroots. The end of the beginning followed nine months later, when Edward Morrissey, the Governor of Idaho, stood before the legislature in the Capitol building in Boise and, echoing words spoken long before by another governor of another state, declared to a disbelieving world: The Union now subsisting between Idaho and the United States of America is hereby dissolved.

Within days, six other states, including Wyoming, Montana, Utah, Colorado, Arizona, and New Mexico, joined Idaho in that fateful step; followed soon thereafter by Alaska and two western Canadian provinces, and its northern territories. They united with the original Group of Seven to form a new nation, which called itself the Continental States of America. And many immediately noted that its initials, CSA, were hauntingly familiar. It was a nation that promised the return of liberties lost and freedoms foreclosed. A nation that divided by word and deed the lands loyal to republic and dominion alike, into two anxious halves; separated by a vast backbone of rugged rock, foreboding forests, and remote, alien valleys.

As this collective tragedy unfolded, the President of the United States, Alexander Webster, attempted to maintain at least a semblance of control and to portray the conflict as a divergence of ideology. Yet over the course of history, Americans had always been unwilling to follow a President who was driven by principle rather than pragmatism. Accordingly, Webster’s efforts had been doomed from the start. Now, on the eve of a great war, he was relegated to presiding over a dying republic: one that its critics, both at home and abroad, referred to as the Disunited States of America. His counterpart in Ottawa fared even worse, as he now faced rebellion in the east as well. The Province of Quebec, seizing upon the chaos in North America, threatened to secede from Canada, which promptly brought offers of support from France, a nation long on ego and short on memory.

It was an untenable state of torment and turmoil, but few expected the rift that had torn the continent apart would ever, or could ever, be mended. The unthinkable had now happened; the back of the nation was broken, and on that night, September 15th, which would come to be known as the Eve of Unspeakable Sorrows, while soldiers in camouflaged tents and sand-bagged bunkers surrounded by heavy armor waited for the dawn and their date with destiny, everywhere across the land the mood was dark and dismal. In private homes, public halls, and places of sacred sanctuary; in shabby apartments with dingy basements beside dirty, lonely alleyways; in backstairs rooms, smoke-filled bars, courts, and station houses; and in upscale suburbs with darkened malls without shoppers to stem the losses, men and women, old and young, rich and poor, liberals and conservatives, now came face to face with the one thing they all shared: mortality. Regardless of their religious beliefs or politics or principles, none could deny that their Homeland, a land born of the gun and bred with the gun, would now die by the gun.

In the face of this insanity, pessimists sneered that God was dead; cynics said it proved He had never lived; and what was even more disturbing to the faithful few, most Americans simply did not care. It was left to a little child at an anti-gun demonstration to come closest to the truth when, after hearing her mother describe the past forty days of unrelenting rain as the tears of God, she said, Mommy, I think God’s heart is broken.

In response to this sound bite on the national news, a popular television talk show host by the name of Allistair Blevis commented that the little girl was right. God’s heart was indeed broken. But not by the imminence of war; not by the bitter polarity of public opinion; rather, by a force of evil greater than the evil of guns or the men who used them to kill each other. An evil so profound that it had overpowered the entire universe like a colossal convergence of all the black holes, forming a giant nothingness that was about to consume heaven and earth. It was the evil embodied by the fact that America had stopped believing in God; and in that loss of faith had come the death of hope.

So it was that the next day would be G-Day, the beginning of the ground invasion of the Continental States of America. And for only the second time in the nation’s history, Americans would march into battle against their fellow citizens: friend against friend, parent against child, sibling against sibling. With the ruins of a shattered democracy strewn across the barren land, the country was about to enter its Second Civil War. Before the nightmare was over, many young men and women among the faithful and the faithless alike, along both sides of the battle lines, would whisper to themselves, Please, God, have mercy upon my soul.

GOD AND MERCY were the last things on the mind of Colonel Jeremiah S. Kincaid Jr., commanding officer of the U.S. Army’s 3rd Armored Cavalry Regiment, as he stepped out of a Humvee and received crisp salutes from the MPs guarding the headquarters of the Army’s newly reformed VII Corps.

