Chapter Two.

Twenty Six April, 2325 ad.

Two men in the uniform of the Army of the Republic were walking on the tarmac. The Battle Dress Uniform was a digital pattern. A camouflage pattern, a smear of black, green and brown squares the size of a fingertip. Shirts with pockets on the arms as well as Velcro patches for attaching command and army insignia. The shirts were tucked into trousers worn over suede boots. Their upper bodies were protected by the same Light Body Armor that was worn by the scout force except it was dark blue in colour with PF in large white letters emblazoned on the chest and back. Normally, neither man would wear the vest off duty, but they had been inspecting a guard tower on the opposite side of the base and hadn’t had time to get back to the locker room.

Major Jaimie Dylan snapped at sub-teniente José Santana. “Hurry, damn it, we want to get a decent spot.”

The Major was of average height and build. He had dark brown skin, dark brown eyes and his black hair was worn in a crew cut. He was in very good shape. The man looked cheerful even though his annoyance was obvious.

“Major, you said there were only going to be scouts there. That building, it can’t possibly be that crowded. That warehouse is huge.”

The Sub-teniente was much taller and outweighed the Major by a considerable amount. Most of that weight was pure muscle. He had a rectangular face and fair skin. Blue eyes and short jet black hair.

“Sub-teniente Santana, every scout in the First Regimental Combat Team is going to be in attendance. That’s over four hundred scouts. The scouts will all be standing in ranks, but there’s a lot of VIPs attending this ceremony. And it’s first come first serve as far as rubberneckers go.”

“How many VIPs?”

“I’m going to use a colloquial military term you may not have heard of since you are so new. It’s called a ‘SHITLOAD’. Now be silent and move like you mean it.”

The two men rounded the corner of a sprawling warehouse. And found another sprawling warehouse with an enormous crowd of women in uniform blocking the doors.

Major Jaimie Dylan of the Third Army Force Protection Service let out a soft whistle and declared, "I told you they were all here."

The First RCT Scout Group had been relieved by the Second and Third Scout Groups to ensure every single one of the First Scout Group’s scouts were here. Active, reserve, and the training group. "I heard rumors that even the wounded would be here.”

Sub-teniente José Santana asked as he tried to keep up with the major, “What makes this so special? It’s just an award ceremony.”

“Yes, it is. For scouts. I also have it on good authority there is going to be something special going on after the main awards ceremony.”

The frustration was obvious in Santanna’s voice. “I don’t understand!”

“Santana, it is an awards ceremony for scouts.”

“Okay.”

Dylan stopped walking and shook his head, tipped it back then placed the palm of his hand over his eyes for a few seconds.

“Follow me and keep your mouth shut, leftenant.” Dylan sighed. “How in the hell can the service schools neglect your education like this? What do you know about the Kiowa?”

Santana shook his head and rolled his eyes. “I thought you just ordered me to keep my mouth shut.”

Dylan chuckled, “Don’t fucking piss me off, leftenant.”

José smiled, rolled his eyes again and shook his head, “They are the scouts. The eyes and ears. They find the enemy and then tell the Artillery, the Cavalry, and the Dragoons where to find them. Then everyone kills the enemy, and we all go home and get drunk.”

“Leftenant, let me tell you how the army works. The army awards medals to individuals who display exemplary courage and valor on the battlefield. These medals bring financial rewards, such as land grants and retirement benefits. These are things that are used to make a parcel of land a viable farm or ranch.”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Do you know how you win a medal?”

“This feels like a trick question, so…uhhm. No.”

The major grinned. “A well thought out answer. “

Santana earned a clap on the back.

“You win a medal when an officer observes you doing some heroic shit on a battlefield, which elevates you above and beyond the norm. The awarding of a medal requires investigating. Officers have to make and read reports, and interview witnesses. All kinds of shit like that. This can take years, because the army makes sure that medals go to those that deserve it.”

“Yes Sir, I get that.”

“The problem, José, is that your act of heroism and bravery has to be witnessed by an officer. Scouts go out in pairs, hiding and seeking, sneaking and peeking. Sniffing around and finding groups of armed men. And there aren’t many officers willing to do that shit because it's dangerous and leads to very exciting, and more accurately, short lives.”

José nodded, “Yes, sir.” His tone was quizzical.

Dylan sighed. “José, the only way scouts win medals for valor is posthumously. Since they are out ahead of the forces, they have no officers to witness their accomplishments on the battlefield. Medals for the Kiowa are determined from reports, casualty numbers, forensics, and radio transcripts. The women we are coming to honor today are dead. Killed while scouting enemy positions. The enemy discovered them and they fought a running battle for thirty kilometers then called for mortar fire when close enough.”

“When the Army finished their assessment of the battlefield, their commander began the process to award the scouts the medals. That was three years ago, and you had just started basic training, I think. The medals and the flags are going to be presented today. The scout’s families cannot be here, so the Platoon Leader is going to be accepting the awards on their behalf.”

Sub-teniente Santana stopped dead in his tracks and blurted, “Dear God.”

