"Intel indicates enemy militias are redeploying for an attack on the VA Hospital complex. We spotted several heavily armed units crossing the lake yesterday at dusk. Their objective is either to keep the Seminole Militia pinned down or eliminate it as a force entirely. Northern Command can't afford to lose this complex, but doesn't have any support to cut loose either. So the colonel has ordered Bravo Company to secure the facility. Once we're in position, he'll send a security detachment to shore up our defenses. Landing proceeds at 1900.
"Jones, setup mortar teams in the parking lot behind the main hospital, here. I want tubes sighted to support the bridges, here and here, the complex of buildings across the road, here, as well as covering the channel behind us. Once the enemy figures out we've landed, I expect their gunboats either to force the pass or to come straight up the Intracoastal from behind these finger islands. Station your Dragon launchers in the trees along the shore, here, and on the point. You're responsible for neutralizing any gunboat activity.
"Wilson, your men will provide security inside the complex. I want teams in each of these buildings. If the perimeter falls, each team will have to hold out until reinforcements arrive. Choose and interlock your zones carefully. Make those buildings into bunkers. Stay out of the perimeter fight as long as possible. I don't want to give away our strength too early.
"I'll setup Command in the hospital itself. We'll tap off their generator and bring their satellite link back online. We'll use that to signal back here once we control the facility and the landing zone is safe for reinforcements.
"That leaves you with perimeter, Freeman. Drop a squad in the pass as we transit. Their first priority: hold both shores until our reinforcements arrive and make sure that drawbridge stays up. Second, warn us if any enemy gunboats force the pass but do not engage unless they try to seize it. I want one squad, here, holding the bridge over Long Bayou and another, here, at this causeway. Same priorities, except the causeway drawbridge must stay down as an alternate line of retreat or overland reinforcement. And make sure no one crosses that rail-trail bridge. Finally, I want you to cover the complex perimeter. Nothing gets across this road. Problem, Lt.?"
"Major, with three squads holding the bridges, that leaves me one to cover over a mile of road, plus another two of shoreline."
"Cut a few guys loose from the causeway to setup on the overpass, here. From there they can see the length of the road bordering the complex. Use them with the squad at Long Bayou to secure your flanks. Coordinate your positions with Captain Wilson. He's got your back. You'll be in a support role for the shoreline. Prep a contingency force to respond to any hot spots. Wilson's teams in the buildings here and here will hold against any assault that gets by the Dragons until you arrive. You will be reinforced by Air Force security once our position is secure.
In the mean time, fifty paramilitaries from the Seminole Militia will be placed under your command. Don't underestimate them. They've been holding this complex with limited support since this thing started. Remember, they may have invited us in to help, but this is their home.
"Which brings me to communications. Since Freeman's paramilitaries are equipped with police radios, TacNet will operate on these frequencies in the clear. Don't say anything you don't want broadcast. OpNet will use our standard secure frequencies. Fire a single red flare if you spot any enemy gunboats. A green star flare is the all clear signal. A blue flare when our main force arrives. A white star flare means we're pulling out. It is also our wave-off signal to the boats. If the complex falls, evacuate all remaining assets and regroup, here.
"Gentlemen, I don't need to remind you that we've got a lot of people depending on us. We don't have enough fuel left to continue as a mobile force, and NorthCom hasn't indicated that any more is on the way. The 34th and the surviving elements from MacDill are the only active units on this coast from Naples to Pensacola. And the Seminole Militia has stood beside us through all the majors: the fight at the airport, the evac of MacDill, even the fiasco at the port last month. Without their flanking maneuver, the battalion would have buried two companies there instead of one.
If we lose this complex, we've also lost our only local ally. If we inflict enough damage on the enemy while defending it, we buy time for NorthCom to reinforce and re-equip us. Colorado Springs wanted to abandon Florida all the way to Jacksonville and retake it later. The colonel convinced them not to give it up. Bottom line: No mistakes this time. Gentlemen, let's make this one work."
I
"Nothing yet, Lt. Still too dark to make it out." Her voice was high, but steady. She was no Marine, but for a cop, she was handling her first serious command fairly well.