At ease, gentlemen, he said, as he returned their salutes. Without forcing the soldiers to ask him to, he walked through the biological, chemical, and physical scanning device, or BCP, in front of the building. He then stepped over to a biometrics scanner, looked directly into its small screen, and placed his right palm flat against it. Instantly, it scanned his retinas and measured the telltale heat patterns on his face. Then it cross-checked them, and his palm and finger prints, digitally against the database stored in Granite Shield. It was the Department of Homeland Security’s gigantic online database, powered by the world’s first quantum computer, referred to by its acronym, GOD. The device flashed a green light and announced, Access granted, in a pleasing female-like, computer-generated voice.

The colonel smiled at the MPs and said, I just love GOD’s voice.

You wouldn’t say that if access was denied, sir, replied one of the soldiers.

What does it sound like then?

The devil.

Kincaid laughed and said, Somehow I always knew that God was a woman.

Whatever you say, Colonel, replied the soldier, but the expression on his face clearly showed that he did not agree.

Kincaid continued into the aging, four-story, red brick building that, until recently, had been the Thomas County Courthouse in the town of Colby, Kansas. Now it was the main command post of the U.S. Army’s VII Corps. Kincaid was there to meet with Lieutenant General Bradford Curtiss, the corps’ commander. Along with his three counterparts, who commanded the Union’s other corps spread out along the southern and western borders of the CSA, General Curtiss was one of the most senior officers among the United States military, most of whom had remained loyal to the President. The same had not been true among lower-ranking officers, many of whom had defected to the rebel nation. This had created a serious problem in the chain of command, with men who had never been in battle placed in charge of large combat units.

Colonel Kincaid entered General Curtiss’ outer office, and he was immediately ushered into the inner office. He came to attention in front of the general, who sat behind a large oak table that had seen better days. The room was dimly lit and smelled of old books and new dust.

Colonel Kincaid reporting as ordered, sir.

Curtiss returned Kincaid’s salute, and then stood up and walked around the table, where he greeted the younger officer with a warm handshake. It’s good to see you, Jake.

The feeling was obviously mutual. Thank-you, sir.

General Curtiss opened a mahogany humidor on the table and held it toward Kincaid. Cigar?

I’ll pass for now, sir, but if you don’t mind, I’ll take one for later.

Of course, take a few. My wife doesn’t understand the joys of cigars. She accuses me of only smoking them because my hero, U.S. Grant, did, he added with a chuckle, as he took one and put the humidor down. She also likes to point out that Ulysses died of throat cancer. He lit the cigar, blew out the match, and winked at Kincaid. We’re all going to die, son. Remember it isn’t how you died, but rather how you lived that is the measure of a man.

I hear you, sir. Kincaid helped himself to several cigars.

The general sat back down behind the desk. He motioned for Jake to sit in a wooden chair in front of it. How’s your father? asked Curtiss with obvious interest.

As good as can be expected, sir.

Your father is a great man, Jake. His unselfish and tireless efforts to prevent this national tragedy will be treated kindly by history.

Kincaid nodded. That will give him small comfort, I’m afraid.

I understand. Believe me, son, there are those of us who wish he was our Commander In Chief.

Thank-you for the kind words, sir. He was beginning to wonder why he had been called into headquarters. He knew it wasn’t to talk about his father, Jeremiah S. Kincaid Sr., Speaker of the U. S. House of Representatives.

Colonel, I know you’re wondering why you’re here, so I’ll get right to the point. Earlier this evening, we relieved the commanding officer of the 1st Cavalry Division from his duties and placed him under arrest.

By the look on Kincaid’s face, it was obvious that he knew the man but was not saddened by the news. He said nothing.

It will serve no purpose to discuss why it was necessary to take this action. Putting this sad footnote to war aside, it gives me great pleasure to hereby promote you to be his replacement. The general took a set of stars out of his desk drawer, got up once more, and walked around the desk. Kincaid immediately stood up, and the general replaced the eagle on each of Kincaid’s collars with a single star, emblematic of the rank of Brigadier General. Congratulations, General Kincaid, he said with a broad smile, as he shook Kincaid’s hand. You are now the commander of the most advanced armored fighting unit in the history of the world.