Dylan stopped and turned. “Their last radio communication was to call in a 120mm fire mission on their own position. They ended their service to the Republic in fire, killing their enemies. There was barely enough of them left of them to bury in a small jar.”

***

Sub-teniente Santana looked around. The large low buildings filled the valley floor, the river hugging the right side of the valley. Mountains formed a valley ten miles wide. The sprawling base named “Normandy” lay before the choke point from the hills. A chill blanketed the spring day. The cold Colorado wind sweeping down the valley smelled of pine trees. The scouts began filing into the building.

”Major, why are we invited to this ceremony? This seems like it should be--I don’t know, private.”

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Dylan patted him on the back again. “You and I didn’t get an invitation. We’re Force Protection, we don’t need an invitation. When in garrison, Force Protection and the Kiowa spend a lot of time in guard towers. Looking outside the walls for things to kill. That leads to lots of fraternization, lots of time talking. Lots of time playing card games and Dungeons and Dragons. Our sharpshooters train with the snipers. We have a very close relationship with the scouts. Lots of marriages too. Look around. Everyone not on duty is present.”

Dylan coughed, then jabbed his elbow into Jose's side. “Teniente-Coronél Astor. It’s nice to see you here.”

Teniente-Coronél Rueben Astor was the same height as Dylan, but with a waistline that was fighting a losing battle with general fitness. He had a square face, ruddy complexion and jowls. His hair was short, and completely white. His uniform shirt had epaulets and a white Aiguillette on his left shoulder. Unlike the two lower ranking officers, the patches on his shoulders and chest were not subdued but brightly colored.

José came to attention, and was ignored. Inwardly, he snorted. Bloody typical.

“Major Dylan. It always pains me to come to one of these ceremonies. Did you know either of the recipients?”

“No sir, I did not.”

“That’s unfortunate. They were both extraordinary soldiers.”

Dylan shrugged, “Aren’t they all?”

The head of the Federales contingent scowled. “Making light of this, Major?”

Major Dylan’s eyes widened. “No Sir! We need every one of them we can get. I didn't know the scouts, but everyone who did speaks highly of them.”

“Sorry Major. I knew Chief Warrant Officer Hernandez. Her call sign was ‘Heater’. She was an amazing woman and scout. We served together in the East Texas campaign. Without her, I wouldn't be here. Her scout team found the flanking attack that might have stopped our entire attack on Carthage.”

Dylan chuckled and winked. “Shall we find a spot to watch and maybe have a sip or two in homage to our fallen heroes? Dylan pressed his side and lifted up his bullet proof vest, revealing a wine-skin underneath.

The lieutenant colonel warned, "Major, public drunkenness while on duty and in uniform is against the law. Most especially for law enforcement.”

The colonel looked around. “What do you have?”

“Brandy.”

Astor smiled, “I have whiskey. Do you think this young leftenant could keep an eye out for the law?”

Santana coughed, his eyes going wide. This was NOT how he wanted to be noticed by the higher ups.

Dylan laughed. “Godsdamnit, kid, just stand in front of us when we sneak a drink. If you don’t fuck that up, we might share.”

The head of Federal Law Enforcement in the war zone placed his arms over the shoulders of his subordinates and guffawed. “Relax! Come on, you two, right there! Looking down the center aisle. That’s our spot!”

        ***

The scout force formed up in ranks. José stood nervously in front of two high-ranking officers who were flagrantly disregarding regulations. Fuck, everyone not in the ranks with the scouts was breaking the regulations about drinking powerful spirits. Wine, beer, and any sort of wine or beer mixed with a cannabis oil emulsion was legal. Hard alcohol was verboten. Too many service members got into fights and got hurt by drinking fire water or branch water.

José jumped when the commander of the Federales contingent tapped him on the shoulder and handed him his metal flask. Major Dylan just looked at him and smiled so hard it looked like his face was going to split in half. Fuck it. José took a quick look left and right, then took a big swig, and fuck if he wasn’t about to choke to death on whiskey. He started coughing while his senior officers pounded him on the back and tried to keep their laughter muted.

A woman's voice boomed out, augmented by the sound system. “ARMY!” Followed by shouted commands from the formation. “Regiment!” “Group!” Then over the speakers “TEN…HUT!” Six hundred and eighty pairs of boot heels snapped together. Dead silence followed.

Commander of the Third Army, Field Marshall Penelope Mariana De Costa O’Keefe, stood behind a small podium at the center of the stage. She stood an average height for a woman of the republic, slim but muscular. In her Class A uniform, she was very impressive. She had four golden, five-pointed stars on her uniform epaulets and at her collar. Three medals adorned her chest, one Good-Conduct medal, one Bronze Star and one purple heart with four bronze oak leaf clusters. Six red hash marks on her lower sleeves, each signifying five years of service in the army. Hazel eyes, high cheekbones. Short, dark red hair under her black beret. She cut an imposing figure.

