Operation American Freedom by Doug Sharp

Chapter 1: Ambush

The IED waited, buried in the center of the road. The massive bomb was tarred over, the tar smeared with mud and dust to blend with the war-ravaged urban street.

The invader’s troop carrier rumbled in the distance.

The insurgent squad waited, their weapons trained on the IED zone. After the blast none of the godless invaders would escape.

The sun was barely risen and already hot wind blew grit. The sky was dirty.

Sidewalks were empty. Word had spread. This was a crucial ambush. Civilian casualties were acceptable.

It was a desperate time for the insurgents. Occupation forces controlled the streets with tactics and technology evolved in long years of urban warfare.

The squad's leader was an IED ambush rookie who had earned the insurgent’s respect by escaping from Guantanamo. His high office in the old dismantled government awed his Republican Guard troops. His code name was "43".

43 squatted in a rubble-walled trench a block from the kill zone. At his side the demolition man clutched the trigger box. Officer and soldier sweated and waited.

Bullet-pitted apartments and small shops bracketed the street. Abandoned but for a few displaced squatters who’d slipped away when they saw the IED planted.

The ambush site was chosen weeks ago. The insurgent’s hard-won experience in urban warfare was focused on this city street.

The bomb was buried mid-block. The two nearest intersections were crossed by streets blocked with rubble. The road ran three blocks without access from side streets. No escape, no surprises, two choke points for enemy vehicles riding to the rescue.

Spies in the occupier’s HQ leaked the route and timetable of the troop carrier to the insurgents.

The sky was free of enemy drones. Saboteurs had neutralized a key computer in the invader’s Unmanned Aerial Vehicle command center.

The eight men of the ambush squad were positioned like chess pieces around the kill zone. Four looked down from upper stories: two manned heavy guns (to be abandoned after the attack), two snipers lay prone peering through their scopes. Two insurgents armed with RPG’s aimed from slits sliced through concrete at street level.

The troop carrier emerged from a side street a block and a half away. It crunched into a lower gear and turned down the street toward the ambush. Its throaty roar echoed.

The demolition man uttered a silent prayer to his God. He prayed that his bomb should destroy the invader's vehicle utterly, should show the power of his true God over the false God of the invaders.

The carrier rumbled into the kill zone. 43 nodded. Demo man threw the switch.

A blast of smoke and rubble and shock and howling thunder. The troop carrier’s nose flipped straight up. The behemoth balanced on its rear, teetered, twisted slowly, slammed down on its side. Dirt, glass, chunks of street pelted down.

The echoes died. Silence.

The troop carrier buckled and settled with a metal groan.

The squad kept discipline and stayed tucked in their cover, watching the wreck for movement. Listening.

43 counted off two minutes on his watch before motioning his explosives man to probe the derelict. Every weapon was sighted on the wreck, covering him as he ran dodging and zagging. He penetrated to the vehicle without drawing fire. Bent and peered through a split in its hull. Took a long look, turned, and motioned the squad to come.

“Dead.” he shouted. “Going in.” and squeezed through the gash into the carrier.

One of the snipers gave a taunting whoop. A couple cheered. The first successful insurgent strike in over three months.

43 sauntered to the hulk. He’d pulled it off. First revenge for the abuse he’d survived at Gitmo.

He stuck his head through the metal gap. The demo man played a flashlight around the interior.

Dead soldiers were strapped upside down in benches, arms dangling.

The rest of the Republican Guard squad ran up to the wreck.

The man inside shown his flashlight on inverted faces. “Look, sir. We nailed a bunch of whites, blacks, Hispanics. Not a jihadi or chink in the bunch.”

A squad member spat on the ground. “Bunch of fucking limbaughs.”

One of the invaders stirred. He slowly, jerkily looked around. His head lolled upside down. He giggled. A bubble of blood. Another soldier jerked an arm.

“What should we do with the survivors, sir?”

George W. Bush, no longer the 43rd president of the US but still a leader of men, smirked his patented smirk. “Just remember it's the birds that's supposed to suffer, not the hunter.*”

---

* Operation American Freedom Guarantee: ~95% of Bush dialog is assembled out of actual Bushisms.

---

The demolition man - George called him Boomboom but his name was Johnny Talbot - said, “Right, sir.” and clambered out of the wreck.

Two insurgents poked their AK-87’s into the wreck. A blaze of flickering red. They took their time. Used their laser rifles like carving knives. Minced the ChIranian collaborators, both dead and alive.

#

That night the cream of the Houston Militia of the Army of Patriotic Americans (Republican) - inevitably nicknamed The Republican Guard - celebrated their victory at the abandoned Redstone Country Club.

The Chiranian invaders had stomped hard on America's upper class; private golf clubs had gone bankrupt or sold out to the invaders.

The Guard had secured the basement party room of Redstone's deserted entertainment complex. Enlisted men were picketed as scouts around the golf course to warn of ChIranian patrols.

A dozen Militia Officers and their eleven ladies gathered in the party room where duct taped windows kept illicit light from revealing their revels.

Most insurgent officers lived in nearby walled co-religionist suburban enclaves. Because of the bot-enforced curfew they would stay the night and ride their bikes and scooters home in tomorrow's sparse morning traffic.

The crowd was flush with the ambush's success. Hoarded whiskey gurgled down wattled throats. A priceless tin of carp caviar was reverently opened and tasted. As the evening wore on and spirits loosened one of the young wives did a startling interpretive dance accompanied quietly by her husband on banjo.

As Man of the Day George was cajoled into giving a speech. It was eloquent beyond words:

As you know, my position is clear -- I'm a commander guy. I'm the commander — see, I don't need to explain — I do not need to explain why I say things. I trust God speaks through me. Without that, I couldn't do my job.

My views are one that speaks to freedom. I believe that God wants everybody to be free. That's what I believe.

We have a calling from beyond the stars to stand for freedom, and America will always be faithful to that cause. [Applause and cheers.]

The ChIranians didn't think we were a nation that could conceivably sacrifice for something greater than our self.

My, were they wrong. They just were reading the wrong magazine or watching the wrong Springer show. [Applause.]

How long til victory? We are making steadfast progress. And, you know, it'll take time to restore chaos and order — order out of chaos. But we will.

In terms of timetables, as quickly as possible -- whatever that means.

Today's successful ambush means -- I think -- tide turning -- see, as I remember -- I was raised in the desert, but tides kind of -- it's easy to see a tide turn -- did I say those words?

This is still a dangerous world. It's a world of madmen and uncertainty and potential mental losses.

I say to the ChIranians: There's no cave deep enough for America, or dark enough to hide. [Scattered cheers.]

I say to the Houston Republican Guard [Crowd laughs.]: The only way we can win is to leave before the job is done.

God loves you, and I love you. And you can count on both of us as a powerful message that people who wonder about their future can hear.

That's the most deep thought of all. ... I can't think of anything more deep than that, right?

So on behalf of a well-oiled unit of people, Boomboom and the others, who came together to serve something greater than themselves, congratulations.

You're free. And freedom is beautiful.

I hope you leave here and walk out and say, 'What did he say?'

[Applause and unashamed public weeping.]

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