sheehanmiles Weblog

sheehanmiles Weblog http://miles.activecharity.org sheehanmiles weblog en-us Copyright 2009 sheehanmiles http://miles.activecharity.org/xml/ Mon, 05 Jan 2009 20:42:15 EST Republic Podcast conclusion Hi folks, it's finally done. I uploaded the final episode of Republic a few minutes ago.I have to say, I'm kind of sad it's finished. I've spent more than nine months recording it, and along the way I've learned a lot -- enough that I'd really like to find the time to go back and remaster the first few episodes to improve the audio quality.In the meantime, you can check it out, and also consider subscribing to the sequel, Insurgent.<a href="http://www.sheehanmiles.com/files/miles/PB-Republic-24.mp3">Republic: Episode 24</a> <a href="http://phobos.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?id=275015505" style="color: #a43b55; text-decoration: underline; background-image: none; background-repeat: initial; background-attachment: initial; -webkit-background-clip: initial; -webkit-background-origin: initial; background-color: initial">Insurgent on iTunes</a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/Insurgent" style="color: #a43b55; text-decoration: underline; background-image: none; background-repeat: initial; background-attachment: initial; -webkit-background-clip: initial; -webkit-background-origin: initial; background-color: initial">http://feeds.feedburner.com/Insurgent</a>

Technorati: Republic| podcast| Insurgent|

http://miles.activecharity.org/blogid/3118 charles@sheehanmiles.net () Sun, 09 Mar 2008 18:33:23 EST Why does Dell suck so much? Ok, this is a bit of a rant. But I deserve a rant, because of the WEEKS I've been dealing with Dell's fucking technical lack of support.As most of you probably aren't aware, I make my actual living not selling books (funny) but doing technical work.  I started out about 13 years ago, working help-desk in the basement of the U.S. Department of State. Later I moved on to Teligent, which was briefly an awesome company at the height of the tech boom.  At Teligent, I went from help desk, to Microsoft Exchange team leader, to DBA, to Application Support Manager, to Data Center Manager, to IT Operations Manager.  Today I'm still doing technical work, as IT DIrector for VFA.  That said, in all those years I've bought and recommended Dell equipment.  We had thousands of Dell desktops and laptops at Teligent, at hundreds of Dell servers distributed throughout the country (alongside HP-UX, AS400, and a big monster Sun E10K).Why did I like Dell?  At one time they had well put together computers and excellent technical support.  When you bought an on-side service contract, they delivered.Now ... not so much.My current ordeal began in the summer of 2006, when I bought my son an Inspiron E1405 laptop.  I paid several hundred extra dollars for a three year, next day on side service contract that also covered accidental damage, since we all know that kids can cause accidental damage.  So far so good.  Laptop came, performed well mostly, and everything was happy.A couple months ago, the battery stopped charging.  Unplug it and it dies immediately. So, innocently, I called Dell technical support expecting that they would, within 24 hours, dispatch a new battery to me and all would be well.No.  I took three hours on the phone, getting transferred from department to department.  Finally, I got a technical support representative in India, who took me through diagnostics and finally determined that the battery was dead. You'll need to order a new battery, he says.No, I replied.  You'll send me a new battery under my three year extra special warranty.No, he said. The battery isn't covered under the three year warranty. That's industry standard, he tells me.  This is news to me -- the battery in my 18-month old Macbook Pro died, and Apple replaced that on the spot. But apparently Dell is not Apple (not exactly news). I'm frustrated, ask to talk to a manager.  The manager blows me off.  If I want help, I have to pay for a new battery. The price?  $185.Crap.  Well, the kid needs the laptop.  He uses it for school, and its important, so I shell out the $185 plus shipping for a new battery (on my Dell Financial Services account, which was probably a mistake). I'd like to tell you about the happy ending, but there wasn't one.  They shipped me the wrong battery.  I spend two hours on the phone and finally get an RMA number to send back the wrong battery, then another half hour on the phone with a different department so I can have the privilege of paying  $185 plus shipping for a second battery, hopefully this time the right one.On Friday, the battery arrived, and it looks good.  It's the right one, it fits, and within an hour of plugging it into the computer it completely discharged. 0%.  Not good.  We're right back where we started--new battery. No charge.  Damn thing doesn't work unless its not plugged in.So, about four hours ago (it's now Saturday afternoon, starting into evening) I called Dell back.  I wait on hold twenty minutes, then get another technician. This one starts asking me questions and we get disconnected.Dammit.  Call back again. Sit on hold for thirty minutes.  Finally get someone. I explain the problem, we talk through the whole thing.  Fifteen minutes of question about the laptop, and he finally informs me that he can't help.  He needs to transfer me to the department that handles battery and power issues.  Isn't that exciting?  I get transferred. 30 minutes on hold. A technician answers. I explain my issue.  He asks me a lot of questions. We waste ten minutes. Then he informs me that no, he's not in the laptop or battery or whatever department. He's in the software department. Well why the fuck didn't he say so in the first place when I started the call and said I had a problem with my battery?I demand to talk to his supervisor, because I don't want to spend half an hour on hold listening to their crappy music.  Thank God I have volume control on Skype.  Supervisor comes on line, and I explain the situation, including the fact that I'm now two hours into this whole issue.  She tells me that she'll have her technician get me to the right department, and I demand that he stay on the line with me while we're switching, because I'm really getting tired of wasting my entire Saturday afternoon on this issue.We wait. We wait some more. The technician checks in every once in a while, and I check in every once in a while, just to make sure that he's still on the line.  They play more crappy music.  Finally someone comes online.  The technician I had with me (which I had understood his name, but he's predictably in India) explained the issue to the technician who answered. That guy says, oh, sorry about that, but I can't helped.  You've reached the Optiplex desktop department.Oh, fuck.Now we're transferring again (as I write this). It's a little after 5 PM, so I've been at it for four hours (read half a workday. Fuck. Just got disconnected again. FUCK. FUCK.I'm calling back, because I'm too fucking invested (and frustrated) with this process now.  I'm ready to take a hammer to the damn laptop.  I used to think Toshiba sucked, but no.  Dell really really sucks.What in God's name happened to their customer support? They used to great! Now ... it's crazy. Update -- called back. Only 20 minutes on hold.  Talked to a tech, and I may have expressed my frustration a little fervently, because he immediately transferred me to his manager.  The manager is now explaining to me that even though my contract that I paid for clearly states nights and weekends, they are not going to honor that.  Instead, they're going to ship me the parts and arrange an appointment for an onsite tech to install a new motherboard and AC adapter.Now they are confirming the address information that they already shipped the wrong battery to.  They are claiming that the technician will come on Monday, or possibly Tuesday. We shall see.

Technorati: dell| fucking dell| dell sucks|

http://miles.activecharity.org/blogid/3111 charles@sheehanmiles.net () Sat, 08 Mar 2008 16:46:23 EST No podcast this week Just a quick update -- I'm sick, and extremely busy at work, so no podcast this week. I'm all to aware that the next episode is the LAST of Republic, but, we'll just have to wait another week. With luck I can record it Friday night or Saturday.

Technorati:

http://miles.activecharity.org/blogid/3084 charles@sheehanmiles.net () Wed, 05 Mar 2008 09:16:06 EST Insurgent Podcast Now that I'm editing and wrapping up the next to the last episode of the Republic Podcast, I wanted to go ahead and get a link up for those of you interested in subscribing to the Insurgent Podcast, which will begin in just a couple of weeks. xxx(It's not up on iTunes yet)xxx, but you can subscribe at Feedburner: <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/Insurgent">http://feeds.feedburner.com/Insurgent</a> Update: Here's the link to subscribe through iTunes which would make me very very happy if you were to do so: <a href="http://phobos.apple.com/WebObjects/MZStore.woa/wa/viewPodcast?id=275015505">Insurgent on iTunes</a> <object width="425" height="355"><param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/FxLhuRKDHG4&rel=1"></param><param name="wmode" value="transparent"></param><embed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/FxLhuRKDHG4&rel=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" wmode="transparent" width="425" height="355"></embed></object> <img src="/files/miles/insurgent_podcast.jpg" />

Technorati: Insurgent| podcast|

http://miles.activecharity.org/blogid/3063 charles@sheehanmiles.net () Mon, 25 Feb 2008 13:18:52 EST Wrong Door Drug Raid Wyoming police busted down the door of the wrong apartment <a href="http://www.zwire.com/site/news.cfm?newsid=19249363&BRD=2259&PAG=461&dept_id=455154&rfi=6" target="_blank">when serving another no-knock search warrant</a>. The good news is, nobody got hurt -- unlike the incident a couple weeks ago, where raiding drug task force members <a href="http://stopthedrugwar.org/chronicle_blog/2008/jan/07/swat_team_shoots_baby_kills_mom_" target="_blank">killed 26-year old Tarika Wilson and shot baby</a>.I don't want to get into a knee-jerk discussion here. In the Wilson case, the police did not get the wrong address--<a href="http://toledoblade.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=/20080106/NEWS17/801060398/-1/NEWS" target="_blank">they were there to arrest her drug dealing boyfriend or husband, or whatever he was</a>.  But I can't help but question the wisdom of a swat team assault on a house with six children inside, unless they are in immediate danger.But what about the danger to the cops?  If this guy was a drug dealer, he could have shot at them?I get that. But the job of the cops is to protect children, not the other way around. Why didn't they take this guy down when he was walking down the street?  Then they could knock on the door and serve the warrant without killing any mothers or shooting their children?  Think about it.

