Three months later
September 1st, 2010
"I still can't believe you chokeslammed my neighbor," I said, shaking my head in disbelief.
Cadenza shrugged, "Yeah, well, he shouldn't have run up on us like that."
"You're lucky he's not pressing charges," I replied, my voice tinged with concern.
Cadenza smirked, "Look on the bright side, Mac. Your walking rehab is almost over. Just a couple more tests and exams, and Dr. Emily Carter will sign off that you're good to go back to work."
I sighed, "Yeah, at least that's almost over."
While waiting to cross the avenue, I noticed the flashing lights and sirens of Collapse Rescue Squad 17 speeding by, with Rescue 17 leading the way.
“Well, that ain’t good,” I said, my eyes following the vehicles. “Collapse Rescue Squad 17 just flew by with Rescue 17 leading.”
Cadenza replied calmly, “Yup.”
“So, when the Soviets landed on Little Back in ‘05,” I began to ask, curiosity piqued.
Cadenza nodded, “I’ve heard over the radio. Guess the Soviets weren’t expecting to fight cops. Yes, justified police forces are not meant to engage professional soldiers, armored vehicles, and attack helicopters. Yes, those cops used automatic rifles like a standard infantry squad, and yes, given that men here are required for military service, it makes sense. I was with my dad, listening to the radio, and heard a Fort Suction Militiaman say, ‘We are taking heavy fire. We cannot hold it. We have to leave now and we’re going to take who we can, but we’ll have to leave many behind!’ Of course, both the cops and militia held the line for as long as they could until the Air Force was mobilized to cover the evac sites. Once the evacs were done, the Air Force used LGBs to destroy the three bridges that led out of Fort Suction.”
I shook my head, trying to imagine the chaos and bravery of that day. “That must have been intense.”
Cadenza shrugged, “It was. But they did what they had to do.”
We continued to wait for the light to change, the weight of history and the present moment hanging in the air.
“On the radios, it felt like a dramatic radio program,” Cadenza continued. “Even though by the 1980s, the Soviet Union had been thoroughly de-Stalinized after a series of political reforms, the Fort Suction Militia members were still shouting anti-Communist and anti-Stalin slogans.”
I raised an eyebrow, “Let me guess. You guys had a high-yield neutron bomb capable of terminating personnel without damaging infrastructure?”
Cadenza shook her head. “No, a neutron bomb requires a small nuclear detonation, which would be quite destructive in the middle of a major city. But your granduncle did order the Little Bird military to recapture Fort Suction within one month, or he would authorize a thermonuclear strike. So, yes, one month later, the Little Bird military managed to recapture the city.”
I whistled softly, “That’s intense. I can’t imagine the pressure they must have been under.”
Cadenza nodded, “It was a tense time, but they did what they had to do to protect the city and its people.”
As we finally crossed the avenue, the weight of those historical events lingered in my mind, a reminder of the resilience and determination of those who came before us.
“I bet the Soviets wished they never set foot on Little Bird,” I said, shaking my head at the thought.
Cadenza chuckled, “The Soviets who were in Fort Suction definitely regretted it. When they tried to cross the river using rowboats, a few well-placed bullets sunk those boats, and they ended up floating down the river. Rowing directly to the shore where your enemies are waiting is not a good idea. They had no cover, but we did. The Soviets tried to use their 152.4 mm artillery to shell our positions, but our 105mm and 155mm artillery could hit their artillery. Their artillery could hit ours, but our 210mm and 240mm artillery guns could counter-battery fire their guns, and they didn’t have the range to hit our 210mm and 240mm guns.”
I nodded, imagining the chaos and strategic maneuvers. “Sounds like a tactical nightmare for them.”
Cadenza smirked, “It was. They underestimated us, and it cost them dearly.”
As we continued walking, the stories of past battles and the resilience of those who fought them filled the air, a testament to the strength and determination of our people.
“The Soviet 3rd Shock Army landed on Northwest Little Bird, attempting a naval invasion to relieve their surrounded allies, the Soviet 5th Shock Army, trapped in Fort Suction. Long story short, the Soviet 3rd Shock Army failed. They landed on the beach but were pinned down by mortar, artillery, and regular gunfire. They didn’t have enough amphibious vehicles for a massive beach invasion, only able to drop off 170 soldiers at a time before having to return to the ships to load more soldiers. The Soviet 3rd Shock Army also lacked any kind of support. Every inch of that beach was pre-sighted by 60mm, 61mm, 81mm, 120mm mortars, and 105mm, 155mm, 210mm, and 240mm artillery. Not to mention, the Militia members and their Anti-Armor teams, with well-placed shots, disabled the BTR-80s turrets, preventing them from laying down suppressive fire for the soldiers,” Cadenza continued.
I nodded, “That’s a recipe for disaster. No naval support, no air support, and not enough amphibious transports to bring more soldiers to the shore. It was like they were hoping the Little Bird Military wasn’t paying attention. But the Little Bird Military, well, the Militia, did.”
Cadenza smirked, “Exactly. They underestimated us, and it cost them dearly.”
I replied, “Guess they were hoping for a surprise invasion and to avoid landing in an urban area because of the populace.”
Cadenza nodded, “Exactly. Soviet propaganda was something else. They claimed to occupy half of Little Bird by the third month, including Blister Canyon and Lava Falls, for added audacity. They even said the Little Birden civilians were welcoming the invasion as a liberation and joining the Soviets. In reality, they only controlled Fort Suction. The Little Bird civilians were extremely hostile to the invaders, grabbing any gun or weapon they could find and fighting back. Soviet Commanders mentioned in their mission briefings that their troops were surprised by the level of resistance. Everywhere they went, they were greeted with gunfire.”