Thank-you, sir. I’m honored.

General Pace wanted me to tell you that even under normal circumstances you would have soon lost your eagles, but in this time of war, we need men like you to lead us into battle. He also said he was sorry that he couldn’t be here to give them to you himself, but he was certain that you would understand.

Of course, said Kincaid. His expression was a mixture of pride and disappointment.

I expect that you’re disappointed to leave the 3rd Armored Cavalry, Jake. But quite frankly, I need you to run the 1st Cavalry Division.

Yes, sir. He knew well the bittersweet siren’s call to duty, and he would give his all. Commands given and commands taken away; it was the life of a warrior leader. And Kincaid was one of the best that the U.S. Army had ever bred. Who will replace me, sir?

Your G3, he said, referring to Kincaid’s most senior assistant.

Excellent. She’s ready.

She should be. You trained her. You will assume command immediately, and I want you back here for a briefing of all my division commanders at 1800 hours. Your division will play a key role in tomorrow’s invasion.

Thank-you, sir, for your confidence in me.

You’ve earned it, son.

There was an awkward silence, and for a moment, Kincaid didn’t know whether his superior officer expected him to say or do something more. Finally, Curtiss asked, Tell me, Jake, do you think we can win this war?

Yes, sir, Kincaid replied without hesitation.

The general nodded, then slowly, and with great deliberation, asked a question that would haunt Kincaid during the dark days to come. Do you think we should?

Kincaid stood silently with his eyes fixed upon the older man as if seeking some clue, some indication, as to whether or not this was a trick question, a test of his mettle, or a measure of his loyalty. Nothing in his days at West Point, or in his career since, had prepared him for such a question, from such a man, at such a moment. The words of Tennyson rushed into his head: Their’s not to reason why, Their’s but to do or die. He knew with near certainty that the might of the United States military would prevail in the impending war. But whether or not right was on their side was not for him to say. The war of words was over, and the shooting war would soon begin. Where politicians had failed, it was now left to soldiers to succeed. It was ever thus.

Finally, Jake Kincaid, a hero among heroes, a leader of men, and the first born son of the Lion of Congress, looked General Curtiss directly in the eyes and replied firmly, We must or all is lost. His words cut through the stillness of the room, like the wind over a wintry sea: one that freezes the body and hardens the soul.

Curtiss nodded and with a weary smile answered softly, I couldn’t have put it better myself, son. Then he did something that both men would remember for the rest of their lives, which for one of them would be of cruelly short duration. He gave Kincaid a hug and said, God bless you, son, and God bless America.

The act deeply moved the young general; his eyes welled up and he replied, Thank-you, sir. It was an act of genuine affection, such as what a father would do to his son before sending him off to war. But Kincaid’s father wasn’t there and hadn’t been for a very long time.

Now you’d better get back to your regimental CP, collect your kit, and head over to your new command. I’ll see you back here at 1800 hours.

Yes, sir.

Dismissed.

Thank-you, sir. I won’t let you down.

That thought, young man, never entered my mind.

THE 1ST CAVALRY DIVISION was located fifty kilometers southwest of Colby, near where Fort Wallace, a U.S. Army post, had once stood over 130 years earlier. It had been one of the frontier forts built by the Army on western Kansas lands to protect settlers from hostile Indians. Now all that remained of the fort, where General George Armstrong Custer’s 7th Cavalry had once been garrisoned, was a monument built to honor the soldiers, and a cemetery with the graves of civilian scouts who had been left behind when the Army abandoned the fort. The heavy rains that had plagued the Heartland for so many weeks had ruined that year’s wheat harvest and turned the once luxuriant fields surrounding the Fort Wallace Reservation into muddy bogs and swampy shallows. Where only months earlier farmers had tilled the soil, a city of portable bivouac units, or PBUs, now sat perched on cemfiber platforms, lined up row-on-row between heavily rutted gashes in the earth. Despite the billions that the Pentagon had invested in twenty-first century technology, mud was still mud wherever the foot soldier found it. The steady pounding of raindrops against the high-tech synthetic material, stretched tightly over lightweight graphite frames, sounded like war drums from some raiding party of long ago. Even without the ominous reason for its existence, the city of soldiers would have been a dismal place. The fact that they were waiting to kill or be killed made it almost unbearable, like hell’s pyre in a wheat field waiting for someone to strike the match.

