his head, but he continued anyway. “I need you to shake it off, son. If you have to torture yourself, do it later, when we’re back aboard ship. Right now there are Marines who need you.” Another pause. “I need you.”
Callahan turned his head slowly, staring back at Heath. He wished he was anywhere else, even that an enemy bullet had found him and taken him down, but he knew he’d obey the general. Jack Callahan the man felt numb, dead - but there was still life in the Marine. He straightened himself up and looked back at the general.
“I’ll do my best, sir.” His voice was weak, his tone uncertain, but Heath knew at once he’d gotten through to him.
“I know you will, son.” He turned and started to climb out of the shell hole. “Good luck, Major,” he said as he crouched low and scrambled back toward the command post. There was an art to rallying fighting men, and Heath had learned from some of the best. The only thing they hadn’t taught him was how not to hate himself after he did it.
“General, we have reports of fighting east of Weston.” Hal Richmond came running into the tent, the excitement obvious in his high-pitched voice. He caught himself and straightened up. “I’m sorry, General. Request permission to make a report.”
Jarrod Tyler was sitting on a small folding chair, wearing a pair of gray fatigue pants and a t-shirt that had once been white but was now some indeterminate shade of brownish-gray. His face was twisted into a frustrated scowl, the same expression he’d worn for months now. He’d failed to defeat the invaders who had come to ravage his world, and then he’d led his people into the swamps and badlands, seeking any fate for them save surrender. It was a choice that appeared noble, a soldier’s last stand, but it had also thrown them all into a hellish nightmare, one it seemed few of them would survive.
The Columbians, most of them at least, had avoided capitulation, and they were still maintaining the fight. The war had become a guerilla battle now, Tyler’s remaining warriors primarily engaged in raids targeting enemy supplies and patrols. But the cost had been staggering. They were short of everything – food, drugs, basic survival gear. Civilians began dying almost immediately, and the daily toll still continued. Diseases that could be healed with an injection killed for lack of proper medicine. Civilians weakened by malnutrition and unused to living outside in the cold and damp were easy targets for a variety of pathogens, and the overworked doctors and med techs did what they could as their supplies dwindled to nothing. Yet the people remained steadfast behind their leader, most of them at least.
There had been a few stillborn rebellions against his authority as dictator, but most of the Columbians were still with him. They lived their miserable lives in cold, leaky tents, watching their families slowly starve to death, but still they gave him their loyalty. He was grateful for the support, but it tore at him as well. Part of him wanted the people to hate him, to rise up and cast him aside. In many ways, their loyalty was his greatest source of pain, and it prevented him from shifting any responsibility for the holocaust on Columbia away from himself. With total power came total responsibility.
He bore the guilt, all of it. For failing to defeat the enemy in the field, for leading his people into the nightmare of continued resistance in the wildest areas of their world. He’d led them here, and they had followed, placing their trust in him to get them through this greatest trial.
Richmond’s excited words pulled him from his deep retrospection. “Oh…Hal. Come in.” Hal Richmond was his aide, or a makeshift assistant, at least. Tyler wouldn’t have enlisted a 15 year old kid, but he took the boy in after his parents and sister died of infectious diseases that hadn’t
Callahan turned his head slowly, staring back at Heath. He wished he was anywhere else, even that an enemy bullet had found him and taken him down, but he knew he’d obey the general. Jack Callahan the man felt numb, dead - but there was still life in the Marine. He straightened himself up and looked back at the general.
“I’ll do my best, sir.” His voice was weak, his tone uncertain, but Heath knew at once he’d gotten through to him.
“I know you will, son.” He turned and started to climb out of the shell hole. “Good luck, Major,” he said as he crouched low and scrambled back toward the command post. There was an art to rallying fighting men, and Heath had learned from some of the best. The only thing they hadn’t taught him was how not to hate himself after he did it.
“General, we have reports of fighting east of Weston.” Hal Richmond came running into the tent, the excitement obvious in his high-pitched voice. He caught himself and straightened up. “I’m sorry, General. Request permission to make a report.”
Jarrod Tyler was sitting on a small folding chair, wearing a pair of gray fatigue pants and a t-shirt that had once been white but was now some indeterminate shade of brownish-gray. His face was twisted into a frustrated scowl, the same expression he’d worn for months now. He’d failed to defeat the invaders who had come to ravage his world, and then he’d led his people into the swamps and badlands, seeking any fate for them save surrender. It was a choice that appeared noble, a soldier’s last stand, but it had also thrown them all into a hellish nightmare, one it seemed few of them would survive.
The Columbians, most of them at least, had avoided capitulation, and they were still maintaining the fight. The war had become a guerilla battle now, Tyler’s remaining warriors primarily engaged in raids targeting enemy supplies and patrols. But the cost had been staggering. They were short of everything – food, drugs, basic survival gear. Civilians began dying almost immediately, and the daily toll still continued. Diseases that could be healed with an injection killed for lack of proper medicine. Civilians weakened by malnutrition and unused to living outside in the cold and damp were easy targets for a variety of pathogens, and the overworked doctors and med techs did what they could as their supplies dwindled to nothing. Yet the people remained steadfast behind their leader, most of them at least.
There had been a few stillborn rebellions against his authority as dictator, but most of the Columbians were still with him. They lived their miserable lives in cold, leaky tents, watching their families slowly starve to death, but still they gave him their loyalty. He was grateful for the support, but it tore at him as well. Part of him wanted the people to hate him, to rise up and cast him aside. In many ways, their loyalty was his greatest source of pain, and it prevented him from shifting any responsibility for the holocaust on Columbia away from himself. With total power came total responsibility.
He bore the guilt, all of it. For failing to defeat the enemy in the field, for leading his people into the nightmare of continued resistance in the wildest areas of their world. He’d led them here, and they had followed, placing their trust in him to get them through this greatest trial.
Richmond’s excited words pulled him from his deep retrospection. “Oh…Hal. Come in.” Hal Richmond was his aide, or a makeshift assistant, at least. Tyler wouldn’t have enlisted a 15 year old kid, but he took the boy in after his parents and sister died of infectious diseases that hadn’t
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