Technorati: no-knock raid| SWAT team| search warrant|

http://miles.activecharity.org/blogid/3032 charles@sheehanmiles.net () Fri, 01 Feb 2008 09:58:20 EST Insurgent update Just a quick update on progress on Insurgent, the sequel to Republic.  I've posted the very rough, not edited first draft of 3 chapters, but then I got sidetracked, writing some chapters in the middle of the book.  So, it may be a week or two before I get back to chapter 4.Sometimes that's just the way I work.  With Republic, I wrote the first three chapters, then the last three, then the middle.  Crazy maybe, but whatever.If you enjoyed the first book, you'll be happy to hear that a number of characters are returning -- Jim Turville has a much larger role in the story, Valerie Murphy and Al Clark are both back and trying to keep things sane.  Joe Blankenship, a secondary character in the first book, is a major player now.  I'm writing a lot of his backstory at the moment, because it's going to take a considerable amount of work to make him a sympathetic character in this book--especially given some of the hideous things he's going to do before its all over.So,  you can <a href="/blogid/2983">check out the existing chapters here</a>, or wait until its all finished and buy a copy. If you wait, I'd recommend signing up for the mailing list, so I can let you know when it will be available.  Don't worry about too much spam--usually I only write my list about once a quarter or so.  <a href="/page/join">Sign up for the list here</a>.

Technorati: Insurgent|

http://miles.activecharity.org/blogid/3031 charles@sheehanmiles.net () Fri, 01 Feb 2008 09:14:17 EST Time running out on the so-called Protect America Act You know what they say: you don't have anything to worry about if you don't have anything to hide. Yeah, right. The question: should the federal government be able to listen in on mine and your telephone conversations without a warrant? Did I miss the part of the constitution that protects us from search and seizure except when the government feels otherwise?Anyway. The so-called "Protect America Act" is running out, and Congress seems poised to renew the unconstitutional ability to wiretap all of us without judicial oversight. Weaklings. Panderers.Are you willing to give up your freedom for an illusion of security? If so, as the saying goes, you should consider a move to a country where big daddy tells you what to do and what to think. That isn't America. More facts and less ranting at <a href="http://blog.wired.com/27bstroke6/2008/01/senate-set-to-r.html" target="_blank">Threat Level</a>.

Technorati: wiretaps| civil liberties| government spying| weaking politicians|

http://miles.activecharity.org/blogid/3020 charles@sheehanmiles.net () Wed, 23 Jan 2008 20:47:16 EST Whatever you are doing, stop and read this Mark Benjamin is my favorite reporter. He's been digging for years into all the crap that surrounds veterans issues and, in the end, has done a tremendous amount of good for the military and veterans. They ought to give him a medal.  In any event, you need to read his latest article in Salon, which says almost nothing about veterans, but everything about the plight of investigative journalists.<a href="http://www.salon.com/opinion/feature/2008/01/23/investigative/" target="_blank">Here's the article</a>. Trust me: you'll laugh.

Technorati: war| writing| journalism|

http://miles.activecharity.org/blogid/3019 charles@sheehanmiles.net () Wed, 23 Jan 2008 19:51:33 EST Words still make one hell of a difference In the category of books that are making a difference comes Kancha Ilaiah, whose children's book Turning the Pot, Tilling the Land takes aim at India's thousands of years old caste system. <a href="http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/01/19/AR2008011902412.html?hpid=topnews" target="_blank">From the Washington Post</a>:<blockquote> Books about caste come at a critical juncture for this developing country, analysts say. Instead of dissolving caste, India's rising prosperity is driving an economic wedge between the higher castes, who work in gleaming skyscrapers, and the lower castes, who build them. "There has actually never been a more important time to teach to the next generation that dignity for all labor is a human right," Ilaiah said. </blockquote>It will be interesting to see how this book and others impact India in the long run. Don't forget that it was books that ignited movements here to end slavery. Given that I live in a county where, 150 years ago, it was illegal to teach a black man or woman to read, one can only imagine the impact.

Technorati: publishing| books| changing the world|

http://miles.activecharity.org/blogid/3013 charles@sheehanmiles.net () Tue, 22 Jan 2008 09:15:28 EST Speaking of changes in publishing.... Every once in a while I'll write here about changes in the publishing industry.  I haven't really gone in depth about my thoughts on print-on-demand, new media, podcsting, etc., probably because my own thoughts are still somewhat fuzzy on this topic.  However, the rise of the "cell-phone" novel in Japan definitely provides some serious food for thought.<a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/01/20/world/asia/20japan.html" target="_blank">According to the New York Times</a>, in Japan:<blockquote>Of last year’s 10 best-selling novels, five were originally cellphone novels, mostly love stories written in the short sentences characteristic of text messaging but containing little of the plotting or character development found in traditional novels. What is more, the top three spots were occupied by first-time cellphone novelists, touching off debates in the news media and blogosphere. </blockquote>If an 18 year old can sell 400,000 copies of the print novel originally tapped out on her cell-phone and posted on the web, I think that without a doubt, we're all in for big changes in how books are published, promoted and sold. It's really too bad the keyboard on my cellphone sucks....

Technorati: publishing| cell phones|

http://miles.activecharity.org/blogid/3010 charles@sheehanmiles.net () Sat, 19 Jan 2008 13:56:55 EST Times Under Fire for Vets article On Sunday, the <a href="http://www.nytimes.com/2008/01/13/us/13vets.html?pagewanted=1&_r=2">New York Times</a> ran a lengthy article chronicling a series of homicides committed by Iraq and Afghanistan veterans over the last several years—more than 120 killings here in the United States. Now, the Times is under fire, according to some articles and bloggers, for perpetuating “<a href="http://www.the-two-malcontents.com/2008/01/17/the-killer-vet-lie/">The Killer Vet lie</a>” and “<a href="http://newwars.blogspot.com/2008/01/grey-lady-vet-bashing-debunked.html?referer=sphere_related_content">Vet-Bashing</a>.” Not surprisingly, the culture warriors who are still intent on perpetuating the Vietnam era hawk vs. dove debate have jumped in feet first, specially after the Weekly Standard ran <a href="http://www.weeklystandard.com/Content/Public/Articles/000/000/014/592buqao.asp">an analysis by John J. Dilulio</a> which attempts to debunk the conclusions of the times by pointing out that the murder rate among same-age Americans is much higher than among returning veterans. The terms of the debate are the usual: <blockquote>· The article is “<a href="http://www.weeklystandard.com/weblogs/TWSFP/2008/01/daily_blog_buzz_12.asp">presumably an attempt at making another case for ending the war, if we know anything about the Times's editors.</a>”· Mike Burleson writes: <a href="http://newwars.blogspot.com/2008/01/grey-lady-vet-bashing-debunked.html?referer=sphere_related_content">Just throw out a few unverified facts and let the "blame America first" crowd, as well as the radicals overseas gather their talking points</a>.· At “The Two Malcontents”, they write, “<a href="http://www.the-two-malcontents.com/2008/01/17/the-killer-vet-lie/">The Times has committed a gross slander.”</a> This, of course, is on the same blog which has categories titled “Americans who Hate America,” “Commie Pinkos” and “Blame America”</blockquote> Unfortunately, all of these articles miss the real point raised by the Times article. Are we doing enough to help war veterans coming home from Iraq and Afghanistan? And the answer to that question is a resounding no. It makes me angry that a legitimate issue that should be of concern to all of us has to be tied up in the pro-war/anti-war political debate. Let’s get that out front. To those on the left who would use this article as an argument for leaving Iraq, I say: stop using the troops as your political football. To the folks on the right who would use this as an opportunity to bash the left: screw off. Both sides make me sick. Because the people getting left behind in this debate are the people who actually need our help. I’ve written in the past <a href="/blogid/2085">about the profound impact killing has on the psyche</a>. Killing sucks. Sometimes its necessary, and war is one of those times. But that doesn’t make it any easier to deal with. Frankly, I struggled for years with the remorse, rage, and sometimes-waking nightmares that were a result of killing another human being. <a href="http://www.amazon.com/dp/0979411408?tag=sheehanmiles-20">My first novel</a>, written in the three years following my own experience with killing in the Gulf War, goes directly to this issue: the experience of killing in combat, the impact on the soldier, and most importantly in this discussion—the possibility of a violent response to the experience. The question of whether or not returning veterans are less or more likely to kill than the general population is an important one and needs to be looked at more systematically than has been done in the past. But using the question as yet another manifestation of the left-right culture war is the real disservice to veterans.