As Kincaid wandered slowly along the perimeter of one of the cavalry squadrons for which he had just become the commanding officer, his eyes were drawn to the well-tended cemetery, where the monument stood all alone under a brooding night sky. It was bathed in the glow of lights surrounding a nearby flagpole, atop which the Stars and Stripes hung forlornly in the rain; as if somehow it could sense that at dawn, cavalrymen would ride off once more across the spreading plain to fight and to die for the Union. In a very real sense, just like Kincaid’s men were about to do, those soldiers from long ago had fought other Americans: proud and untamed warriors dressed in buckskin and feathers instead of Army cloth. They were equally unwilling to give allegiance to the Great Father Chief in Washington, but Americans none-the-less.

After retrieving his kit and saying goodbye to his staff at the 3rd ACR, the new general had asked his driver to let him out of the Humvee when they neared the 1st CD’s main command post, so that he could walk among the soldiers of his new command. As he passed between their PBUs, he stopped occasionally to chat quietly with some of the soldiers whose lives now depended on him. None recognized Kincaid’s face, but they all knew instantly what the star on each collar meant, and they jockeyed with each other to give him their views on life and death and everything in between. He listened patiently and tried to give them the reassurance they needed to hear. They spoke of faith and fear and the coming fight. He spoke of duty and honor and country: the code that had been drilled into him at West Point. They could only think about returning home to friends and family. He could only think about metal boxes lined up row on row. In the back of his mind, their faces were being catalogued into a photo library, one from which during the days ahead he would try to pull them up, as he wrote the inevitable sad letters home.

Finally, he realized it was time to get to his new command post. He extricated himself from the last band of soldiers and headed toward the road where his driver was waiting for him. Before he reached the Humvee, he saw a young soldier standing all alone in the graveyard by the monument. He was holding a flashlight and shining it down into the mud.

Did you lose something, soldier? Kincaid asked as he approached the young man, who was stooped over and had not seen him approach.

The soldier looked up, then quickly stood up straight and saluted, dropping the flashlight in the process. Yes, General. I can’t find my St. Christopher medal. My grandmother gave it to me. She told me never to take it off. But I forgot.

Are you sure you dropped it out here?

Yes, sir. I took it off a few minutes ago to look at it, and it slipped out of my hands. There was moisture on his cheeks but the general couldn’t tell if it was rain or tears.

What’s your name, soldier? In the dark, Kincaid couldn’t make out the plain black letters stitched on the olive patch on his camouflage uniform.

Annett, sir. PFC Stewart Annett. Third Platoon, C Troop, 2nd Squadron, 1st Cavalry Division, sir.

Are you a driver, Private? the general asked, meaning a tank driver.

Yes, sir. And a damn good one.

I bet you are, said Kincaid with a smile. Here, let me help you. He bent over, picked up the flashlight, and shined it on the muddy ground. The soldier looked around, obviously embarrassed to have a general poking around in the mud for him.

That’s all right, sir. You must have more important things to do.

I have nothing more important to do, soldier, said Kincaid, not taking his eyes off the ground. Suddenly the bright little silver medallion popped into the glow of the light, and Kincaid grabbed it. I’ve found it! he said, sounding more like a little boy than a general. He carefully wiped it off, and putting the flashlight under his arm, he stepped toward the soldier and placed it around his neck. There you go.

A big smile spread across the young man’s face, and he said, Thank-you, General.