No sign. Damn. The command post could have fallen hours ago. If so, he and his squad would be cut off soon with no chance to retreat. And no prayer of rejoining Battalion for an alternate landing. But his last orders from the major had been clear: Hold position as long as Command holds. To be precise, "Our orders from NorthCom are they want the entire battalion here now. They did not give an explanation, so I won't offer one. But as long as our flag flies over this complex, we own it. Is that clear, Lt.?" Crystal. Sir.
Initially, everything had gone smoothly. First squad had set down quietly in the pass. Second and Third squads had landed at the two bridges without incident as well. Nearly half their main force had unloaded along the grassy beach at the VA complex when trouble erupted. Suddenly, a well-armed enemy directed by a commander who knew how to use them had savaged them from the far shore. Either these self-styled militias had suddenly found training, or they had been reinforced by mutinous elements of his own military. It looked like the Port of Tampa all over again. Half of Wilson's contingent was face down in the bay, along with the captain himself. Jones' two remaining mortars were in a scramble mode, fire and move; no time for ranging shots. From radio distance NorthCom and the colonel had decided this operation would still succeed by definition. Now, Freeman was trying to plug the holes in mile long perimeter with seven Marine reservists and forty-odd green troops who elected their own NCOs. His command looked like a farm-hand militia engaging seasoned professionals. At least all his new troops were armed, most with assault rifles. Some even had body armor. He would make it work. By definition.
"Wait for their next flare, Williams, then look again. Nelson, take another crack at that machine gun with the grenade launcher on my mark. That should draw another one of their boat flares. Maybe our mortar teams will wake up this time. Phillips, watch for the trail from the flare, and take him out with a LAW. My guess is that he's beside the guy with the radio. Maybe we'll catch a break. Collins, lay down covering fire. Pass the word to the rest to stay down and get ready to move again."
Cupping his watch with his right hand, Freeman waited the minute it would take for his orders to spread up and down the line. He listened as Williams reminded her lookouts to cover an eye against the flare this time to avoid night blindness. She learned quickly for an elected sergeant, the only one among fresh fifty his platoon had received that had made any impression on him other than eventual KIA. She looked an unlikely leader in a sleeveless shirt that once had been part of a county sheriff's uniform. But the comfort with which she held her assault rifle belied her image. Her eyes moved silently from the hospital to her troops' positions with a quick check across the road and back to him. An aura of competence glowed behind a redneck facade that spoke of being one of the boys when necessary. Freeman guessed that since the fighting started, she'd found it necessary more often than not.
A lone rifle report shifted his attention forward. Beyond the low wall he and his troops clung to for cover, five lanes of asphalt were awash in flickering red-orange light. A dozen or so hazard flares lay askew on the pavement at somewhat regular intervals along the length of the road. They hissed and sputtered a warning to anyone who thought of crossing. The corpses splayed across the pavement between them were afire in their light. He'd lost five people just keeping that road lit. Those five had purchased sight for the gun crew on the overpass anchoring his left flank to continue firing down the road each time the enemy probed. Between them and the second crew atop the bridge around the gentle curve to his right, none of the enemy had survived a crossing. After the first devastated attempt, few others had tried.
The crew in the apartment block across from him started taking practice shots on the flares again, extinguishing a few. Others walked and skittered jerkily back toward his side of the road. Their light advantage wouldn't last long. Soon, the other side would reposition their RPG's and mortars to get a shot on his bridge squads. If they did get across, Wilson's squads, who had so far kept a disciplined silence in the buildings behind him, would test their resolve. Perhaps stumbling into an ambush would break the enemy before they overran the complex. If not, it might buy enough time for the rest of the battalion to arrive and setup.
The last time he'd checked in, he had been informed their forward observer had been taken out when the apartment block across the street was overrun. Now, that was his job, too, with support from the remaining observer on the hospital's roof. After his last secure radio died saving his only trained radioman from an otherwise well-aimed round, he'd had to get creative. The police radios were monitored by an enemy direction finder. The few times he'd attempted to use them for coordination, enemy mortar fire had quickly drown out any information they might convey. He'd sent a runner to Lt. Jones with instructions to use the enemy's boat flares as his signal for support fire. The suppressing fire helped but enemy counter-battery fire had savaged Jones' teams, leaving two of his tubes tangled and twisted.