http://miles.activecharity.org/blogid/3004 charles@sheehanmiles.net () Thu, 17 Jan 2008 09:59:09 EST Insurgent: Chapter Three The story begins three months after the close of Republic. SPOILER ALERT -- If you haven't read Republic yet, you might want to wait before reading these entries. A number of events that wrapped up the conclusion of the book are referenced in the early chapters of this one. If you want to read Republic now, you can pick it up at <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0979411424?tag=sheehanmiles-20&camp=14573&creative=327641&linkCode=as1&creativeASIN=0979411408&adid=0EJBSMJ2GD9M5E0FAS55&" target="_blank">Amazon</a>, <a href="/blogid/2970">download the ebook or listen to the podcast</a>.The draft versions of this story as posted here on the site are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Please let folks know about it, and feel free to send people the link, but I'll be changing/editing/correcting here as I go along and therefore it's best not to actually forward the text. Again, this is first draft stuff: if you read it, please drop me a line with feedback. Thanks. Send feedback to charles [at] sheehanmiles.netPrevious chapters: <a href="/blogid/2983">Chapter One</a>. <a href="/blogid/2995">Chapter Two</a> Brigadier General Tom Murphy stood in the sunlight near the helicopter pad on the roof of the Governor’s mansion, chilled by the cold wind and trying to absorb a little sunlight to offset it.Despite the fact that his hair had started graying at the temples in the last year, Tom still looked young. His narrow face, clean shaven, still had smooth skin, and he had a tendency to walk around with a half-smile that he knew sometimes seemed inappropriate for a senior military officer. That was fine with him—the smile disarmed people in a way he never quite understood, made him trusted by subordinates and superiors alike. He’d spent all too many days trying to maintain that half-smile in the last few weeks when it really didn’t feel appropriate at all. Behind the smile, he’d been torn by self-doubt and grief for his brother. Behind the smile, he’d been deeply worried that despite the quick conclusion of the brief war in West Virginia, the roots of the conflict had only been aggravated. And, despite everything he’d tried to do, the situation continued to deteriorate.The transport helicopter approached, the slapping rhythm of its rotary wings rattling the windows on the rooftop.  It settled into its position on the roof, and the rotors began to slow.Murphy ran toward the chopper, followed closely by his aide-de-camp, Lieutenant Ahmed Johnson, a six-foot-five former college football player. Johnson had been an infantry platoon leader for the last year, and received high marks for his leadership during the ground invasion into West Virginia. A tour as a dog-robber to a gen-eral was a solid ticket punched for an officer with a promising career, and Johnson had jumped at the chance.The side door to the chopper opened, and a crew chief in an olive-drab flight suit stepped out, then reached in to help out the passengers.Next out was Tom’s niece, Valerie. Tom almost stumbled when he saw her—she’d always been thin, but now she looked emaciated, her clothes ill-fitting, hair tangled. She looked around, big eyes darting around like a hunted animal. Tom took her hand, walked her away from the chopper, then turned to hug her.She held on like he was a lifeline, and he was shocked by how much she had shrunk. She couldn’t possibly weigh more than a hundred pounds.Lieutenant Johnson approached behind her with the new Gover-nor, Al Clark. Clark didn’t look much better than Valerie, though at least he seemed well-fed. Tom released his niece, then held out his hand. Clark gripped it.“Welcome,” Tom said to the man. “Let’s get inside out of the cold.”Clark nodded, and the four of them entered the building again.“We’re right in here, sir, ma’am,” said Lieutenant Johnson, leading the other three to a small sitting room. “Can I get you coffee? Tea?”Valerie and Clark both asked for coffee, and Johnson quickly ex-ited the room.Tom sat down in one of the chairs and waved for them to sit as well. He studied them for a moment. Both of them pale, none too healthy. Looking at Valerie, he realized that she’d shrunk in more ways than one—her eyes kept darting around the room, nervous, and he hands lay flat against her skirt. Overall she gave the impres-sion that at any moment she might get up and run. None of the confidence he’d learned to expect from her was evident.“Have you been treated well?” Tom asked.She shrugged.Clark spoke. “As well as could be supposed,” Clark replied.  “We’ve both been in solitary confinement for most of the last three months. To be honest with you, it’s a little overwhelming right now.”Tom nodded. “I understand, I think. I appreciate you agreeing to come in on the chopper. I sent it as soon as I learned you were being released.”Valerie said, “Thank you. I don’t know where I would have gone if you hadn’t sent it. I don’t even know what happened to my apartment, my things.”“I hope I can relieve you on that score at least,” Tom said. “Your Dad asked me to take care of that—your rent was taken care of, and the lease closed out.  All your things are here in Charleston. For now, at least, you’ve got a room here at the governor’s mansion, until you find a place to live.”She nodded. “Thank you.”Clark spoke. “Tell me a little more about the situation, General.”Tom sighed. His concern for Valerie, and his desire to make this a personal reunion, was outweighed by duty and the need to brief them on what had been happening in the state. But he didn’t have to like it. He started to reply, and was interrupted by the return of Lieutenant Johnson, bearing a tray with a coffee pot.Johnson placed the tray on the small table between them, then smoothly poured three cups of coffee. “I’m afraid we don’t have any actual cream here,” he said, “but we do have some of the powdered stuff.  I’ll check with the house staff on getting that corrected.”“Thank you, Lieutenant,” Tom said.Valerie sat with her hands cradled around the mug, absorbing the warmth, and breathed in the steam from the coffee, savoring it.“Well,” Tom said. “Here’s the situation. I know the two of you were arrested the day hostilities began, so I’ll walk you through it. Essentially, we had a three day ground-war here. The state National Guard put up a ferocious fight, but they were simply overwhelmed. On the third day, Governor Slagter shot himself, and I accepted your father’s surrender, Valerie.”Her face jerked up. “Personally?”Tom nodded, very slow. “Yes. I didn’t think—well, let’s just say I thought it would be best all around if it were he and I.  He was taken into custody, and I suppose you know by now the results of that.”Tom blinked his eyes as they watered involuntarily. The others were wiped out of his vision momentarily, as a vision of his brother’s execution intruded. The brother who had been his friend, and his hero. He shook his head forcefully to clear his mind.“Valerie, for what it’s worth, I want you to know his last thoughts were of you. He…he asked me to look out for you, find out where you were being held and get you free. I’ve been doing everything I could to do just that.”She stared at him, obviously fighting to maintain some semblance of control.“Go on,” Clark said.“Once we formally accepted the surrender,” Tom said, “Most of the federal troops were pulled out. I was appointed military gover-nor, with a reinforced brigade all the military forces left. I’ve been working to get things back up and running ever since. I can’t even begin to tell you what a challenge it’s been. “I’ll be frank—West Virginia is bankrupt. Much of the state has gone through this winter with no power, minimal phone lines, no services. Schools are still closed in a lot of counties because there is no money to pay the teachers and staff, and no heat in the school buildings. The state police are only up to half the manning they should have, and that is shaky. The three National Guard brigades are currently in custody here in Charleston, but all of their officers have been discharged, so we’re not really in a position to put them to use any time soon.”Clark nodded, taking in the information. Tom only knew the former Congressman by reputation—the two had never met before now. He couldn’t help but wonder how the three months of impri-sonment had affected him. Would he be effective as governor? God only knew they needed a strong hand at the helm, but that hand had to be a civilian’s.“How is the economy?” Clark asked.“It’s a shamble,” Tom replied. “We’ve had considerably difficulty getting basic services back in the place, particularly power. Conse-quently, business is still slow, and jobs are scarce. It’s much worse in the cities—at least in the rural areas, people are more prepared to deal with long periods without work.  We’ve had riots in Charleston, and the mood is sometimes very ugly. Plus, half the legislature is still absorbed in the whole independence issue.  It took me two months before I could even get a quorum to meet in the State House. As I’m sure you can imagine, the first order of business was to elect a new governor: the last thing I want is a long-standing military governor. You got stuck with the job.”Clark responded. “That must have created some difficulty in Washington.”Tom smiled wryly. “You could say that. There were howls from the Justice Department and Homeland Security in particularly. The media has been reporting dutifully every day on the absence of any charges pressed against the two of you. That’s one of the reason I flew you out here in a military transport—if you’d flown commer-cial, you’d have never made it through the cordon of reporters.”“I can only imagine,” said Clark.“So, that’s the situation.  To the extent we can, we’ve been run-ning relief supplies all over the state. Food, water, generators. And that brings us to this morning. One of my supply columns was at-tacked by some locals claiming to be militia. They managed to make off with both weapons and supplies, and shot down to helicopters. I don’t know where they got surface-to-air missiles, but they have them.”“Dear Lord,” Clark said.  “Do you know who they are? Where did it happen?”“No idea who they are. It happened in Whitesville—that’s in Boone County, not too far south of here, on the Coal River. It begs the question whether we’re at risk of looking at a wider insurgency, or is this just some disgruntled locals. I don’t know the answer to that.”He watched Clark to gauge his reaction. He knew Clark had voted against the independence referendum last fall. At the same time, the then Congressman had returned to Charleston to accept the position of Secretary of State in the briefly independent West Virginia. Where did his loyalties lie?Clark nodded, face betraying nothing. “Who is investigating?”“My provost marshal. You’ll meet him later on. Unfortunately, we’ve got some serious gaps in the state police and military depart-ment, and frankly, I don’t trust the acting Secretary.”“Who is that?”“Asa Hatfield.  Do you know him?”Clark shook his head. “We’ve met once or twice, that’s it. I don’t even know which way he went on independence.”“Nobody does—he plays his cards close to the vest. If you’re up to recommendations from me, that’s one of my first ones. You need someone you can trust in that job, and I don’t think he’s it.”“I’ll have to think about it,” Clark said. “If I remember correctly, Hatfield’s brother was Logan County Sheriff, one of the brigade commanders in the Guard. Any idea what happened to him?”“Captured. He’s in Kansas, awaiting his court-martial.”“That can’t make the brother happy.”“No, it certainly doesn’t. He’s one you want to keep an eye on.”A pause in the conversation; then Clark spoke again. “All right, what happens next?”Tom replied. “This afternoon, the Chief Justice of the State Su-preme Court will swear you in as Governor. At the same time, I’ll formally step down as military governor of West Virginia. I’ll retain my status as an advisor and overall commander of the military here.  I’ve called for a cabinet meeting immediately after, so you can meet your department heads. From there—it’s up to you. I’ll advise you, and offer all the resources I can. The bottom line is, we’ve got to get this state up and running again, and quickly. As bad as things are, I’m very worried they could worse. We’re in a race against time.”As he spoke, Tom watched Valerie. Her face was closed, expres-sionless, and the more he watched her, the more uncomfortable he became.“For now, I’ll ask Lieutenant Johnson to show you to your rooms so you can get cleaned up. I’m going to put him at your disposal for the next couple of days if you need anything at all.”“Thank you, General.”Tom stood.  “Governor—we’ve never known each other, but I know you were friends with my brother. I’d be honored if you’d just call me Tom.”Clark smiled. “Tom, then. Thank you.”Valerie stood without a word, and Lieutenant Johnson said, “If you’ll come this way, I’ll show where you are staying.”The two started to follow the young Lieutenant; then Valerie stopped. She turned toward Tom, her face showing the first expres-sion he’d seen—grief etched in every line.“Tommy—you were the only person my Dad listened to. Why couldn’t you stop him?”Tom took a step back, the question a slap in the face. The half-smile slipped into a grimace. “Valerie—I don’t think anyone could have talked to Ken about this. I tried. He was determined.”“I know,” she whispered.Tom Murphy was ten years younger than his brother had been, only ten years older than his niece. Looking at her now, she seemed like the kid he’d known twenty years ago—composed, serious, but fragile. In three years she’d lost her entire family: brother and father just in the last six months. Was it any wonder than she was reeling?“Valerie, I can never replace your Dad, but—if you ever need someone to talk to, you know where to find me. I promised him I’d do whatever I could to take care of you.”She shrugged. “Sure. Whatever.” Then she turned away.Copyright © 2008 Charles Sheehan-Miles, All rights reserved.