You’re welcome, Private. Now you know why we put a RFID chip under your skin, he said, referring to the tiny radio frequency identification microchip that each soldier had implanted at the base of his or her neck. It was a micro-version of the mandatory national identification system, or NIS, card. It contained all the person’s vital data: National Security Number, physical description, retinal and thermal body scan metrics, DNA code, blood type, education, military serial number and record, criminal records, if any, and anything else that someone would ever need, or want, to know about someone else. In peacetime, members of the military carried their cards in their wallets or purses, just like civilians, but for soldiers going into a war zone, a tiny microchip version was implanted under the skin. In addition to providing a real-time, bio/socio data inventory for each soldier, when prompted by radio waves, the chip instantly transmitted its data to the LWCS, or Land Warrior Communication System. This was a small communication device built into the soldier’s helmet that was linked into the military’s satellite-based, digital command and response system, called Granite Fist. The LWCS was a multi-functional microcomputer that included a pop-up display which, among other things, enabled the soldier to instantly access topographical maps and determine his location on the battlefield, as well as to identify friend or foe.

Granite Fist’s software was run on the Federal government’s new quantum computer, which was the same one that powered Granite Shield. In addition to monitoring and controlling the movements of friendly ground forces, it was capable of tracking multiple targets of opportunity simultaneously, both human and mechanical, on the battlefield in real time. This helped field commanders instantly identify friend and foe, and act accordingly. It also provided the field command officers with instantaneous situation analyses and operations orders for optimum tactical effectiveness. In effect, Granite Fist was like having the eyes of God directing the attack.

Good luck tomorrow, General.

Good luck to you, too, Private. Make sure that you follow your grandmother’s advice this time.

Yes, sir. If I ever get to see her again, I’ll tell her you found it for me.

You’ll get through this war, soldier. Don’t let yourself think otherwise.

No, sir, that’s not what I meant. You see, my grandmother lives in Colorado, and if we lose this war, I don’t think my uniform will be welcome inside the CSA.

I see. Trust me, Private, Colorado will be part of the Union again, and you’ll be able to wear that uniform with pride anywhere in this great country.

Yes, General. I’m sure I will. He saluted smartly, wheeled, and headed into the night.

Kincaid stood alone on the prairie watching Annett walk away into the growing darkness. Suddenly the wind ceased its relentless howling, and a deathly silence enveloped him. He stopped in his tracks and looked around. The Humvee was nowhere to be seen, nor was there any sign of the maze of men and machines that lay somewhere beyond his gaze. He was alone, totally alone, on a gentle hillock, with nothing but sodden fields and storm-tossed sky stretching in every direction as far as his eyes could see. Then with an ominous rumble, the turbulent clouds parted, and a shaft of sunlight slashed down through the gloom. It focused an overpowering brilliance upon a single piece of ground, and it thrust the surroundings into an abysmal darkness. Kincaid threw his hand up in front of his eyes to shield them, and as they adjusted to the light, he lowered it. What he saw would change everything.

CHAPTER 2

The State Capitol, Boise, Idaho

Edward Morrissey, the newly appointed President of the rebel nation of the Continental States of America, sat at the head of a long table in the war room in the basement of the Idaho State Capitol building, surrounded by a group of Cabinet members, military officers, political advisers, and key staff members. The pride, excitement, and sense of destiny that had filled his head when he accepted the position several weeks earlier was now gone and all that occupied his mind was war. A war about to be started by Alexander Webster, the President of the United States, and a war that he, Edward Morrissey, the self-appointed protector of freedom, would finish.

To Morrissey’s right sat his Vice President, Sam McCabe, along with Chank Swale, formerly Commandant of the State Patrol and now the Secretary of Homeland Security. On his left sat Thomas Porter, the Secretary of War. Morrissey and the others were absorbed by a large three-dimensional map that was being projected onto a translucent screen at the front of the room. It was identical to the map of North America that every school child had seen on the classroom wall, with one conspicuous difference: right down the middle of the map, just to the left of center, was the new nation of the Continental States of America. It lay like a bright blue ribbon, splitting what was left of the United States and Canada into two uneven red bands. In total, it looked like an overripe watermelon sliced in half.

In front of the screen stood five-star General Jesse Latrobe, commander of all the Continental armed forces. On the map behind him were four large black arrows that cut directly into the CSA, two on each side of the area formed by the seven states that had seceded from the Union. The arrow on the top right corner of the map slashed across the Kansas and Colorado state line westward toward Denver, while on the top left side, an arrow pushed northward into Idaho from Nevada. In the south, there was an arrow cutting from California into Arizona, and another that arced across Texas from Louisiana into New Mexico. North of the border there were similar black arrows that sliced into the blue ribbon from British Columbia in the West and Manitoba in the East. At that moment, Latrobe was pointing with a mini-laser at the Nevada and Idaho border.