Freeman watched the seconds tick away. Three. Two. One. "Mark. Fire!"
Corporal Collins sawed into the apartment block with sustained automatic fire. Sgt. Nelson sprang up beside one of the wall's concrete posts, the barrel of his grenade launcher searching the red-orange night for the source of the rival machine gun chatter. Third floor, second building west. Freeman heard a low fump, KaBam! Then a brief delay before the skittering of concrete and gravel as it rained onto the pavement below. By the time the boat flare arched overhead, Nelson was already crouched into a run toward his new position. He, too, remembered the enemy tactics from the port. Just before the flare burst to light, a rope of flame to his left signaled that Sgt. Phillip's light anti-tank weapon was up and on its way. A split second later, its swoosh crashed into a deafening WaBoom! as half a dozen apartments collapsed into rumble, centered on the source of the signal flare that now bathed the trees and yard of the complex in a hellish red glare. That should give the enemy pause before attempting to force their way across the road again.
"Got it Lt. Freeman"
His ears still ringing, he couldn't immediately find the source of the voice. He located Williams when her finger stabbed the red night toward their flag streaming above the hospital. A moment later, Jones' mortars fired up, keeping the remaining enemy pinned down until their own mortars could respond.
"Ok, people, let's move. Hustle, before they sight those tubes." Freeman's voice boomed up and down the line, as his arm waved his people toward their new positions. He turned his head toward the hospital to ensure the flag still flew in the waning light before springing into a half-hunched sprint himself.
Freeman slowed, hoping the others had kept pace as he reached one of Jones' launchers crouching in the brush overlooking the bay. Hours the length of days had passed since Phillips' LAW had curtailed the enemy probes along the perimeter. The bootfalls following him announced Williams just behind. Nelson, his veteran sergeant, thundered past with the others destined to reinforce the remaining positions. They would serve as back-up launchers and provide covering fire in case any boats survived the Dragons' breath.
The first red flare minutes before had signaled enemy patrol boats forcing their way through from the Gulf. Waves of automatic weapons fire rippled across the water when a second flare erupted over the point. Either one of Wilson's veterans had panicked or another group of boats had been spotted in the south channel. A sound tactic to spread their resources. Already, he'd lost too many Marines defending their northern perimeter, not to mention the militia who had fallen defending the compound. Their compound, Freeman reminded himself.
Now, he'd had to choose between defending the northern perimeter and keeping the landing zone open for reinforcements. Nearly half his remaining people had responded with him. The squad on the overpass should be able to hold the road with the remaining twenty or so along the wall continuing their deadly game of hide and seek under Phillips' direction. If the situation got too hot, they had orders to retreat into the compound buildings until Freeman's return. Better to sacrifice ground and save some of the platoon, though both ground and personnel were in limited supply.
The whine of multiple marine diesels surged and receded cyclically above the diminishing weapons fire. Freeman hoped Nelson's people had made cover by now. He leaned toward Williams and in a low, steady voice said, "Single red flare. Get ready. One. Two. Three. Now."
Red flame arched over the water from several other positions within a matter of seconds, bathing the bay in an eerie, hellish light. As flares exploded one by one, Freeman made out three gunboats zigzagging their way across the water from the pass, with another four in the south channel beelining toward the point.
Where were those mortar teams? A soft fuwump, fuwump behind him announced two shells were up and on the way. Those, the enemy would expect. Keep them coming, Jones, he thought. Let them think this is just like the Port of Tampa, where mortars were the only shore defense we had. The darkness before the westerly boats erupted in watery flame from two near misses, close enough to send the lead boat rocking. Two mortars were going to make it difficult to blunt this blow if the Dragons didn't work. No one in the battalion remembered having to use the long decommissioned anti-tank missiles as a shore defense system before.
"Keep a white flare handy in case this doesn't work," he whispered in Williams' ear, who nodded without facing him, her rifle tracking the sounds of the incoming motors, the military flare tube on ground within easy reach.
"You ready, son?" Freeman asked the Marine manning the Dragon mounted nearest him. He must be a replacement. He was too young to be original material. He looked competent, but too fresh, too clean. Freeman reminded himself that he had looked that way once. But he'd also had a few years to age gracefully and find his place in the reserves before confronting enemy fire. "You know the plan, wait for the next round of flares and mortar shells. Those three should be preparing to turn for a strafing run along the shore."