Technorati: Insurgent|

http://miles.activecharity.org/blogid/3001 charles@sheehanmiles.net () Wed, 16 Jan 2008 08:54:01 EST Republic Podcast updated Just a quick note to let folks know that the latest episode of Republic (episode 20) is now online. You can check it out at <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/Republic_A_Novel">feedburner.</a>

Technorati: Republic| podcast|

http://miles.activecharity.org/blogid/2996 charles@sheehanmiles.net () Sat, 12 Jan 2008 10:13:07 EST Insurgent: Chapter Two The story begins three months after the close of Republic. SPOILER ALERT -- If you haven't read Republic yet, you might want to wait before reading these entries. A number of events that wrapped up the conclusion of the book are referenced in the early chapters of this one. If you want to read Republic now, you can pick it up at <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0979411424?tag=sheehanmiles-20&camp=14573&creative=327641&linkCode=as1&creativeASIN=0979411408&adid=0EJBSMJ2GD9M5E0FAS55&" target="_blank">Amazon</a>, <a href="/blogid/2970">download the ebook or listen to the podcast</a>.The draft versions of this story as posted here on the site are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Please let folks know about it, and feel free to send people the link, but I'll be changing/editing/correcting here as I go along and therefore it's best not to actually forward the text. Again, this is first draft stuff: if you read it, please drop me a line with feedback. Thanks. Send feedback to charles [at] sheehanmiles.net<a href="/blogid/2983">Click here to read Chapter One</a>. Chapter TwoShe no longer knew how long she had been in the cell.It was a tiny cage, not much bigger than the bathroom she’d had in the apartment that she could barely remember, but this was noth-ing like that bathroom. In fact, it was nothing like anything she’d ever imagined, even in her darkest nightmares.The dark steel walls were only slightly illuminated by the single fluorescent bulb that occupied a steel cage in the center of the ceil-ing. The walls were steel and the floor bare polished concrete, with a steel shelf covered with a thin mattress bolted to the wall. Next to the shelf, a one-piece seat less toilet and sink. A camera, built into the angle where one corner met the ceiling, encased in steel, offered no privacy. In the wall opposite the toilet, a thick door with a slot, which occasionally admitted food.For the first few days she’d raged, cajoled, begged, whenever that slot opened. When would we she be allowed to see a lawyer? To call someone? What was happening outside? Would anyone talk to her?No answers came through the tiny slot.In the morning—at least she assumed it was morning, because the light in the ceiling turned on—she would strip out of the prison-ers jumpsuit and wash herself in the sink above the toilet. Shivering with cold, she palmed the water off her body, then dressed. And waited.The toilet presented a particularly difficult problem. She was an inherently private person. The idea of using that filthy device to see to her needs, all under the watchful eyes of that camera made her want to vomit. She tried different arrangements with the prison jumpsuit to retain some privacy, some shred of dignity, but in the end there seemed to be little she could do. In the end, waiting for so long to void her bladder caused her so much pain she had no choice but to give in.Bastards.She’d never been charged with a crime. She’d never even been told why she was being held, though that was easy enough to deduce. No one asked any questions. They were tearing her apart without even the courtesy of telling her anything. Sometime in the second week, she started counting the fasteners in the steel walls. Each wall had two rows of bolts, extending from floor to ceiling, with a notch-less round bolt spaced every six inches, fifteen bolts per row. She crouched down beside the slot in the door, and waited for it to open, just to get a glimpse of what was outside.There was nothing.She begged for something—anything—to read. Finally, sometime during her third week in the tiny cell, something followed the food tray into the room and thumped to the floor. A book!She pounced on the tiny book. It was a Bible.She was not religious. Other than the occasional wedding or fu-neral, she’d barely ever entered a church in her life. Growing up, her father and mother had never discussed religion much: when they had, it was to share doubts and lack of understanding of religion. All the same, the book was salvation.She read it from the beginning. Her exposure to this volume had consisted of a single introduction to world religions class at Harvard, long ago. To her, people of the book were the crusaders. They were the inquisition, the Ku Klux Klan, the religious zealots who denied science and evolution and a woman’s right to her own body.All the same, the book was nothing more and nothing less than a lifeline, a life preserver. Because in the silence of empty days and absolute solitude, there was absolutely nothing else.Then one day she heard her father’s voice. It was clear as day, his gravelly, slightly southern voice.He said, “I’m sorry, kiddo.”She wept.The next night, as she lay in the absolute darkness and silence, she called out to him, again and again. Not only to her father, but to her long dead mother, to her old life.No one answered.Occasionally, she would hear noises. The sound of footsteps out-side the cell door, or a cry in the night. But all too often, there was nothing at all. By her sixth week of isolation, she would sit for hours, eyes unfocused, mouth slack, unable to remember her father’s name, or where she had gone to school, or anything before the cell the comprised her entire reality, and the book that she now read three times all the way through.Sometimes, when she sat unfocused and staring, she could feel the floor vibrate. Not an earthquake vibration—she’d been through that a few times when visiting California during the life she could barely remember before the cell. No, this was more like the vibration of a heavy truck passing a building. But there was no sound. Noth-ing to hint at the cause of the occasional vibration.Heat came into the cell by way of a one-inch wide grate in the ceiling. Sometimes the hissing sound of the air forcing itself into the cell was so loud she couldn’t sleep. It sounded like the aspiration of a dying man, constricted; and false in a way that she couldn’t pin down.One night she screamed and couldn’t stop. She tore the mattress off the shelf, convinced that underneath it she would find snakes. There was nothing.There was always nothing.She stopped washing herself in the mornings. She slept until she awoke, then often fell asleep again moments later. Days and nights ran together, her thoughts dwelling on the book and its words of plagues and murder and death, its words of love and fear and rage. Sometimes she stared at the veins in her wrist, and tried to figure out how slice them open. Maybe then someone would take her out of the room.She ate little, though the meals continued to arrive in the slot. Her jumpsuit seemed bigger than it should, but she couldn’t remember how well it had fit the first time she put it on.Then one day something else came through the slot, something so miraculous and frightening that she simply stared at it, her entire body shaking, in fear that it would disappear like the mirages of her father and mother.It was a folded sheet from a newspaper.Trembling, she approached it and snatched it away from the door. She unfolded it, her eyes slowly coming into focus on the photo-graph of her father. She remembered the photo—it had been taken when he’d testified in Congress—last year? Last century? She didn’t know when, because time no longer had any meaning. But the head-line did. Her eyes took in the words, but her brain would not accept it. Her heart could not accept it.Finally, the meaning of the scrambled words came clear. Her fa-ther had been convicted of treason. She began to scream, and threw herself at the door until she was bloody.  *** The day after the offending headline was shoved through the slot, she lay in wait. Eventually the slot would open, and the tray would be shoved through, and she would be ready.She heard the steps first, and the jangle of keys. Finally, the foot-steps came to a halt outside her cell, followed by a clanging sound, and with a rasp the slot slid open.“Please,” she said through the slot. “I have to talk to somebody. Anybody.”The first human voice she heard in weeks responded.