Mr. President, based on the information supplied to us by Major Smythe, we know the Federal attack will consist primarily of a ground campaign involving four mounted corps, two of which are positioned along each of our eastern and western borders. These will be supported by their air force, along with Marine Expeditionary Units.

Good thing we’re land-locked, or their bloody navy would be in on it as well, said Morrissey sarcastically.

Yeah. I bet their Navy brass are trying like hell to figure a way to get a carrier group up the Columbia River, added McCabe with a snort, leading several others to chuckle.

Latrobe waited until they quieted down. He found nothing funny about war. The invasion will encompass two primary fronts and two secondary actions. In the West, I Corps will attack across our border with Nevada. The main force is comprised of four divisions, including two armored, one mechanized infantry, and one cavalry. It is currently positioned fifty kilometers south of Jackpot, Nevada. In addition, they have placed an infantry regiment across the Snake River Canyon near Ontario, Oregon. As he pointed at the map, it zoomed in to a highly detailed projection of the border area, along with icons that listed the division names and numbers, force strength, and primary weapons systems.

What about Utah?

Operation Broadsword did not specify any assault on Utah, and our military strategists concur that they will be unlikely to do so. Broadsword was the code name for the U.S. military’s invasion plan for the West that had fallen into their hands through covert means.

Morrissey nodded. He was bothered by the fact that his army was placing so much credence in the stolen plans, but given the scope of the territory that his forces had to defend, he did not have many options. The 4th is from Texas, isn’t it? he asked, looking at the tiny soldier icon on the map that designated the location of one of the U.S. Army’s infantry divisions.

Yes, sir. Fort Hood.

Dackworth, said Morrissey with disgust.

Yes, sir. Dackworth, echoed Latrobe. Like Morrissey, he was disgusted with the treachery of the Governor of Texas, who had played both sides in the war against each other.

The 12th Armored Cavalry is a new regiment, isn’t it? Morrissey asked, glancing at another icon shaped like a tank, sitting below the Idaho border.

Yes, sir. It was formed at the start of WWT, when the Pentagon realized it needed to rebuild its armored capability. He was referring to the American-led World War on Terrorism that had ended several years earlier.

Do they have the new M1A3 tanks? inquired McCabe, referring to the newest iteration of main battle tanks, recently developed by the Army.

Yes, Mr. Vice President, but only in one squadron.

Is Cody ready for them? asked Morrissey, referring to Lieutenant General Cody Wyatt, commander of the CSA’s western Army. It had come to be known as the Army of the Bitterroots, in recognition of its birthplace beside the Wolf River in the mountain range of the same name. On Wyatt’s shoulders fell the heavy burden of the defense of the Idaho homeland.

Latrobe pointed at the map with a laser pointer. Yes, Mr. President. General Wyatt’s forces are ready. In addition to the Wolf River Militia that comprises the nucleus of the Army, it is made up of National Guard units from all across the West, including several states that have chosen not to join our cause, along with repatriated soldiers and airmen from Federal units. General Wyatt’s forces have a numerical advantage, with a total of five divisions, including two armored; two mechanized infantry, one heavy and one light; and one cavalry. His main force is deployed south of Twin Falls at Rogerson, while the remaining units are concentrated at the Snake River Canyon. He pointed at those two locations on the map. Wyatt also has two other non-division units, including an armored cavalry regiment and an aviation brigade at his disposal. Once again, the names and relevant data for each division flashed onto the screen. Latrobe pointed to their location on the three-dimensional map, and as he did so, computer-animated representations of men and their machines were projected onto the screen, complete with summaries of their specifications and killing power. Centralized command and control for our armored and air cavalry units will be provided by Q STAR, which I believe you are familiar with, Mr. President.

Refresh my memory.