I chuckled, “It’s funny how an enemy country uses propaganda to say the war is going well for them, but in reality, it’s a complete disaster.”
Cadenza smirked, “Yeah, they really underestimated the spirit and resilience of the Little Bird people.”
“So, the citizens of Fort Suction?” I asked, curious about their fate.
Cadenza sighed, “Those who couldn’t escape and had to be left behind tried to continue their day-to-day activities, but it was much harder. During the evacuation, the Air Force used scorched earth tactics, destroying fuel silos, gas stations, electrical substations, telecommunications, rail, and industrial resources.”
“Ain’t that a war crime?” I asked, raising an eyebrow.
“Not against enemy combatants,” Cadenza replied. “But many citizens became part of the resistance movement. People with different views buried their hatchets and fought against the Soviet occupiers—royalists, patriots, anarchists, even religious fanatics.”
“Sounds like partisans. What’s the difference between resistance and partisans?” I asked.
“Resistance fighters might sabotage supply lines, pass secret messages, and generally make life as inconvenient as possible for the invaders. They gather their metaphorical pitchforks or actual weapons and say, ‘Hey invaders, not on our watch.’ Partisans, on the other hand, are more like rebels with a cause, guerrilla fighters. Think about the Italian, French, Dutch, and Soviet resistance to the Axis powers. Sometimes, your neighbors who hate you can become your allies. The Fort Suction resistance used codewords with the Little Bird military to signal that their cell or group had been compromised without the Soviets knowing. Those who didn’t resist often sold out their neighbors or friends who were in the resistance. But one thing is clear: people will rebel if you take their land and enforce your rules or push your own countrymen too far.”
As I opened the restaurant door, I asked, “So, those who sold out their own neighbors to the Soviets?”
Cadenza nodded, “They were arrested by Military Police on charges of treason and aiding the enemy.”
We stepped inside, the weight of those stories lingering in the air, a reminder of the complexities and sacrifices of war.
“How did people cope?” I asked, genuinely curious about their resilience.
Cadenza sighed, “Without power, fuel, and communications, life was a lot harder during that month from July 21 to August 21. But I think they quickly got used to the sounds of jets flying overhead, gunfire, and explosions from artillery and mortar rounds. After the city was recaptured, they began to rebuild their lives, but many lives couldn’t be repaired. For days afterward, people put up posters that stretched for blocks, looking for missing friends or family members. Some had high hopes of reuniting, while others accepted the harsh reality that they had lost loved ones. That’s one of the hardest parts of war—some people can’t accept the loss and wait for years, even decades, hoping to see their friends or family again. Others come to terms with it sooner or later.”
I nodded, feeling the weight of her words. “It’s heartbreaking to think about, but it’s incredible how people find the strength to keep going.”
Cadenza gave a small, sad smile. “Yeah, it is. People are resilient, even in the face of unimaginable hardship.”
As we settled into the restaurant, the stories of survival and loss lingered in my mind, a testament to the enduring human spirit.
“Of course, the military provided psychological counselors so people could talk to someone and get some kind of mental support. And when we struck back at the USSR, well, long story short, we learned from where Napoleon and Germany failed,” Cadenza said.
I replied, “So, logistics and weather?”
“Exactly. Germany was overconfident in capturing land from the USSR. Hitler believed that communist society was fundamentally weak and wouldn’t take much to defeat. The French under Napoleon failed due to logistics and weather. Germany had its own issues—Stalin had purged the Soviet Officer Corps, leaving the Soviet Army poorly led, undersupplied, and undertrained. But supplies from Britain and the United States—like weapons, ammo, and other essentials—kept the Soviets fighting. And then there’s October, the Soviet autumn. You get snowfalls, thaw, snowfall, thaw, turning central Russia into a muddy morass, grinding the German offensive to a halt. The French faced harsh weather, disease like typhus, scorched earth tactics, and guerrilla warfare by Russian peasants and Cossacks,” Cadenza explained. “There’s a benefit to losing—you learn from your mistakes. We learned from what happened to the French and Germans. We adapted for the brutal Russian winter in September, were given autumn uniforms, and by late October-early November, we had winter uniforms. We didn’t over-rely on mechanized or motorized supplies.”
I nodded, impressed by the strategic foresight. “Sounds like you guys were well-prepared.”
Cadenza smiled, “We had to be. History taught us valuable lessons, and we made sure not to repeat the same mistakes.”
Soon, a waiter came by, and I ordered a root beer float while Cadenza opted for some water.
“Of course, the Little Bird Army developed combat armor to protect vital organs,” Cadenza said. “The winterized version keeps the wearer warm, preventing frostbite or hypothermia. It even includes a built-in balaclava mask and combat goggles to prevent snow glare. There are four variants of the combat armor: Spring, Desert, Autumn, and Winter. Spring and Autumn are painted dark olive drab, Desert is a desert color, and Winter is all white. Spring and Desert variants are lighter for warmer weather, while the Winter variant is insulated to keep the wearer warm without risking hyperthermia.”
I nodded. “Sounds like the Little Bird War Department put a lot of thought into how individual soldiers could keep fighting in the brutal Russian winter.”
Cadenza continued, “The Soviets did the same, finding ways to keep their soldiers warm. Even the Russians don’t like -40 degrees, regardless of what they say. No sane person wants to fight or live in that kind of weather. And I’m talking Fahrenheit, not Celsius. Blizzards often made support like artillery and air support unavailable. Both sides hated deep snow because it left vehicles and foot tracks, slowing movement and making it easy for others to follow or ambush.”
I sipped my root beer float, thinking about the challenges they faced. “It’s incredible how much strategy goes into just surviving the elements, let alone fighting.”
Cadenza nodded, “Absolutely. It’s a constant battle against both the enemy and the environment.”