“At ease. Ladies and gentlemen. I stand before you today to celebrate two of your own. Chief Warrant Officer Heather Hernandez, and Warrant officer the Second Rosalyn Planke. Kiowa Scouts. The media have widely reported the action that led to their deaths. We all know what transpired. These two women gave up their lives for their nation with honor. The radio transcripts recorded every moment of their fight. The bodies of our enemies littering the battlefield supported the investigation for the official record.”

“Sometimes it feels like The Army of The Republic cares about the lives of the Kiowa, in the sense that they are a valuable military asset. It also feels like the Army only marginally cares about how the Kiowa die, even though they are a valuable military asset. You die well. You die in situations that would merit the Victoria Cross, if the judging was fair. When Dragoons fight against overwhelming numbers and display valor, the Army awards them medals. Cavalry troopers earn medals for things scouts do daily. I have heard high-ranking officers say, ‘if we started giving medals to scouts, where would it end? The things they do, medals would become worthless.’”

She paused. “The two women we are here to honor today were masters of their profession. We will strongly feel their absence. Ladies, please bow your heads in a moment of silence for these two women.”

The building rang with the voice of the assembled scouts.“Oooh Rhaaa!”

A fierce grin appeared on the face of General O'Keefe. Fucking scouts. Cocky motherfuckers.

General O’Keefe said in a loud, clear voice, “Ten-Hut.” Every uniformed person in the warehouse snapped to attention. The general read her prepared speech. Not the citations for the awards. This ceremony was for the First RCT Scout Group, not the families or the press.

“On September 13th, 2322, First Leftenant Diaz led Task Force 09-22 with orders to find and destroy enemy forces in Southern Colorado.”

“On that day, while on an extended range patrol, your scout element ‘Paco 33’ found enemy formations. They comprised Brotherhood Calvary Squadrons Fifteen, Thirty-Two, and Fifty-Eight. Paco 33 remained in close observation of enemy forces for nineteen hours, providing critical intelligence on the enemy forces. At 0830 on the fourteenth, the scout team was discovered by elements from the thirty-second. The enemy cavalry unit had set up camp and surrounded Paco 33 in their hide. An enemy soldier suffered an embarrassing moment when he pissed on Chief Warrant Officer Hernandez. She took great offense at that. That was his last moment on Earth. The enemy was unaware they had made camp with the scout team in their midst."

"The gunfire and detonation of the Claymores alerted the enemy forces to the scouts’ presence in their encampment. In the opening moments of the battle, the Kiowa killed twenty-six cavalry troops. The surviving cavalry troopers went through a significant emotional event because of that action.”

“Stealing mounts from the enemy, Paco 33 made a break for it. In the ensuing battle, Paco 33 distinguished itself by destroying one hundred and eight enemy soldiers and their cavalry mounts. Using aimed direct fire from their weapons, claymores, and by calling in field artillery. As soon as the scouts initiated contact, Lt. Diaz began maneuvering her force to support the scout team. The enemy forces followed the Kiowa when they attempted to break contact.”

“Throughout the day, they peeled back and reported via radio. With ammunition running low and out of explosives, they finally came into the range of God’s Hands. The 120mm mortar platoon provided danger close fire support for two hours. At the end of the engagement, Paco 33 was out of ammunition, and enemy mortar fire had critically wounded both women. Both scouts had suffered traumatic amputations. They made their last radio transmission calling for fire on their own position, and directed an audible ‘FUCK YOU’ at the enemy forces."

Once again, “Oooh Rhaaa!” rang out from the assembled scout’s throats.

General O’Keefe closed her eyes and took a deep breath. “Paco 33 accomplished their mission of finding and destroying the enemy at the expense of their own lives. Neither warrant officer survived the final fire mission.”

General O’Keefe shook her head. “These women are heroes of the Republic. Their dedication and bravery are above and beyond any doubt or reproach. Leftenant Monica Diaz, please accept these tokens from a grateful nation and see that they reach the families of our fallen.”

The ceremonial squad lowered two flags from the stage flag poles, then folded each of the two flags. The flags, black with a white disk superimposed with a blue representation of Central America. They pinned the Silver Stars to them and then whirled, their boot heels slamming into the stage simultaneously. They saluted, then handed them to the private soldiers on the detail. The privates stood to attention, saluted, pivoted and marched to where the Platoon Leader stood on the stage. The privates pivoted again, turning to face the Leftenant. They held out the folded flags.

First Leftenant Monica Diaz made a strangled moan. Heather and Rosie had been close friends of hers. Both of the privates immediately closed ranks and stood shoulder to shoulder in front of her, shielding Lt. Diaz from the view of the audience. They stood there for three agonizing minutes, at attention.

When the Leftenant had regained her composure, private Langstrom whispered to her, “You got this LT.” They moved back.

Lt. Diaz stood there with both folded flags. Tears rolled down her cheeks, but she didn’t move or make a sound. The privates saluted her, left hands in a fist and placed in the center of their chests with the back of the hand pointed outward. Her hands full, the leftenant nodded her head.