"Yes, sir, I know. 'Pick your target, aim and fire. Squeeze the trigger. Don't rush the shot.' The way they're coming that lead boat should be an easy score."
"Good. Williams and I are going to move off to send up the next flare, so they don't get a lock on our position. We'll return to provide covering fire and help setup the next launcher."
"Didn't you hear, sir? No spare launchers. Most of them went into the bay before we got them unloaded. One shot is all we get."
Freeman just shook his head before turning, motioning Williams to follow. She fell into a crouching run behind him without a word. She was good, still the best he'd seen from the militia. If they both got out of this, she might make a good squad leader. By morning he figured he would need a few more. Too early to start thinking like that, Freeman, he reminded himself. No point getting attached to her before the battle's over. Easy way to let emotions cloud your judgment. Still, the battalion would need to replenish its ranks with capable personnel just to replace the bodies on the beach.
A sharp whistle behind him snapped Freeman's head around. He flinched, throwing up an arm as he recognized the incoming shells. Explosions tore through the woods a hundred yards away with a crack of falling trees and broken branches. Damn, that was quick. Jones' mortar teams must be getting tired or reusing positions. Not that there were miles of territory on this peninsula to choose from. The teams should be hoofing base-plates and tubes to new locations by now. That the enemy mortars were concentrating on counter-battery fire was a positive sign. They had no sense of the Dragons waiting quietly in the brush as their prey splashed noisily toward their lair.
He ignored the whistle of a second round until it grew louder and shriller for a split second too long. Williams drove him to the ground just as the mortar shot ripped through the bushes a couple dozen yards to their left. A wild shot sent long of the Marine mortar position by a hundred yards. Splinters of wood mixed with metal whizzed over and around them, tearing through leaves and tugging at the fringes of his fatigue jacket.
"That was too damned close. You hurt?" Freeman asked, untangling himself from Williams. She shook her head. He couldn't tell if it was an answer to his question or her attempt to clear it. He didn't have time to figure out which. "Count to five, then pop off another red flare. Meet me back at the Dragon."
Ignoring cover for speed, he sprinted low across the grass that bordered the water. A small crater tinged with smoke steamed midway between Williams and where he'd left the young Dragon soldier crouching beside his weapon.
Freeman plunged into the brush where the Dragon had been stationed. The young Marine struggled to use the Dragon's bipod instead of his own tattered, blood-slick leg to support himself. He moaned as Freeman lowered him to the ground and eased the Dragon from his grasp. Freeman planted the bipod into the sandy soil, put his eye to the sight and steered the weapon toward the whine of the gunboat diesels. There wasn't enough light to make out individual boats, only shadowy motion in the direction of the screaming engines. As he waited for Williams' flare, he quickly prayed that shrapnel hadn't damaged the Dragon's wire guidance system, and that the soldier panting beside him lived until medical help arrived. He would know whether God still heard his prayers, or even cared, when the eternity of heartbeats stopped pounding in his ears.
Williams' flare lofted over the bay, painting the water the brilliant red of fresh blood. The three boats had just turned parallel to the shore when one came into Freeman's viewfinder. What had the boy said, the first one? Another fuwump behind him registered as he sighted in on the lead patrol boat. He lowered his sight to just above the waterline line, following it amidships. That should do the trick.
Freeman squeezed the trigger. The Dragon roared beside him, belching fire across the water. He held his sight steady, guiding the missile to its mark by the orange strobe of the gunboat's 50-cal that illuminated the intense grimace of the young man behind it. A boy really, he thought. Not a soldier, though. Helmetless, his face contorted into a silent scream, he raked Freeman's shore wildly, frantically searching for the guiding hand of the missile racing toward him. The vision through the viewfinder was disjointed, separate from the bark of the machine gun chewing through Freeman's ears. Slowly, purposefully, he counted to steady his aim: One, one thousand, two one thousands. After endless seconds, the lead boat exploded, scattering debris and shadows that could have been bodies as half its hull skipped up then sliced beneath its own wake.