As we continued our conversation, the blend of historical insights and personal experiences painted a vivid picture of resilience and adaptation in the face of adversity.
“You fought, I didn’t. Stuff here was rationed like no tomorrow,” I said, recalling the tough times.
Cadenza nodded. “Yeah, and it helped the war effort, didn’t it?”
I wasn’t going to argue with that. Rationing during the war taught me valuable lessons. When I was in university, I had to ration my car’s gas. Like millions of others, I had a sticker on my windshield to tell the gas station attendant how much fuel I was allowed. Those who didn’t drive much got only a quarter or half a tank. Many cars on Little Bird have 7.0 L engines, while others have 5.8 L engines. My car had a 7.0 L engine, but I only got half the fuel, so I had to ration gas and diesel carefully.
I remembered the rationing of tires, gasoline, food, and consumer goods. We had to make do with what we got until the next week. Nobody could make multiple trips to the store or gas station per week; we had to plan and go once a week.
“It was tough, but it taught us resilience,” I said, reflecting on those days.
Cadenza smiled, “Exactly. It’s amazing how people adapt and find ways to keep going, even in the hardest times. You'd be surprised by many people who think rationing is nothing and continue like it’s nothing then get mad that they can’t get what they want because they have to wait until next week to get it or another week. After all, rationing is a once a week buy because what you buy this week you can’t get again until next week.”
“At least it prevented businesses from price gouging,” I said, grateful for some silver lining.
Cadenza nodded. “Yeah, thanks to Little Bird Statute 33.2-3, the Anti-Price Gouging law. Businesses can only raise their prices by 10%. Anything over that, and they face fines. This law kicks in during a National Emergency, State of Emergency, or a declaration of war.”
“And what stops businesses from price gouging during normal times?” I asked.
“Little Bird Statute 33.2-2, the Civil Anti-Price Gouging law,” Cadenza explained. “It prevents businesses from raising prices on consumer goods by more than 4%.”
I nodded, appreciating the measures in place. “It’s good to know there are protections to keep things fair, especially during tough times.”
Cadenza smiled, “Absolutely. It’s all about making sure everyone can get what they need without being taken advantage of.”
“So what part of the Warsaw Pact did you fight in?” I asked.
“East Germany to Russia. Including the Soviet Republic or other countries like the Soviet Republic of Ukraine,” Cadenza replied.
“I think you mean Soviet Socialist Republic with the country name in front of the Soviet Socialist Republic,” I clarified
Cadenza replied, “Maybe in another universe the USSR have broken up before 2008.”
Soon, the waiter returned to take our orders. Cadenza and I shared a common trait—we both leaned more towards being carnivores than omnivores, even though humans are naturally omnivores.
As we looked through the menu, I couldn't help but chuckle, “Looks like we’re both going for the meat-heavy options again.”
Cadenza grinned. “You know it. There’s nothing like a good steak or a juicy burger.”
I nodded in agreement. “Absolutely. It’s hard to beat a well-cooked piece of meat.”
We placed our orders, both opting for hearty, meat-centric dishes. As we waited for our food, the conversation flowed easily, touching on everything from our favorite recipes to the best places in town to get a good steak. It was nice to share a meal and some laughs, a small respite from the heavier topics we had been discussing.
“I know the Soviets hated us,” Cadenza said, taking a sip of her water.
I replied, “Is it because you guys in Project Phoenix can wield crew-served weapons or mounted weapons like a standard infantryman can hold a battle rifle?”
“Yup, we can handle weapons like a tri barrel minigun with an internal power source. Unlike how movies depict miniguns, they need a power source to operate,” Cadenza explained. “We can also hold and use a .50 Cal HMG like a standard G.I. can use a rifle, SMG, or shotgun.”
I whistled, impressed. “That’s some serious firepower. No wonder they were intimidated.”
Cadenza nodded. “Yeah, it gave us a significant edge in combat. Being able to use such heavy weaponry effectively made a big difference.”
As our food arrived, we continued discussing the unique capabilities of Project Phoenix, marveling at the advancements and the impact they had on the battlefield.
“What other weapons did you all use?” I asked, intrigued.
Cadenza leaned in, a mischievous glint in her eye. “Do you believe in aliens?”
I chuckled, “Well, I do believe there’s extraterrestrial life on other planets. Let me guess, the Government of Little Bird reverse-engineered alien tech?”
Cadenza nodded. “In a way, yes. We’ve had access to some advanced technology that’s not exactly from around here. It gave us a significant edge in developing new weapons and defense systems.”
I raised an eyebrow. “That’s incredible. So, what kind of alien tech are we talking about?”
Cadenza smiled. “Let’s just say we’ve got some pretty advanced stuff that makes our standard weapons look like toys. Energy-based weapons, advanced propulsion systems, and even some pretty nifty defensive tech.”
I shook my head in amazement. “No wonder the Soviets were so intimidated. You guys had some serious firepower.”
Cadenza nodded. “Yeah, it definitely gave us an advantage. But it’s not just about the weapons; it’s about how we use them and the strategies we employ.”
“Yeah, when I was in university, I watched TV like a hawk, tuning in to the evening news every night. Some people called me a ‘war hawk,’ whatever that means,” I said.
Cadenza replied, “War hawks are people who advocate for going to war. They tend to be extremely aggressive and vocal in their position, often viewing those who dismiss warfare as cowards or idealists. War hawks will appeal to the general population for support, putting pressure on their ideological opponents to declare war. Just because a war hawk wants war doesn’t make them a bad person. They might have perfectly good and logical reasons, like stopping a genocidal dictator or ending a civil war in a neighboring country that threatens regional security and kills thousands. I think the term you’re looking for is ‘war buff’—someone who finds the idea and prospect of war fascinating.”