“Shut up in there.” *** The clank of the outside door down the hall woke up Valerie Murphy. She still lay flat on what passed for a bed, staring up at the dirty ceiling. She could hear two sets of footsteps. That was unusual. The first was familiar—a guard. A jangle of keys, he walked with a slow limp. She didn’t know which side. She had only heard him—never seen her guard. In three months, the door had never been opened, other than to pass in food through the slot.The second set of footsteps were harder to make out. Sounded like somebody walking in slippers or barefoot. But it was clear enough. After three months her sense of hearing had become acute. At any given time, she could make out the creaks of the building, people walking around in the halls, even, sometimes, traffic, although she didn’t know where she was located.The steps got closer, and so she stood. She didn’t know why—they’d never come through the door before. All the same, she stood, tried to arrange her matted, filthy hair. It was too unusual. They were coming only two hours after a meal, and this time there were two of them. What could it mean? A moment later, a loud buzz, and the door opened.She stared. Her guard, who she had heard day after day, who de-livered meals to her, rarely ever spoke a word. He was short, fat, ugly. Pretty much what she’d expected. He wore a grey uniform, with a US Department of Justice patch on his shoulder. There was a laugh.Beside him stood someone totally unexpected: wearing nothing but prison overalls just as she was, stood Al Clark. Al didn’t look so hot either. His hair had grown long, hanging dirty near his shoulders. She looked at him, almost thinking that it was a hallucination. She wondered if, in her months of isolation, she’d become deranged.“Al?”“Valerie. It’s me.”Her eyes watered, and she reached for him. They embraced. But the touch of another human being was too intense. She backed off quickly.“All right there, come on,” the guard said. Not friendly.“Where are we going?”The officer didn’t answer, but Clark spoke.“We’re getting you out of here, Valerie.”She couldn’t quite place the words. Getting her out of here. What did that mean? Did it mean they were going to release her? Release her for what? She didn’t know. She’d been totally isolated.The guard walked away, and they followed.Down the hall, the guard opened another set of locked doors. At the end of the hall stood a man and a woman, both in dark suits. The woman, unusually short, contrasted with the tall, blonde, athletic man next to her. “Ms. Murphy, come in here please.”The woman indicated the room to the left.Valerie looked in. Like the rest of the prison, it was grey, with a grey table, colorless floor, cracked ceiling. But this room was differ-ent: it had a window.She stepped in, disbelieving, and without hesitation walked straight to the window and looked outside. She was stunned by what she saw, because she recognized it. Outside, below, was a crowded street, heavy with traffic. Stores, pedestrians.My God. She was still in Washington. This was the FBI headquar-ters. She couldn’t be anywhere else. Why in God’s name had she been held here all this time? She had no idea the FBI even had these kinds of isolation cells in the their headquarters. She turned back and looked.Clark still stood. So did the other two.“What is this?” she asked.“Please have a seat ma’am,” said the man in the suit. Ma’am, she thought. No one had spoken to her politely in a long time. She sat, then carefully folded her hands in her lap and waited.“My name is Richard Higgins. I’m a special prosecutor with the Department of Justice. This is my assistant.”“Mr. Higgins, what can I do for you?”“ Last months I was given the task of investigating the charges of terrorism against you. You’ll be happy to hear that you’ve been cleared. There won’t be any grand jury, any trial. I expect that within the hour you will be free to go.”Valerie was afraid to respond.“However, we need to talk to you about a couple of things first.”“What are those things?”The prosecutor and his assistant looked at each other for a mo-ment, then at Clark. “We’re prepared to release you with no charges filed, nothing on your record, provided you remain silent about any-thing that has occurred since you’ve been here.”She shrugged. “What has occurred? I haven’t seen another hu-man being in—I don’t know how long.”“Three months and nineteen days, ma’am.”Good god. One hundred and nine days.“And why should I stay silent about what essentially was the silent treatment?”“That’s the deal. You must agree to that if you want to go for-ward.”Valerie sat back and looked at Clark. “What aren’t they telling me?”Clark looked at her. “I have no idea. They only came to get me in my cell about an hour ago. There is one bit of news they didn’t share. It seems that sometime in the last week--well, according to them, Governor Slagter killed himself back in January. He shot him-self in January, but he didn’t die until six weeks later. Otherwise, we might have been here before now.”“ I don’t understand what that has to do with me.”Higgins, the prosecutor, spoke. “It seems that some pressure has been brought to bear—I don’t know who, someone from the mili-tary had been pushing to have you released. I’ve been trying to complete my investigation as quickly as possible so you wouldn’t be held any longer than necessary. That’s the first issue. The second is that under West Virginia’s constitution, the legislature is free to ap-point the governor of their choice should the governor die. That governor is Mr. Clark here.”Stunned, Valerie looked at Clark.“You’re kidding me.”“Apparently not. I don’t really know any more than you do about this, Valerie, but that’s what they’ve told me.”“So you’re going to go from being prisoner to being governor.”“It could be worse.”She smiled a bitter smile. “It certainly could. Why should I sign this piece of paper?”“Because I need you Valerie. I need you to come with me. I can’t do this alone.”“What about my father?”Clark looked over at the prosecutor. Higgins squirmed and his face darkened a little. “I’m not sure—” He trailed off without finish-ing.Clark interrupted. “What aren’t you sure about?”“I’m not sure I’m the person who should deliver this news.”Valerie’s eyes watered, and she said, “Whatever news you have, it can’t be any worse than what I’m afraid of, so you might as well just tell me.”“All right. General Murphy was tried for treason, and executed.”She gasped. “But it’s only been three months. What about the ap-peals?”“I’m afraid that process went very quickly, ma’am. As I under-stood it, the General waived his right to an appeal. Again, he was executed, just a few days ago. I’m very sorry to give this news to you.”Valerie closed her eyes. Her father was dead. She saw his face as she had last seen him, right before Christmas. Smiling a bitter smile, knowing that at any moment the fighting might begin. He’d already been dead by then; he just didn’t know it.“How?” she asked.“What do you mean?”“How was he executed?”The prosecutor looked even more uncomfortable. “By lethal in-jection, ma’am. My understanding is that it was very quick. He probably didn’t feel anything.”Abruptly, Valerie lurched out her seat, and vomited the contents of her breakfast on the floor, leaving an acrid, stinking smell in the room. Clark reached for her, but she jerked away. She didn’t want to be touched. Her father was dead, and there was absolutely nothing she could do about it.“And what if I say no? That I won’t sign your paper.”Higgins looked at his assistant, his face disturbed, and said, “We’ll continue to hold you indefinitely. As you know, West Virginia is in a state of insurrection. Accordingly, President Price suspended habeas corpus for all residents of the state effective January 1. If you don’t agree to remain silent, we’ll make sure you never have the opportu-nity to talk. Higgins paused, distaste for his task clear on his face. “I never said that, but it’s the bottom line.”“Valerie,” Clark said. “Come with me. There’s still good we can do. You can’t make a decision like that—not after just hearing about your father. You’re going to need time.”She looked at him, then said, “Time for what? I’ve known for three months that he was a dead man. It was just a question of when and how. I just wish he had died in combat. He would have been happy then.”Clark closed his eyes and said, “I understand.”“All right then. Where do I sign?”Higgins opened his briefcase, and passed across a sheet of paper.She scanned the lines. They were very simple, waiving her right to sue the government for her imprisonment. Who cares? After all, what would be the point?She signed.“Let’s get out of here.” Copyright © 2008 Charles Sheehan-Miles, All rights reserved.