As Freeman lowered the launcher, the boat on the squadron's left spun sideways in a delaying tactic, desperate to avoid the debris from its leader, only to slam into a large chunk and roll along the water twice before sinking up to its gunwales in the shallow bay. Nothing remained from the third boat except a burning slick of diesel fuel. An explosion from a moment before belatedly registered in Freeman's brain. Another explosion drew his attention left as red and orange fountained directly before the four incoming boats from the south. They veered, presenting profiles to the other Dragon soldiers stationed along the shore.
He turned away from the panorama of his future nightmares, his eyes unfocused until they found Williams crouched over the now thankfully unconscious young soldier, tearing away his tattered fatigues to bind his tattered leg. Lord, she was quick, he thought, until he realized he'd been staring at the aftermath on the water longer than was healthy. At some point he had snatched up his rifle to lay down bursts of harassing fire against the remaining inbound boats. That was the only way to explain the warm, smoking rifle in his hands when he glanced down. A string of similar scenes had looped before his eyes endlessly throughout the past year as he had watched too many men die, and too many who hadn't, at least immediately.
Freeman turned his head from the ripped, stringy flesh of the young man's leg only to see two more boats torn unnaturally from the water, with the remaining two merely scorched by the Dragons' breath. As he picked up the young Marine's radio and exchanged secure calls over OpNet, the remaining two gunboats slalomed back toward the south channel, spraying plumes of water in their haste. An occasional red flare trailed the gunboats as they fled at flank speed. OpNet confirmed that Jones' Dragons had breathed their last until reinforcements arrived. He hoped seeing so many compatriots consumed within minutes would keep the two remaining gunboats cowering in port for the remainder of the night. Even two gunboats would wreak destruction on their lightly guarded flank if their captains decided that baiting Dragons was more honorable than slinking home.
After the diesels' screams faded to a distant buzz, Command sent the green all-clear signal overhead. As Freeman watched it loft up and several bright fingers float down, he caught sight of the Hospital through the gap in the trees cleared by the stray mortar round. Above the building the flag fluttered fitfully, half concealed in the night breeze.
Lowering the radio, Freeman turned to find only half his prayer had been answered as Williams spread the young Marine's jacket up and over his face, the green light reflecting black off the pool gathering by his leg. The brief silence ended when automatic weapons fire resumed from the bridges guarding the compound's northern perimeter.
Cupping his hand around the light of his watch, Freeman checked the time again. One more minute and he'd have to assume there were no other survivors. His gaze slid across the shadows of mostly green troops who stood in small, segregated groups enclosed by the railing of the sundial's platform. Faces were barely discernible in the low light of the quarter moon. None of his veterans from the perimeter squad were among them. He had not seen Nelson since the gunboat strafing during the defense of the shore, nearly an hour ago. Phillips might still be out on the perimeter, though none of the stragglers reported seeing him. Sporadic fire in the area of the causeway confirmed that at least some of his original platoon still lived. He doubted they still commanded the overpass guarding the perimeter road. Earlier, they had shifted to a more personal defense judging from the amount of metal and number of tracers being thrown in their direction. Collins was already late. If he didn't return from his recon mission within the next thirty seconds, Freeman would be forced to conclude his last veteran Marine was also out of action.
He'd rounded up the remains of the Jones' Dragon teams, which consisted of a half dozen young replacements, all trained during the past month. Lt. Jones had been killed in the gunboat attack. For a diversion, the enemy patrol boats had inflicted significant damage to the company's command structure. By all reports, their counterparts on shore had overrun the perimeter and several outlying buildings. The reports from the stragglers indicated they had fallen while Freeman's attention was divided between the dual threats. Now the enemy militias were concentrating on reducing the remaining buildings one by one. They'd gained a solid foothold. But in the confusion, they had either missed or ignored the park on the eastern boundary of the peninsula. Perhaps they were waiting to consolidate their gains in the hospital complex before turning to finish the job. Perhaps they thought the six-foot chainlink fence would contain any counterattack. Either way, their mistake provided Freeman an opportunity to retake some ground.
He checked his watch again. The minute was up and Collins wasn't back. Decision time. He scanned the soldiers circled around him one final time.