I nodded. “That makes sense. I guess I was more of a war buff, fascinated by the strategies and history, rather than advocating for conflict.”
I cut my steak and took a bite, savoring the flavor. “At least the war didn’t turn into a global thermonuclear war,” I said.
Cadenza shook her head. “That’s not entirely true. It came to the brink of nuclear war a few times. Between 1959 and 1961, the Little Bird Armed Forces reorganized into a Pentomic Army, training in the use and defense against nuclear warfare. They were prepared to keep fighting even after a nuclear strike and had tactical nuclear weapons at the regimental level, though they were never used. These weapons served as a deterrent. The Warsaw Pact likely had cold feet about using their nuclear weapons because they knew we would retaliate. While our tactical nukes were officially at the regimental level, in reality, they were at the Army Corps level, further away. So, even if a regimental HQ was hit, we could still retaliate.”
I nodded, taking in the gravity of her words. “It’s scary to think how close we came to the brink.”
Cadenza sighed, “Yeah, it was a tense time. But the deterrence worked, and we managed to avoid a full-scale nuclear conflict.”
“But what would’ve happened if nuclear weapons were used?” I asked, the thought sending a chill down my spine.
Cadenza took a deep breath, “Using a nuclear weapon once to slow down attackers is one thing. It shows the attackers that the defenders are willing to escalate to that level. But if the Soviets or Warsaw Pact had used nuclear weapons liberally, like handing out candy, it would have been a different story. If they were resolute enough to destroy their own cities or countryside to stop our advance, then we or NATO would likely have felt we had no other option but to go for all-out nuclear war. And as they say, ‘the rest is history.’ But luckily, it never came to that. Maybe we were just moving too fast, or perhaps the fear of nuclear retaliation kept everyone in check.”
I nodded, the gravity of her words sinking in. “It’s terrifying to think how close we came to such a catastrophic scenario.”
Cadenza nodded. “Absolutely. The threat of mutual destruction kept everyone on edge, but it also prevented the worst from happening. It’s a delicate balance, but it worked. Just think about whether every nuclear capable country have enough nuclear weapons to send us back to the Stone Age.”
I paid the bill, feeling grateful for the meal and the progress I’d made in my walking rehab. I was supposed to use a walking cane for support, but the Waterson fighting spirit had me doing it my way.
If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.
“So, did your dad make a will or some kind of inheritance?” I asked.
Cadenza nodded. “My dad left the farmhouse under his name, but when I turned 18 back in ‘08, the property was transferred to me. Everything in it, well, my dad let me have it instead of taking it and moving out. So, I’m a homeowner.”
“Do you ever get tired of killing the enemy in battles?” I asked, my curiosity getting the better of me.
Cadenza seemed taken aback by the question.
“Because sooner or later, as you get better at fighting, your friends and family might become scared of you,” I finished, trying to explain my thoughts.
Cadenza looked a bit confused, maybe even a little hurt. I wondered if she fell into the "Psychopath" soldier category. The Little Bird Military had four types of soldiers: "The Jingo," who is swept up in patriotic fervor; "The Psychopath," who loves the horror of war; "The Unwilling Conscript," who hates war and is just looking out for their own skin; and "The Broken Soldier," who was once a nice person but experienced something that broke them inside.
Cadenza seemed like she might fit into the "Psychopath" category, while her half-brother, my cousin Mitchell, fit into both the "Jingo" and "Broken Soldier" categories.
Cadenza finally spoke, her voice steady but with a hint of pride. “It’s not about loving the fight. It’s about doing what needs to be done to protect those you care about. Sometimes, that means making hard choices and living with the consequences.”
I nodded, understanding a bit more about the burden she carried. “I get it. It’s just... tough to reconcile sometimes.”
She gave a small smile. “Yeah, it is. But we do what we have to do.”
As we left the restaurant, I felt a deeper connection to Cadenza, appreciating the complexities and sacrifices that came with her role.
“My dad always taught me, ‘Choices have consequences’ and ‘Karma. What comes around goes around,’” I said, reflecting on his wisdom.
Cadenza nodded, “Choices do have consequences. I remember a mission where we had to capture a high-value target (HVT). My unit was dropped off first, but Unit 2 of the Silent Serpents had their helicopter hit and were taking heavy fire. I had a choice: Option A, save Unit 2 at the cost of the HVT fleeing, or Option B, go for the HVT and risk losing Unit 2. I chose Option A. We always have other opportunities to go after the HVT, but if I chose Option B, we would’ve lost Unit 2. I went with my gut.”
I nodded, appreciating the weight of her decision. “That must have been a tough call, but it sounds like you made the right one.”
Cadenza sighed, “It was tough, but I couldn’t leave them behind. Sometimes, you have to make hard choices and live with the consequences, hoping you did the right thing.”
As we walked on, I felt a deeper respect for Cadenza and the difficult decisions she had to make, understanding that every choice in war carries heavy consequences.
“My father always said he never really saw the Panamanians or Iraqis as the enemy,” I said, reflecting on his words. “He was in Operation: Just Cause and the Gulf War. He always told me that the soldiers he fought were just like him—hoping they were doing the right thing, questioning their choices. He saw them as soldiers, not enemies.”
Cadenza nodded, “There are two types of soldiers: the fanatics who do what their country tells them without question, and those who, at the end of the war, want to atone for what they’ve done or accept that they can’t atone for it. The latter often just accept that no matter what they do, they can’t erase the past. If I had to use real-life examples, for the fanatics, I’d point to the Waffen-SS, who swore allegiance to Hitler and were fanatical. For the latter, I’d say the average infantryman in all armies. Many soldiers harbor a lot of guilt and remorse for things they’ve done in war. Some hope they can make up for it in the future, while others believe they deserve to die.”