Technorati: Insurgent|

http://miles.activecharity.org/blogid/2995 charles@sheehanmiles.net () Fri, 11 Jan 2008 05:44:49 EST Will Chelsea Clinton end up as dictator of the United States Ok, bear with me. In 1988, George H.W. Bush was elected President of the United States. 20 years later, and we’ve had either a Bush or a Clinton in office. What happens if Hilary Clinton gets elected following her victory in the New Hampshire primary? Imagine 28 years. An entire generation, with nothing but Clintons and Bush’s as President. If Jeb Bush became President after that, they’ve have it clinched. America’s two royal families. 36 years later, Dictator for Life Chelsea would waft into office. <img src="/files/miles/chelsea29107_wideweb__470x390,0.jpg" />

Technorati: politics| New Hampshire primary| dictator for life|

http://miles.activecharity.org/blogid/2991 charles@sheehanmiles.net () Thu, 10 Jan 2008 09:13:32 EST Insurgent -- Chapter One Some time ago I blogged that I was planning to blog the sequel to Republic here on the site, as I wrote it. Of course, that means you're getting the ugliness of it all here on the blog -- including the stuff I'll be changing, correcting, whatever. That's okay with me, provided I get feedback. That's the deal -- if you read it, drop me a line.The story begins three months after the close of Republic. SPOILER ALERT -- If you haven't read Republic yet, you might want to wait before reading these entries. A number of events that wrapped up the conclusion of the book are referenced in the early chapters of this one. If you want to read Republic now, you can pick it up at <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0979411424?tag=sheehanmiles-20&camp=14573&creative=327641&linkCode=as1&creativeASIN=0979411408&adid=0EJBSMJ2GD9M5E0FAS55&" target="_blank">Amazon</a>, <a href="/blogid/2970">download the ebook or listen to the podcast</a>.The draft versions of this story as posted here on the site are copyrighted and all rights are reserved. Please let folks know about it, and feel free to send people the link, but I'll be changing/editing/correcting here as I go along and therefore it's best not to actually forward the text.Thanks. Send feedback to charles [at] sheehanmiles.net  <h2>INSURGENT</h2><h3>CHAPTER ONE</h3>Lieutenant Jonathan Blake leaned against the door of his humvee, eyes vacant, staring out at the pristine snow as the convoy slowly drifted forward. Two feet deep mostly, unplowed, some of the snowdrifts were three or four times that height. The twisting, road was framed between heavy woods and mountains that seemed to lean over the road on either side. Blake had dark circles under his eyes, and those circles had their own dark circles. Like the rest of his platoon, his uniform was filthy, the computer-generated camouflage pattern nearly indistinguishable after weeks of hard use. He’d sewn the tear in the crotch a couple weeks ago, but that repair job was beginning to give out—as was his patience.For weeks, nonstop, he’d been rolling with his platoon from town to town, back to the depot, back to the towns. Delivering supplies, trying to build up electricity, trying to rebuild… everything.Today’s mission was no different: another tiny one-light (if that many) town in the middle of fucking nowhere, at the end of a long, winding mountain road. Power and phones knocked out—presumably by the snow and ice. He’d never seen so much snow in his life, and every time he left the camp he asked himself the same question: why the hell did I ever leave Florida?That was one question he had to keep to himself. Though his sense of the ridiculous had often gotten him into trouble in college and infantry training, he’d only once made the mistake of making a smart-ass comment in the hearing of Captain Wellstone, the new company commander. Wellstone apparently didn’t think new Lieu-tenants were worthy of having a sense of humor.Nor had Wellstone done a very good job of reintegrating the re-placements with the folks who’d gone through the brief war three months earlier. Blake’s predecessor, his platoon sergeant and half-a-dozen other members of his platoon were all killed in January; even more were injured. More than half of the faces in his platoon were fresh replacements, most of them straight from Fort Benning’s in-fantry training center. Whenever they had a few days of rest back at Camp Wingham, the tension in the barracks was palpable between the combat veterans and the replacements. Blake had wracked his brain trying to work out a solution to that problem, but with no luck. After all, he was a replacement himself. His predecessor, Lieutenant Dale Wingham, had been blown away by a sniper.Blake looked over to his left. Behind the wheel of the humvee sat Specialist Jim Turville.Turville had only been back with the unit for a week: he’d been shot through the throat and spent two months at Walter Reed Army Hospital in Washington. He seemed to be okay now, but he was moving pretty slow, and he probably shouldn’t have been out on this mission if they weren’t so shorthanded. They moved slowly, tires moving through the soft, heavy snow. Four times now they’d had to dig the column out, when they’d got-ten buried in drifts too big to drive over even with the huge tires of the humvees. Turville looked bored as he stared out, but alert, as his eyes darted from place to place.“You feeling all right, Turville?”“Yes, sir. My throat’s still a little achy, but I’ll make it.”“All right. Just don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”“No problem with that, sir. I’d just as soon stay right here warm in the truck.”’Lieutenant Blake smiled. According to the platoon’s non-commissioned officers, Turville had been in continual trouble for the first six months of his tenure in the Army. Then, out of the blue, he’d shown remarkable heroismin combat. During the murderous fire when their unit had been ambushed, he’d run out into the open to rescue their wounded platoon sergeant. The move diverted fire from the rest of his platoon, allowing them to run to safety.The sergeant was killed anyway, and Turville was shot in the throat. The bullet not only missed the artery, but also missed crush-ing his windpipe; then bruised one of the vertebrae and passed out the side of his neck. Luckily it had been freezing cold then—just like it was now. The cold had served to slow the escape of blood, so in-stead of bleeding to death, he’d half frozen instead.Turville didn’t know, but their former company commander had filed an award recommendation for the Silver Star. He wouldn’t get it: they’d probably downgrade it to a Bronze Star or Soldier’s Medal or something of the like. Standard operating procedure was to sub-mit an award for a much higher level than was expected, because everybody knew that each grade in the chain of command would knock it down one level. All that aside, Turville’s miraculous survival had turned him into something of a good luck charm for the platoon. And, given the ex-treme shortage of decent replacements, that meant that he was getting his own fire team—like it or not.Turville said, “Sir, I think I see somebody over there.”“In this snow? Where?”“Look right there, sir.”Blake looked. Two hundred meters ahead of them, standing to the side of the road, stood a man in mostly white, baggy, hunting gear, rifle slung over his shoulder. The manwaved at the convoy. “Flash the lights at him and honk the horn, let him know we’re coming.”“Yes, sir.” Turville flashed the headlights. As they approached the man, Blake got a better look. He was gaunt; dark circles under his eyes, beard overgrown and filthy. Deep-set eyes stared out at the ap-proaching convoy.A moment later they pulled to the side of the road next to the man. Lieutenant Blake leaned out.“You need a ride somewhere?”The man grinned, his teeth gleaming inside his heavy beard.“Oh, no. I don’t need a ride. It’s you who’s gonna need a ride.”Blake recoiled a little. “What the hell?”As he cursed, he saw the men. At least twenty stepped out of the woods, most of them armed with automatic rifles. All of them wore various patterns of camouflage, hunting clothes, anything not bright colored, anything to blend in with the woods. They all had beards, looked haggard and weak, as if they’d been living in the woods even through this hard winter.“Lieutenant, put your hands in the air. You too, over there, driver.”Turville didn’t hesitate. He raised his hands, his face impassive.Blake said, “I don’t know what this is—”“Shut up. Get out of the vehicle. We’re commandeering this col-umn for the West Virginia National Guard.”“The West Virginia National Guard? I don’t think so—the Na-tional Guard is under Federal authority now.”The man smirked.“Oh. Is that so? Well, in that case, I guess I’m jes confiscatin’ it for me. I’m the head of the local militia.”Blake looked back and forth. Turville’s hands were in the air—he wasn’t going to offer any resistance. They only had eight men on this convoy. There was no escort. The trucks were loaded with supplies: water, generators. Well, this may be one of those times when discre-tion is the better part of valor. “Look, can I just call in, so you guys can get away, and I won’t have to walk all the way to Charleston?”“Well, the way I see it, you got two options. You can walk into Whitesville. It’ll take you about two hours, and you can call in from there. Or, I could just shoot you dead right here, and then I won’t have to worry about nobody coming after me. Understand?”The lieutenant nodded. Discretion was definitely the better part of valor in this case. Very slowly he raised his hands.One of the men opened the door of the humvee. Blake looked back at the other vehicles in the column. The two men in the other humvee had been disarmed just as easily, as had the truck drivers.“Got any weapons?”“Just what you see.”Briskly, the men patted him down, confiscated his M-16 and the forty-five caliber pistol at his belt. He also had two hand grenades in a pouch. They grabbed those too. Not good.“Check ’em for phones.”The search revealed his mobile phone—they took one from Tur-ville as well. After the search was completed, the men got into the trucks, waved with a grin, and drove away into the snow.The eight soldiers stood in a loose circle, seven of them looking to Blake for a solution. One he didn’t have. Blake said, “All right, gentlemen, looks like we’re going for a walk. We’re screwed, but we might as well be warm while we’re at it. Whitesville is four miles that way.” He pointed down the snow-covered road. “Let’s move out.”“Uh, sir,” Turville said.“What is it?” Blake asked, expecting a complaint, or at the very least some criticism.