Wednesday, October 28, 2015
It was the Fall of 2065. The monsoons had ended, and the terrain was dry. Silently, two fire teams, led by Captain Matthew Falk, moved west through the Sitgreave Range toward the command post on Chevelon Bluff. A new moon had risen in the east two hours before, and the men knew the area very well. The bluff lay another 5 miles to the west, and they would be there before sunrise. They had just crossed the creek, and the terrain began to rise as they moved uphill toward their goal. They would relieve two of the teams that manned the CP. The bluff marked the western boundary of the Arizona territory. It offered an unobstructed view to the west, and from there they could control the choke points that offered the only access for approaching jihadi probes. Other such compounds existed across the nation, and slowly, they would be reunited.
Years before, the Arizona group had joined forces with the Navajo. We had collaborated before, in the face of a different enemy. They had lived in this terrain for millenia, and, to a man, they were warriors. Their lands were sacred to them, and they would not tolerate the insult imposed by people who had no honor. In the face of this threat, as before, they too were Americans. What Captain Falk encountered as he returned through the Sitgreaves would haunt him forever….