Several Marines kept watch into the woods beyond brick stanchions and the metal tube railing. A few cast furtive looks over their shoulders toward him, not wanting to miss the order to withdraw, certain it would come. A couple of the new recruits lounged against the tall marble back of the sundial. Too cocky. Likely to be too energetic, to show a little too much initiative and get in over their heads. Not what he needed right now. Murmurs rose from the remaining knots of Marines standing among the larger numbers of the Seminole Militia. Confident murmurs of sending up the white flare, waving off the main force. Packing into the boats and going home.
Home to where? They had spent the past year defending one pullout after another. First the evacuation of TIA, then the remaining squadrons from MacDill. Finally, the Port of Tampa after losing Egmont Key at the mouth of the bay. But not before NorthCom had siphoned off the last of their heavy equipment and electronics. The battalion had become accustomed to leaving before the enemy was defeated. But they had no home now. Maybe it was time to build one.
The locals looked resolved, bordering on resigned. With or without the battalion beside them, they knew there was no place for them to go. After word of the Jordan Park massacre, they would either stand here or get pushed into the water fighting. Either way, they would die, the fate of their sons and daughters huddled inside the hospital unknown. Rumors of mass rape, labor camps and forced relocation swirled in dark whispers, punctuated by sharp glances at Freeman and his Marines. His gaze settled on Williams. She would have to do.
First, he asked, "Johnson, what did you find?"
"We scrounged out a base-plate from where team two took that hit. Our tube was intact, so we're back up to two operational mortars. We also found a spare crate of shells down by the water that was marked for team three. That's twenty-four more shells for a total of forty."
"What about replacements for your team's losses?" The enemy counter battery fire had been deadly if not always accurate.
"I found Jennings here hooked up with one of the Dragon teams. He's the last of mortar team four. We've also been training Lyttle as a loader. We're ready to go."
"How many smoke shells do you have left?"
"Maybe a dozen."
"Ok. Reserve out the smoke and another dozen shells. We've lost contact with the hospital, so our forward observer's gone. I want you to set up both tubes, with fresh alternate locations pre-established."
"Done."
"Good. Take a swag at sighting them in on the apartment block across the perimeter road. Accuracy doesn't matter. What does matter is that both tubes are sighted exactly the same. I want you to establish contact with our squad on the east bridge over TacNet using the call sign 'Queen to Queen's Two'. They will provide you with the correction to the positions you're aiming for."
"Sir, isn't TacNet in the clear?" Johnson sounded perplexed. These didn't sound like orders to cover a pullout to the boats. The Marines exchanged confused glances.
"Yes. I'm counting on it being monitored. With one tube, light off a single round, then request a correction from the bridge. You'll have to work fast. As soon as that round is in the air, I want tube one on the move to its alternate location. I expect the enemy mortars will attempt suppression fire again. That call sign will tell the squad on the bridge you need a correction to the enemy mortar positions. When you get coordinates, unload both tubes with every round you can in one minute. Wait for confirmation. If necessary use tube two as mop up from its alternate position. I want those enemy mortars out of action before we engage in the compound.
"I want a skeleton squad of five as a lookout along the seawall from the point to the oak grove. Peters, pick four of the militia and equip them with radios. If those two patrol boats decide to come back, I don't want to be surprised." The young Marine stood quickly at the sound of his name, not knowing how to react to his first assignment as a leader.
Turning back to the others, Freeman continued, "The rest of us are going to divide into two assault teams. Both teams will move through the gate into the cemetery. Team one will take up position in the trees near the perimeter wall. Their job is to wait. The second team will move around and open up on the enemy flank, then pull back toward team's one's position. We'll draw their squads into an ambush then sweep through the grounds of the complex. Johnson, when you hear team one engage, I want you to drop all your smoke along the perimeter road. That should cut off their support. Hold anything you have left for opportunity fire or harassment. I'll take team one. Williams you've got team two. Think you can you handle that, Sergeant?"
A wicked smile spread across her face, "Can do, Lt."
"I want the all the militia with Williams. Marines, if your Social ends in three, six or nine, you're with her. She is my senior squad leader now. You will follow her orders like my own. The rest of you are with me."
A muffled explosion maybe a mile away announced the enemy mortars taking ranging shots on the hospital. Preparations for a final assault. Soldiers exchanged bursts of rifle fire in the distance with increasing frequency. He didn't have much time.