I nodded, understanding the heavy burden soldiers carry. “It’s a tough reality. My father always tried to see the humanity in everyone, even in the midst of conflict.”
Cadenza smiled softly. “That’s a rare and admirable perspective. It’s important to remember that, at the end of the day, we’re all just people trying to survive.”
As we walked on, the conversation left me with a deeper appreciation for the complexities of war and the human spirit’s capacity for empathy and understanding, even in the darkest times.
“Think about my half-brother, or your cousin Mitchell, for example,” Cadenza said. “He’s one of those soldiers who goes out of his way not to earn medals. To him, they’re just reminders of painful memories and ultimate sacrifices. Even as an RTO and XO of Third Platoon in the 39th Airborne Regiment, he had to make tough decisions. Like when they were pinned down and he was ordered to call in artillery or air strikes on their position to protect the unit from being overwhelmed or annihilated. Sometimes, a miscommunication resulted in friendly units being killed by friendly fire from either artillery or napalm.”
I nodded, “My girlfriend told me several times about her father, who was an artillery battery radio operator in the Marines during the twilight years of the Vietnam War. He signed up after the Tet Offensive. From what she told me, her dad said that two friendly Marine units from the same platoon fired on each other, thinking the other was either NVA or Viet Cong. Both squads radioed for artillery support, and it didn’t take long for them to realize they were engaging a friendly unit. When they brought the injured to the firebase he was stationed at, he had a thousand-yard stare, especially when he saw those who got burnt by Willy Pete. White phosphorus burns at well above 2500 degrees Fahrenheit and continues burning even in water. Fellow Marines had to carve out the burning fragments from their faces with knives. That haunted her father until her parents' untimely deaths back in ‘96.”
Cadenza nodded solemnly, “In war, soldiers like him just follow orders. He probably thought both squads were under enemy fire. Nowadays, advancements in technology like friend or foe tags have lowered the chances of blue-on-blue incidents, but back then, it was often a failure of identification.”
I sighed, “It’s heartbreaking to think about the mistakes and the toll they take on everyone involved.”
Cadenza agreed, “It is. But it’s also a reminder of the importance of clear communication and the heavy burden soldiers carry, even long after the battles are over.”
As we walked on, the weight of these stories lingered, a testament to the complexities and harsh realities of war.
“Nowadays, our soldiers’ helmets have built-in chips so friendly aircraft like UAV drones or jets can identify them,” Cadenza said. “These chips are advanced—if a soldier dies, the IFF chip goes offline, so an enemy can’t wear it and be marked as friendly. For artillery, platoons have to radio their grid coordinates. If they call for artillery, we know their exact location and won’t fire unless it’s an FPF mission. FPF stands for Final Protective Fire, where artillery fires close to a friendly position to protect them from being overwhelmed.”
I nodded. “I know what FPF means.”
Cadenza smiled. “Just making sure. My dad always said, ‘Loyalty runs deep in the family.’”
I replied, “My dad always said, ‘Those who want peace prepare for war.’ Not all families are loyal, though. Some will backstab each other in a New York second. Many people come from abusive or broken homes or families with high expectations. They deal with their trauma through medical professionals. I know people who look like they could be superstars but feel ugly inside and get plastic surgery, sometimes ending up looking like monsters.”
Cadenza nodded thoughtfully. “It’s true. Everyone has their battles, whether on the battlefield or within themselves. It’s important to find support and healing, no matter where you come from.”
“At least your dad didn’t choose his new family over how you feel,” I said, feeling a pang of envy.
Cadenza nodded. “If my dad remarried or chose his new family over me and let my stepfamily walk all over me, I’d tell them to hit the road. If my stepmom said, ‘Well, the house belongs to my dad,’ I’d remind her that once I turned eighteen, the house was transferred to my name, removing him from the deed. Even if they hired the best lawyer, they couldn’t contest the will or inheritance because it’s already done. If my stepmom and step siblings tried to claim squatter rights by changing the locks, well, Little Bird doesn’t have squatter rights. I could call the CLPD and have them charged with trespassing and taking over an occupied residence. And if my dad got mad at me for having my stepfamily arrested and pressing charges, I’d tell him that next time they’d meet a buckshot from a 12-gauge and that I don’t want to see them again.”
Cadenza continued, explaining that since she’s twenty and the inheritance her dad left her had the house’s name transferred to her, the courts would see her as the owner. She acknowledged that she isn’t in my shoes and doesn’t have a step-family like I do.
I sighed, “It’s tough dealing with family dynamics, especially when there’s a step-family involved. But it sounds like you’ve got a strong sense of what’s right and how to protect yourself.”
Cadenza smiled, “Yeah, it’s all about standing your ground and knowing your rights. Family can be complicated, but you have to look out for yourself too.”
As we walked on, I felt a bit more empowered, knowing that it’s possible to navigate even the most challenging family situations with strength and determination.
We soon got back to my apartment.
“If you weren’t a G.I.—I mean, a souped-up supersoldier,” I began to ask, “What would you have done for a career?”
Cadenza thought for a moment. “I would’ve become an independent news reporter. I don’t read mainstream newspapers. I buy independent ones, not because mainstream papers are state-funded or anything, but because many journalists use misleading titles or exaggerate things. Some are sleazy and dishonest, willing to screw over others to get their pieces published. If I were a journalist, I’d actively search for real news stories. You have the freedom to choose where you get your news, but I get mine from supermarket tabloids. Go ahead, read the Empire Times or the Empire Tribune if you want—they get lucky sometimes. Major newspapers often won’t publish certain stories due to political pressure, connections, or simply not wanting to take a risk. Independent papers report on what they want, with proper evidence to back up their claims.”