“Do you think the Army will reimburse me for my phone?”For some reason—probably inappropriate—the question struck Blake as hysterically funny. He let loose a loud belly laugh as he turned toward the town.“Why not, Turville? What’s a few hand grenades and automatic rifles, next to your missing cell phone?” *** “General, we just got a call from Second Brigade. Seems that one of our relief patrols was ambushed in Boone County.”Brigadier General Tommy Murphy looked up from the report he’d been reading. “Ambushed?”“Well, they were accosted by a group of thirty men, calling them-selves the West Virginia militia. They were relieved of their weapons and trucks, as well as the relief supplies.”Tommy sat back, his face puzzled. “Let’s go down to the opera-tions center.”As he stood his phone rang, and he called out, “Marissa, hold my calls.”“But, sir; it’s General Wells.”“Shit. Hold on.”He picked up the phone. “General Murphy speaking, sir.”“Tommy, its Howard. I have good news for you.”“Yes sir?”“We’ve located your niece, and had a discussion with Homeland Security. They’re releasing her today.”“Thank God. Is there any way I can reach her?”“I don’t know anything about that. All they said was they prom-ised to release her, and Al Clark.”“Good, we need him. Things are starting to get a little crazy here.”“I understand that. How are things going?”“I was just heading down to the operations center to check, sir. Apparently one of our relief patrols was set upon by a group of armed men. They were relieved of all of their equipment. I don’t know any details yet, sir, I’ll let you know as soon as I find out.”“Relieved of their equipment? What does that mean?”“Again, sir, I don’t have any details yet. I’ll get them know, and will get back to you with a report.”“You’d better get back with me soon, Tommy.”“Yes, sir.”Tom turned back to the Colonel and said, “Let’s go.”Briskly, they walked to the operations center. It was a large room in what used to be the governor’s mansion. Inside, folding tables had been pulled together in two rows with laptops. The operations offi-cer sat at the end.“Attention!” called the operations officer as Tom entered the room.“As you were,” Tom said. “What’s going on?”“Sir, we received a call from one of the platoon leaders in 2/16 Infantry. Our relief convoy into Boone County was set upon by more than thirty well-armed men, about two hours ago. They had to walk into Whitesville before they could call in.”“Anybody hurt?”“No, sir. But the thieves took both humvees, as well as their weapons. They also go two trucks, and all their supplies.”“What kind of weapons did they have?”“They had four M16s, a forty-five pistol. Half a dozen hand gre-nades. Gas masks.”“Humvees weren’t armed?”“No, sir, they weren’t expecting any opposition.”“Christ.”Colonel Todd looked at him and said, “You know what that re-minds me of?”“Yeah, you don’t need to tell me what it reminds you of.”They looked at each other, thinking of the three months after the fall of Baghdad, when everything had seemed quiet. Then all of the sudden, the insurgency appeared. Tom had been afraid of that here. He’d been operating as military governor for three months. An un-happy situation to say the least, but he’d finally managed to convene the legislature three weeks before.Of course it figured that when they finally met, the legislature elected as their governor a man who was currently imprisoned.Tom had argued with them long and hard to get them to reverse their decision, but they held firm. Finally, he had to go and lobby to try to get Clark released. Of course, he knew Clark hadn’t done any-thing wrong. Clark and Valerie Murphy, Tom’s niece, had both been in Washington trying to negotiate a peaceful settlement to the war when they’d been arrested. All the same, it took all his resources to try to get her released, along with now-governor Clark.“All right. I want to pull the battalion commanders together. We’re going to have to come up with some new procedures. All of our convoys are going to have to go escorted.”“Yes, sir.”“We’ve also got those three national guard battalions. I want them put back on duty; minus their weapons.”“Sir?”“Look, whoever set this up must have known there was a convoy on the way. They were well prepared, just sitting out there waiting for us. That means somebody gave them the information.”“Sir, my understanding is that this particular convoy went out be-cause the phone and power lines had gone down, possibly because of the storm.”“Maybe they cut the lines. How the hell did the platoon call in if the lines were down?”“Local sheriff, sir. Satellite phone.”“All, right. Looks like we’re going to have to do some investiga-tion. Who’s on their way out there?”“A platoon from 28th MPs, sir. We sent two choppers as well, and they’re heavily armed.”“All right, give me a report back.”“Yes, sir.”Tom turned around and walked back to his office.“Marissa.”“Yes, sir.”“My understanding is that the Department of Homeland Security is releasing two prisoners today—Al Clark and Valerie Murphy.”“That’s your niece, sir?”“That’s right. Find out where they are. I want to talk to them as soon as possible. Clark is taking over as governor here, so we can provide official transportation for him. I want to send a chopper to Washington to pick him up.” *** In Whitesville, the sun was just setting behind the ridgeline, leav-ing the woods above the town in darkness.Not much of a town, even when Turville had the other really ex-citing locales in West Virginia to compare it to. Right here in…downtown… half-a-dozen or so businesses stretched on both sides of the narrow road. Drug store, car-wash, hardware store. Hardly any traffic: they’d seen four moving vehicles in the last three hours, all of them trucks or SUV’s, all of them obviously built for this kind of nasty weather and terrain.At least the town itself had been plowed—most likely by the resi-dents, given that there wasn’t much of a functioning county or state government. There was still no power or operating phone lines. The LT had borrowed a satellite phone from a county deputy in order to call into headquarters. Turville leaned against the outside of the drug store, where he stood with Tillman and Santiago. Across the street Corporal Meigs stood with Turville’s old fire team. Turville’s old slot had been filled by Private Matt Rodriguez. A relief—Meigs and Turville had never gotten along.“Hey, hey, lookie here,” muttered Santiago, inclining his head down the street. Turville glanced in that direction. Two girls were walking toward them, both of them bundled up in heavy coats and wearing snow boots. A wisp of dark hair had escaped the hood of the girl on the left.“Knock it off, Santiago,” Turville said. “We’re not supposed to bother the natives.”“Yeah, whatever.”Tillman, another rifleman right out of basic, said, “Hey, do you hear that?”Turville listened. He could just barely hear the fluttering of heli-copter blades.“Yeah. They’re coming.”“It’s ’bout goddamn time,” said Santiago.Turville opened the door to the drug store and leaned inside. Lieutenant Blake was standing at the counter. “Sir, I hear a chopper,” Turville said. The lieutenant looked back at him, then walked to the door, wav-ing to the clerk in the store. “Good. All right, everybody up. They’ll be here shortly.”Turville looked around. The girls were about half a block away now as the men gathered together in front of the drug store. They were a mis-matched pair, one tall and blonde, the other short, bru-nette. The blonde wore dark mascara and a heavy pink winter goat, giving her eyes a sunken appearance inside the hood. The dark-haired girl had no makeup, and wore a navy pea-coat with a matching knit cap. Short-Girl and Tall-Girl.In the distance, Turville saw the twin dots in the sky. Helicopers, coming in low over the mountains. Short-Girl turned around and pointed at the approaching helicopters.They were older ones, Blackhawks, and the first one came in close over the town and started to descend. As the rotors flared, snow washed into the air from the street below. Turville heard a whoosh, and a streak of flame lifted off from the woods, followed by another.Two more streams of smoke appeared from the woods on the opposite side of the town. Turville shouted, “They’re firing at the helicopters. Get down! Get down!” He ran for the two girls, shouting. Tall-Girl screamed, and Turville hauled them both to the ground.A moment later, both helicopters exploded, then crashed into the street, spewing fire and metal parts all over the place. Both of the girls screamed now.Turville looked Short-Girl in the eyes and grasped her arm. “Get inside, now.”She nodded, obviously frightened, but grabbed her friend by the arm and hauled her toward the drug store entrance. Good.The eight men in the two fire-teams had instinctively scattered around the intersection, taking cover behind various vehicles.Turville ran toward the wreckage, but it was too hot to approach. Shit. No way anyone survived.At that moment he heard a pop, then another one. A dust of snow scattered at his feet, and a realized, Holy shit, they’re shooting at us!He looked around frantically, and then shouted, “L-T, somebody’s shooting at us.”“Come on!” he shouted at his team, then ran for the drug store. More shots followed as they ran.They ran into the building as quickly as they could. The LT was shouting into the satellite phone, “They’re shooting at us, I need backup now!”Santiago looked over at Turville and said, “We got to get the fuck out of here before those assholes come down here.”Turville said, “How? You know how to hotwire a car?”Short-Girl interrupted him. “You can take mine.”Turville looked at her. She’d taken her cap off, and her brown hair waved a little from the static. Her green eyes looked at him as she held out the keys.“You sure?”“Yeah. You probably saved us out there—least I can do. I’ll write down my number.” She did, then pointed to where her car was parked across the street, an old Ford F-150 truck. Turville glanced at the note—Rebecca Mays, 413-9845—then stuffed it in his pocket.“Sir,” Turville said, tapping the Lieutenant on the arm.“Yeah,” the LT replied, covering the phone handset with his hand.“I got us a car, let’s go.”The squad ran out of the building. Across the street, the truck was parked in a snowbank. Turville jumped into the drivers seat, the Lieutenant next to him. The rest of the men piled into the bed of the truck.“Get us out of here, Turville.”As if to punctuate the words, bullets slammed into the front of the truck.“Where the fuck is that shooting coming from?”“I don’t know. The treeline!”A moment later, the engine roared to life. Turville put the truck in gear, and they raced out of town. <a href="/blogid/2995">Click here to read Chapter Two. </a> Copyright © 2008 Charles Sheehan-Miles, All rights reserved.