"People, I do not intend to let this bunch of amateurs who want to call themselves soldiers kick us off this peninsula. We are the professionals here. We are Marines. It is time to remind them of that fact." The Marines straightened. As individuals lifted their gaze from the ground to his face, Freeman let his eyes reinforce every word. "If any of you develop doubts along the way, take a look up to the roof of that hospital. As long as our flag flies, this is our home. All of our homes. And we are here to stay whether anyone out there likes it or not. We are the last active unit on this coast of Florida. If that flag falls, there is no retreat. There is no place else to go. So, we will make this work. Together."
As he finished, Freeman noticed slow smiles draw across the mouths of the militia.
A lone mortar shell thudded softly to the north, maybe a half-mile away. Johnson was baiting his trap. The shadows silently drifting across the cemetery paused, momentarily turning north, waiting for a response. After a moment, enemy shells rained lazily into the park behind them, the shrapnel tearing through the woods. The counterattack had begun.
From his position beside the gate, Freeman watched the two groups of shadows resume their journey forward along parallel roads bordered by twin lines of trees. Both teams moved economically, one half covering the other as they moved up. They moved with purpose and determination, unlike the graveyard ghosts he had mistaken them for in the haze and gathering fog. Did they know his plan was near desperation? How many of them would join the silent majority already residing in this sacred burial place?
Freeman prayed the true spirits of this place would possess all his soldiers, the Marines and militia alike, and allow them to win themselves a home, at least until the nation stopped crumbling under the weight of its citizens' ignorance and prejudice. And fear.
As he picked his way among the low stones marking the veterans from previous wars, he paused, lifting his eyes toward the hospital, only proceeding again when he was certain their tattered flag occasionally stirred with life.
The eastern sky burned now. No longer the false dawn he had witnessed a few hours before in the park. Though the sun had not risen above the horizon, Freeman could make out much of the landscape from his vantage point. The ruins of buildings within the VA complex smoked and steamed. Most of the fires had burned themselves out, exhausted like the surviving Marines and Seminole Militia.
Earlier, each building had been an island, his soldiers wading from one to another through waves of enemy fire. All involved, even the militia, had earned the name Marines. He looked down, examining the binoculars in his hand. Command's binocular. He was Command now, at least for a few minutes longer. The only officer to survive the landing at the Bay Pines VA Hospital complex, Battalion's new home. The major had died defending the refugees in the hospital before Freeman could relieve it.
Below he could see the colonel slowly picking his way from the sheltered harbor where the boats were unloading. Every few steps he stopped to answer another question or issue instructions to another Marine or officer of the militia. It would take him at least fifteen minutes to climb to the hospital roof where Freeman stood. Enough time for a final look around. He raised the binoculars to his eyes.
First, he turned south toward John's Pass. Though he couldn't see any movement, he knew a fresh squad was setting up a permanent outpost. The squad he had dropped the night before had ferried across half an hour earlier after the first of their boats had poured through. They had reported few casualties. The only action they'd seen had been the gunboats forcing passage. Fortunately for them, those boats had been focused on the more engaging targets hidden along the complex's shore. But it was that squad which had captured his attention when he first stood on the hospital's roof an hour before. They had lofted the first blue flare over Boca Ciega Bay announcing the arrival of the main battalion only moments after he'd fought his way into the building and climbed the stairs to survey the remainder of the battle from his current position.
His first instinct had been to send up a white star, to wave off the boats. His hold on the complex was too tenuous, his Marines too few. No sense risking a second landing turning into a second disaster. Before he could decide, more blue flares burned the night. First from the Madeira Beach Causeway, then from Seminole Bridge, and then the point. Until he saw those flares rise, he hadn't known anyone still occupied those positions. The final flare, the decision-maker, came from the Alt 19 overpass. Against the odds, someone had survived that nightmare with the energy and wits to use the proper color. That was proof enough that his squads thought the situation under their control. They wanted to stay. He gave Williams the honor of sending his own flare skyward on a trail of blazing blue flame, welcoming the battalion home.