The system tracks our armor and troop movements by reading the Radio Frequency Identification Devices implanted under the skin of soldiers or installed on armored vehicles. These are relayed by micro-transmitters to our airborne-based command platforms, and further relayed to our supercomputer center for data analysis and interpretation. Orders are then passed back to the respective combat units for action.

But the Federal forces will be using Granite Fist, which is superior to Q STAR, is it not? asked Morrissey.

Yes, sir, that’s correct. Granite Fist is a step effect better than our technology, in two principal ways. First, the data transmission is handled via a satellite-based relay system direct from every single mechanized unit on the battlefield to the centralized command and control center in Washington. In turn, it processes this data through the Federal government’s quantum computer platform, which is part of Granite Shield and is administered by the Department of Homeland Security.

All of which means what?

It means that their system is faster, more reliable, and more robust than ours.

By how much?

By a factor of at least seven—on a logarithmic scale.

Morrissey was not a mathematician, but even he was familiar with the Richter Scale for measuring earthquakes, where each number was ten times more powerful than the one before it. So what you’re saying is that their command and control capability is a million times better than ours?

Yes, sir. Theoretically at least.

The room fell silent as each person wrestled with the thought. Finally, Morrissey asked rhetorically, What choice do we have?

Latrobe nodded grimly. Actually, Mr. President, we have two things going our way right now.

Let’s hear them.

We are diligently working to disable Granite Shield’s geo-stationery satellite tracking system for the western sector, using the de-encryption codes provided by Major Smythe. This will render their centralized intruder detection and interdiction capability, or CIDIC, useless.

It’s getting a little late for that, isn’t it, General? The invasion will come at dawn.

We’re hoping for a breakthrough at literally any minute, sir.

And if not?

We believe their Granite Fist platform has an Achilles Heel.

Which is?

I’ll let General Boxworth answer that one, Mr. President.

General Hayden Boxworth, chief of staff of the Continental Army, nodded politely at Morrissey and said, Mr. President, we have reason to believe that there may be a fatal flaw in Granite Fist. Specifically, the wireless interface between the ground force tracking and recognition modules, and their new quantum computer mainframe, is susceptible to minute changes in the earth’s ionosphere, which interfere with the system’s response capability, theoretically at least. This means that there can be a disruption in the functionality of the system, including delays in the target acquisition and response cycle, which, of course, places their men and weapons in deadly jeopardy.

Changes in the ionosphere?

Yes, sir. Like the Northern Lights.

So we’re going into battle hoping for the Northern Lights? snorted McCabe.

No, sir. Of course not. That’s where HAARP will help us.

If we’re going to pray for help from the angels, I hope they bring their swords rather than their harps, said McCabe, still trying to get a laugh. No one did.

No, sir. HAARP stands for the High Frequency Active Auroral Research Project based in Alaska. It encompasses two sites built by the military to detect global anomalies in the earth’s crust. The original purpose was to locate underground facilities used by foreign nations to hide nuclear capabilities, or to ferret out terrorist caves during WWT.

What’s this got to do with the invasion? Unless I’m mistaken, the Federal forces aren’t planning to tunnel their way under our lines, asked Morrissey, who had a very low tolerance for techno jargon.

The President’s impatience frustrated Boxworth, and it showed on his face.

Latrobe jumped in. The original HAARP facility worked essentially by heating the ionosphere. But during WWT, the Federal government converted it into a giant ultrawide band antenna, or UWB. The intent was to open up an enormous new range of potential bandwidth, and thereby create virtually eavesdrop-proof networks as part of their Granite Shield and Granite Fist platforms. They had almost finished it when Alaska seceded and joined our cause, and the facilities obviously fell into our hands.

I still don’t get how that helps us, since our battlefield equipment isn’t Granite Fist capable.

That’s correct, sir. However, another capability of UWB is to interfere with global positioning systems, including Granite Fist, which means that we can use what was intended to be part of Granite Fist against it.

When can this be operational?

As soon as you give the order, sir, replied Boxworth.

Do it.

Yes, sir.

Latrobe resumed the briefing. General Wyatt’s armored divisions are positioned here. He pointed the laser to another location on the map, which instantly increased its magnification, revealing digital simulations of men and their war machines. "The infantry