I nodded, appreciating her perspective. “That makes sense. It’s important to have diverse sources and to seek out the truth.”
Cadenza smiled, “Exactly. Journalism should be about uncovering the truth, not just pushing an agenda.”
As we settled in, I felt a deeper respect for Cadenza’s values and her commitment to integrity, whether on the battlefield or in the realm of information.
“My father always taught me, ‘What you put out into the world will come back and haunt you.’ It sounds like a fancy way of saying karma,” Cadenza said. “But many people will give up their family for power.”
I nodded. “That’s why I love watching crime films here in Little Bird. They always have a message that a life of crime is all for nothing and don’t glorify it. They show the downsides—prison, living in constant fear—and don’t glamorize money, cars, respect, or freedom.”
Cadenza smiled. “Exactly. Karma is real. What comes around goes around. Treat others badly, and don’t be surprised when it comes back to you.”
As we settled into the comfort of my apartment, the conversation flowed easily, touching on the values and lessons we’d learned from our families and experiences. It was a reminder that, no matter the challenges, staying true to our principles and treating others with respect always pays off in the end.
I decided to get some rest and just not overwork my body because I want to finish my final few tests to be cleared for work and not unintentionally pull a muscle or something.
“Well, while this is a nice country it has its problems,” I said.
Cadenza replied, “Yeah it does.”
“I guess this country is doing fine with the death of my grand uncle,” I said.
Cadenza replied, “He was the president that had all kinds of preparations done in advance before going to talk to the president on hardcore policy matters and he always took full responsibility for things not going how he thought they would go. Hey, countries deserve leaders who know what they’re doing, not act all senile or act like they can do whatever they want. At least he took accountability for his actions and made policies that benefited and still do benefit the working class. As they say the needs of the many outnumber the needs of the few.”
Cadenza went over to the sink and cranked it all the way to the left. I knew that meant the water was going to be scalding hot. She’s like those people you see on social media, the ones who think a shower head dripping fire is “perfect.” I can’t wrap my head around it. How can anyone think water hot enough to leave first-degree burns is ideal? Personally, I prefer my water warm, not scorching. And don’t get me started on those folks who drink coffee so hot it could peel the skin off their tongues.
Then my thoughts drifted to my grand uncle. There’s not much to say about him, even though he was the longest-serving president of Little Bird. He made a lot of policies to support the working class. Despite being backed by the Militarists, he never did anything to upset them. He knew a country needs a military, and the last thing he wanted was a coup. The Militarists supported his plans because they had family and friends who needed the help that only the middle class and rich usually get.
My grand uncle was backed by three political parties:
- The Loyalists, who wanted to keep elected officials in power.
- The Militarists, who wanted to protect the country from invasion and rebel threats.
- The Nationalists, who wanted to safeguard Little Bird’s interests and prevent invasions.
After his death, people couldn’t stop talking about how he expanded on the policies and programs created by President Abigail Orange, the second female president of Little Bird from 1936-1955. She kept Little Bird out of the Great Depression by putting millions to work with public programs and ensuring that people over 65 didn’t have to pay taxes. She also created the Bureau of Labor, which is like the Department of Labor in the U.S. but more hands-on, helping people find careers that fit their skills and encouraging vocational training.
My grand uncle Bill expanded on her work but, unlike many politicians, he gave credit where it was due. He respected President Orange and never tried to take credit for her achievements, which earned him a lot of respect.
“If you weren’t a firefighter what would’ve you done as a career?” Cadenza asked.
I replied, “Police Department.”
“You know that the cops here are a lot different than how they are where you’re from,” Cadenza said.
I replied, “I know. I told my dad how the cops here are like when he was an infant and child during the latter years of the Vietnam war. Batons, dogs, fire hoses, tear gas.”
I took a sip of my water.
“Why didn’t your father’s wife want kids?” I asked.
Cadenza replied, “Don’t know but I know her parents must be turning over in their grave to drag the family name and reputation being dragged through the mud. I wonder what their reaction was when their only daughter was a Soviet spy. I bet it wasn’t good.”
Cadenza even said how she wanted to see her father’s ex-wife be executed by the electric chair but with a dry sponge not a wet one.
_________________
A few days later...
“If I were a cop in this country, I’d know they carry different handgun rounds like 9x19, .45, .44 Magnum, and .357 Magnum,” I said, leaning back in my chair. “And they carry high-caliber weapons too. You know that famous line from Dirty Harry? ‘I know what you're thinking. 'Did he fire six shots or only five?' Well, to tell you the truth, in all this excitement, I kinda lost track myself. But being this is a .44 Magnum, the most powerful handgun in the world and would blow your head clean off, you've gotta ask yourself one question: 'Do I feel lucky?' Well, do ya, punk?’ I bet those criminals don’t feel lucky.”
Cadenza chuckled, “Well, if you were a cop, I hope you’d enjoy 2-40.”
“2-40?” I raised an eyebrow.
“Two windows down, going 40 MPH,” Cadenza explained. “According to Mitchell, you can’t just assume cars have air conditioning. That’s a luxury. Back in the 40s and 50s, air conditioning in cars was a big deal. The main evaporator and blower system took up half the trunk space and there was no temperature thermostat. A lot of cars from the 1960s have AC built-in, but my ride is a ‘48 pickup truck. I just need one window down.”
I nodded, thinking about the old days. “I don’t get why some cops here wear all gray short sleeve uniforms. Dark blues make sense because light colors like light gray show doughnut stains, coffee stains, and look unprofessional. But their base salary is $26 less than the fire department’s. The fire department’s base salary is $3,120 annually, while the police department’s is $3,094 annually.”
We then entered the walking therapy center. Cadenza waited in the lobby while I met with Dr. Emily Carter. After several hours, Dr. Carter told me I finished my tests in record time. She said I was one of the few people who never complained, preferring to just get it over with. I never used a walker or cane while out and about, only using them during my tests.