He swung the binoculars in an arc northward to the causeway crossing to Madeira Beach. Mad Beach had lived up to its reputation. Fighting had been near constant, casualties heavy. Most would survive; nearly all with painful, bloody reminders of the night's fighting. Here, he saw movement as the remaining troops dismantled the barricades facing the hospital and moved them outward to reinforce the approach from the beach. That was the more likely area for concern. Though they had received no fire from that direction all night, it was now their new perimeter. The troops showed no reservation in revealing their backs to the area they had recently faced fighting. It told him they now considered that territory their own.
From the Mad Beach Causeway it was a short hop to the overpass at Alternate 19. Only one member of the four-man contingent sent to guard the road had survived. They had found Brown, who had fired the flare, barely conscious near the spot where Williams currently leaned against the outer wall of sandbags easily distinguishable in her sleeveless shirt. She turned as one of the Marines said something to her, smiled and laughed. She would win them over in the same quiet, competent way she had inspired the members of her team during their sweep of the compound. She had been reluctant to accept his offer of permanently leading a squad under his command. He didn't blame her. He wasn't sure he'd sign up for another night like the last one, either. Unfortunately, his commission gave him no choice as long as the fighting continued and there was someone issuing orders.
His view through the binoculars circled north again. There was no movement along the causeway at Park Boulevard, three miles away. There hadn't been in nearly an hour, since they'd spotted the first of the enemy militias retreating eastward in disorderly bunches, the opposite direction of a few days before. Apparently, they too believed the Marines were here to stay. When Williams had first pointed them out, he knew he'd made the right decision in clearing the battalion to land. They had won themselves a home. Together. Neither ally would have survived the night alone. At first light, he would recommend the colonel send a platoon north to mop up and ensure no units remained on their side of Lake Seminole. He prayed the enemy hadn't thought to leave snipers behind or their progress would be grueling.
He shifted his focus closer, to the smoking buildings across from the VA complex's main entrance. The apartment interiors revealed by Phillips' LAW stood open like drawers in a morgue waiting to be filled. Or sealed. He picked out the charred remains of individual hazard flares along the road by the black, pitted scorch-marks on the asphalt pointing away from where each was fallen. The wall on the near side of the road looked like a medieval relic, breached and broken, cinderblocks strewn near the long, gaping holes. Luckily, they no longer needed its service to assist their perimeter defense. But they would rebuild it anyway.
Continuing the circle, he followed Bay Pines Boulevard east until he reached Seminole Bridge over Long Bayou. Here, too, soldiers reinforced fortifications facing across the water, away from the hospital. Unlike Mad Beach, these outer barricades had been tested under fire. Until his squad had been relieved, only they knew they had held enemy reinforcements on the far side of the old rail-trail bridge, even while ensuring the road in front of the park remained closed to enemy assaults. They had paid high in casualties to accomplish that mission.
He completed his circuit of the area by following the shoreline south, then moving inland to the sundial in the center of War Veterans Memorial Park. Williams had named all these places for him before leaving to see how others she knew had fared. Over half the trees in the park were fallen or shattered stumps, a good approximation of the causalities in the Marine landing force and their militia allies. Both trees and people might take decades to fill in to their former numbers left to their own devices. Fortunately for the battalion, they stood on an active, if somewhat battered, hospital. Medical supplies were the only things NorthCom hadn't yet diverted. Most of the wounded would survive. The rest they would seed from the militia. The trees would have to make it on their own, as they always had.
Just outside the park, he found the Bay Pines National Cemetery with its orderly fields of neatly planted markers. In contrast to the rest of the complex, it had slept the night relatively undisturbed by human events. By evening, fresh dirt would be tilled, and the ground seeded with graves where, eventually, new granite markers would grow.
Freeman lowered his binoculars. The air stirred as day inched closer. He gazed up to see the brass ball atop of the flagpole glittering gold with the first light of dawn. Soon, their flag glowed in the sun, its stripes torn, its edges ragged. Several of its stars were missing, others scorched and blackened just like the states they represented.
As it was coaxed up into the arms of the morning breeze, the tattered flag claimed ownership of this small peninsula to anyone who cared to notice. Ownership that could be asserted only by men and women who had fought for their home and won. Especially those who would now reside among the stones marking previously fallen soldiers who guarded this place once sacred to a nation.
© 2009 Edward P. Morgan III
