***
The Rocky Mountain range in Cheyenne, Colorado, remained quiet and majestic on the surface, but deep within its belly was a hurricane of coordinated countermeasures.
Lieutenant Colonel Mink was at the helm, guiding the resources to their destinations to engage the Mexican threat. The tiny blips and beeps on each of the screens in the command room represented the lives of tens of thousands of American soldiers.
The noise level of the room never reached above more than a dull roar. Lieutenant Colonel Mink maintained order in the face of chaos. But he knew what was happening on the ground. Bullets pierced flesh. Explosions rocked the earth. The screams of men couldn’t be heard from their command post, but Mink knew they were there.
The Mexican strike was quick. Gallo’s forces were hoping to catch them off guard, but they were ready. The only advantage the Mexican army had was the ground they had managed to gain in Arizona and New Mexico from their previous push.
“Sir,” one of the officers said, grabbing Mink’s attention. “We have a lot of movement in the Pacific.”
“What do we have?” Mink asked, looking at his officer’s screen.
“Multiple enemy warships have entered the area. I count twelve heading north.”
“Alert Captain Ford. What’s the status of the USS Carl Vinson?”
“They’re still caught up in the Alaskan fisheries, sir. The president didn’t pull it in time.”