Dr. Carter gave me the all-clear for work but suggested I take a few more days to a week to rest. She also wanted to schedule follow-ups for the next month.
_______________________
The next day, I headed to the Fire Department City of Empire Headquarters. The building was bustling with activity, but I walked through the hallway and into the elevator. After a few floors, I found myself in a waiting room, clutching my clear-for-duty papers.
I had to wait for my turn to see the person who would either approve or decline my papers. The minutes felt like hours, but eventually, I was called in. The guy in charge looked over my papers and, with a nod, told me I was cleared for active duty. He mentioned that I would report to work next week since A and B shifts were off, and it was C and D shifts' week.
Feeling a wave of relief and excitement, I decided to celebrate. I treated myself to a steak dinner, savoring every bite as I thought about getting back to work.
At least Cadenza isn’t with me today. She’s the type that if someone looks at her the wrong way, gets confrontational. If someone says something bad to her face, she’s more inclined to take a blowtorch to them or drag them back into the kitchen and throw hot cooking oil on their face.
On the other hand, I might sit down with Linda and help her with her issues. Mark Twain once wrote, “Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear, not absence of fear.” Linda struggles with moving on from the past, but she’s elite in her field. Her company handles around 12,200 calls a year, including 2,200 building fires, 500 vehicle extractions, 210 building collapses, and 70 SCUBA jobs. And that’s not counting other emergencies requiring technical rescue.
Even though I’m going back to work next week, I still think this city’s districts could each be their own fire department. The residential buildings here in the City of Empire are diverse:
- Single Family: A free-standing structure that doesn’t share walls or doors with another building.
- Condominium: An individually-owned unit in a building or complex with multiple units.
- Townhouse: A home that shares walls with other homes placed side-by-side.
- Two to Four Unit Property: A building or complex with 2–4 units owned by the same person.
- Cooperative: A building or complex owned by an organization that sells units as shares to the people who live there.
- Manufactured Home: A type of housing built in one place and then moved somewhere else. (Mobile homes are the most common.)
And the commercial buildings include:
- Small businesses
- Mom and pop/family shops
- Mid-rises
- High-rises
- Skyscrapers
Not to mention the numerous office buildings. This city is a complex web of different structures, each with its own unique challenges for the fire department.
I think the reason Mom and Pop stores are still thriving in Little Bird is because they focus on quality over quantity. Supermarkets and big chain stores might have a vast selection, but family-run stores often sell unique items you can't find anywhere else.
Sure, towns here have supermarkets, but they mainly sell groceries. If you need something a grocery store doesn’t carry, you usually turn to a small family-run business or a specialty store. From my experience in the City of Empire and Clearlake, supermarkets stock essentials like groceries, trash bags, paper towels, toilet paper, dish soap, laundry detergent, and dryer sheets. But if you need motor oil, you have to visit an auto parts store.
It’s interesting to see people take their cars to a mechanic for an oil change, especially in a country where both genders are required to take driving lessons in high school. They learn how to change oil, change a tire, and jumpstart a car. Here, students must take one course of Shop class and one course of Home Economics. The following year, they can choose which one to continue. In Shop class, they’re taught vehicle maintenance, including changing oil, adding antifreeze, and putting water in the radiator.
This hands-on education ensures that everyone has basic car maintenance skills, which is pretty impressive. It’s a practical approach that prepares students for real-life situations.
I know my cousins Dave and Mitchell will teach their daughters how to do basic car maintenance. It's essential knowledge, especially since many women in my family don’t know what a camshaft or a carburetor is. Unfortunately, some mechanics take advantage of this, giving them a long list of unnecessary repairs just to make more money. My grand aunt Lily was lucky; her father, my great-granddad, taught her a bit about cars. This knowledge came in handy during World War II when she was one of the millions of women who entered the workforce to make jeeps for the military. Her twin sister, Diamond, couldn’t join her because she was mentally challenged and could only say “Pop.” Lily had to take care of her.
Some of my family members back in the United States don’t know how to work on a vehicle, so they take it to a mechanic. Unfortunately, some mechanics charge them extra for repairs they don’t need. When us Watersons found out, we were livid. But you can’t scold someone for not knowing something they have no expertise in. We just told them to call a family member who knows how to work on a vehicle next time.
Here in Little Bird, the Watersons know how to work on a vehicle like they know the inside of their house. They learn in two ways: through school and from their parents. My cousin Mitchell even bribes his and Cadenza’s three kids with a dollar each if they help him wash his car and pass him tools while he works on it. In the end, he gives them a dollar so they can buy a toy or something. It’s a great way to teach them valuable skills and make it fun at the same time.
I think Mitchell and Cadence’s second daughter, Rose, would probably save her money rather than spend it, even though Platinum, Rose, and McKinney are all in kindergarten. Mitchell and Cadence have different parenting styles. Cadence is the nurturing type, while Mitchell is more authoritative. He wants their kids to gain a sense of autonomy but still follow a set of rules. If their kids got into trouble, I could see Cadence overreacting while Mitchell would be more laid-back, telling them not to worry.
Knowing where Mitchell and Cadence live, I remember Mitchell had a bully in middle and high school. Every time he fought back, the principal wanted to expel him, but he couldn’t because the bully was the principal’s son. In a small town like Clearlake, where everyone knows each other, the whole town would jump to the conclusion that the principal was protecting his son while punishing the student who defended himself. The principal couldn’t expel Mitchell without causing a huge scandal about his favoritism.
In our family, it’s normal to give children a basic allowance based on their age. Here in Little Bird, a parent might give their child a quarter for a piece of candy or a pack of gum, 75 cents to a dollar for a pre-teen, and a dollar for a teenager. We Watersons believe in letting our children learn from their mistakes. If one of our kids gets hurt, we say, “Well now, you won’t do that again,” because we learn from our mistakes rather than shielding our children from doing something stupid.
When I was a child, my mom didn’t care much if I got hurt, while my dad would ask if I was okay. After I answered, he’d say, “Well now, you won’t try that again, will you?” I remember trying to jump off my bike to run inside the house. I always feel or miscalculated and got hurt until I became a teenager and could safely jump off my bike and land on the grass or slide across the sidewalk until I came to a complete stop.
When I was a kid in North Carolina, I had a memorable lesson about electrical outlets. One day, we had some family members over, and I was sitting by an outlet. A family member warned me, “No, Mackenzie, don’t do that,” but my dad cut him off and said, “Wait, wait, wait. Go on.”
So, I stuck my wet finger into the outlet and got a shock. My dad just said, “Yup, bet you won’t do that again, will ya?” And he was right—I never messed with an electrical outlet again unless I was plugging something in or taking it out.
That happened back in 1992, a week before we moved from Fort Liberty, North Carolina, to Alabama. I remember that week well. My dad considered renting a moving truck, but the costs quickly added up. Many rental places charge by the hour or by the mile, and driving 656 miles in one day or 2,624 miles for the entire week would have been expensive. Instead, my dad called a few family members to help with the move. I didn’t help much with the packing and moving since I was only seven, but my dad paid the family members by treating them to meals, which was rare for us.
Whenever I asked if we could stop at a McDonald’s or a fast food joint, my dad would always say, “I know a place around the next turn” or “I know a place over the next hill.” That was just Waterson lingo for “We’ll stop when I decide to stop.” My dad rarely liked stopping during the day because he felt it wasted daylight. To him, no sane person moves into a new place at night.
As I enjoyed my steak dinner with a side of macaroni and cheese, my thoughts drifted to my grand uncle Jimmy “James” Richard Waterson I. Since October 1945, he’s survived more assassination attempts than anyone I know. He always says, “You know when to take cover and not poke your head up until the gunfire ends. And you know when to hit the deck when two cars pull up and eight guys with Tommy guns get out and open fire.” Being a World War II vet, he’s got a keen sense for trouble, and even at almost 91, he’s not slowing down.
Then there’s my Grand Uncle Bill. He was the type to keep the Little Bird Dollar backed by the Gold Standard, respecting the Founding Mothers and Fathers of Little Bird. He believed in the value of gold backing paper money, protecting it against inflation. Unlike gold, paper money is easy to divide, but it’s the gold that gives it value. People speak highly of his presidency because he was loyal to the citizens, not pandering to other countries. He expanded on the “Little Bird First Act of 1937,” which prioritized the country’s citizens over others.
I understand why my friends think it’s rude, but I explain that, unlike the United States, Little Bird doesn’t act like the world’s policeman. We don’t intervene in other countries’ problems without a good reason. Our foreign policy might seem like isolationism, but it’s more about loyalty to our citizens. Everything is affordable, and past presidents have kept jobs within the country, avoiding offshoring.
My grand uncle was elected and re-elected because he never made promises he couldn’t keep, unlike his predecessor. He focused on the well-being of Little Bird’s citizens, ensuring stability and prosperity. It’s a different approach, but one that has worked well for us.
As I savored the last bites of my steak dinner with a side of macaroni and cheese, my thoughts wandered to my grand uncle Bill. He always favored stricter laws, believing that if you get arrested for a crime, you should face the consequences. The City of Empire tried a month of loose laws, where those arrested were booked and then released. It didn’t take long for criminals to realize they could get away with almost anything. Gun violence, knife violence, arson, and other crimes spiked within just two weeks. My grand uncle called the mayor, threatening to deploy active troops if the order wasn’t reversed. Under public pressure, the mayor complied.
Bill believed that relaxed laws with minimal punishments were ineffective, just a slap on the wrist. Stricter laws, with real consequences, were more effective. I’ve heard stories about the prisons here on Little Bird. When prisoners first arrive, they’re told, “You are here to be rehabilitated, not to goof off.” The wardens are tough, and they make it clear that the inmates are there because they couldn’t behave like normal humans on the outside. It’s harsh, but it’s meant to instill discipline and respect.
My grand uncles Jimmy and Bill were men of honor, respecting the old ways. They believed in treating women with respect and upholding strong moral values. When Jimmy returned home in 1945 after World War II, he noticed how much the world had changed. He was used to wearing a flak vest, black leather gloves, dark green pants, a dark green button-up shirt, a white undershirt, a black leather belt, and a black leather aviator jacket while flying for the Little Bird Navy.
Bill served in the US Army from 1965 to 1967, during the Vietnam War. When he came home in 1967 due to an injury, he felt the world had changed, influenced by the counterculture movement.
With my dinner finished, I headed home, reflecting on my family’s legacy and the lessons they’ve taught me. Now, I just have to wait for my shift to start next Monday.
As I walked home, humming a tune, two guys approached me.
“What’s up, fellas?” I asked, even though I didn’t know them.
One of them replied, “Fork over all your dough before you get hurt,” while the other pulled out a butterfly knife.
I decided to draw my concealed pistol and replied sarcastically, “Is this enough?”
The two guys took off running. A foot patrol officer arrived and said, “Hey, hey, hey. What the hell is going on here? You got a license for that thing?”
I pulled out my wallet and handed the cop both my license to carry a firearm and my permit for a concealed weapon. I also gave him a detailed description of the two guys. “Caucasian males, 5’9” and 5’7”, black and brown hair.” The officer radioed in, but his description was more generic: “Caucasian males, medium height, medium build, dark hair.”