Technorati: insurgent| draft| ambush|

http://miles.activecharity.org/blogid/2983 charles@sheehanmiles.net () Sat, 05 Jan 2008 21:32:58 EST Retrospect: New time travel story in this months FSF Wanted to post a quick note about an excellent and somewhat haunting story in the February edition of Fantasy and Science Fiction Magazine.  Ann Miller’s Retrospect was a real eye opener, especially for book lovers like me. The story centers around this question: <blockquote>If you could give a book, any book, to someone who had lived before, what book would you choose and to whom would you give it? </blockquote> A little bit haunting, and with a surprising (and funny) twist, it is well worth taking a look at.  You can pick it up and bookstores now, or get a downloadable version of the magazine at <a href="http://www.sfsite.com/fsf/" target="_blank">http://www.sfsite.com/fsf/</a>

Technorati: sci fi| time travel|

http://miles.activecharity.org/blogid/2981 charles@sheehanmiles.net () Sat, 05 Jan 2008 16:40:37 EST Children of Rhatlan Fellow Podiobooks author Jonathan Fesmire just sent an email that he is now also offering a free PDF of his novel, Children of Rhatlan.I haven't read it yet, though it is on my "to be listened to" list for when I drive to Washington, DC next week.  Here's a good quote about the book:<blockquote>"New concepts are a rare thing in fantasy literature. Settings are created. Characters are wrought from legend or from thin air. New mythologies are conjured up. Genuine inventions, though, are a unique treat. Fesmire's duals is definitely one of those inventions. And all of the previous short stories, and now this full-length novel are certainly a treat." </blockquote>Check it out here:  <a href="http://jfesmire.livejournal.com/83557.html">http://jfesmire.livejournal.com/83557.html</a>

Technorati: publishing| DRM| ebooks|

http://miles.activecharity.org/blogid/2976 charles@sheehanmiles.net () Thu, 03 Jan 2008 16:14:11 EST Will number of downloads translate into books sold? Yesterday morning I posted that starting with the first of the year, <a href="/blogid/2970">I’m giving away the ebook of Republic for free</a>.  The million dollar question is, will books downloaded translate into a ratio with books sold? Of course, it’s not an academic question. The evidence out there, with Baen publishing being the big example, is that giving away ebooks translates into longer term sales for the author.  What’s been particularly interesting about this is that I never expected the response the post has received so far. <a href="http://www.digg.com/arts_culture/Author_Gives_Away_E_Book_No_DRM" target="_blank"> 866 Diggs thus far,</a> and the link is at the top of the Lifestyle section of Digg.  Nice.  The blog entry got something in excess of 40,000 hits, and the ebook had more than ten thousand downloads by the time the server crashed last night. <a href="http://www.longtail.com/the_long_tail/2008/01/why-give-away-y.html" target="_blank">Chris Anderson over at The Long Tail has blogged about it (which is pretty cool) as have a few others.</a> I’ve since moved the ebooks to Mediafire to relieve some of the bandwidth pressure on my server, which is currently maxed out at 99%. Thus far, Amazon sales rank hasn’t budged from it’s normal, which averages anywhere from 60,000 to 130,000 (lower is better). As of this moment, it’s listed as #59,615 in books (out of roughly 3 million titles), and #36 on the Alternate History list.  Awesome, when you consider that this range includes writers like David Webber (#30), S.M. Stirling (#34), Newt Gingrich (#38), and Harry Turtledove  (#41). On the other hand, not that great, when that sales ranking actually translates into roughly 2 copies sold today, or $14 in revenue. Of course, the real test is not today, but next week, next month, and the next year.  Will people who downloaded the book for free then turn around and buy it?  Will they recommend it to friends?  Will they help me actually earn a living as a writer?   We shall see.  That is the experiment, isn’t it? Anyway, if you are reading Republic and enjoying it, you’ll be happy to hear that I’m well into the sequel, and still hope to have that completed this year.

http://miles.activecharity.org/blogid/2973 charles@sheehanmiles.net () Wed, 02 Jan 2008 11:24:49 EST New Years action: Giving away my book I've never been one for New Years resolutions.  Quit smoking? Yeah, right.  However, a New Years action I can deal with.  Here's the plan: starting today, I'm going to be giving away the ebook version of Republic for free.No more sample chapters, partial books that end in the middle, none of that. You can download and read the complete book. Share it with your friends, email it, do anything you want with it except sell it. Hope you enjoy the book and tell others. <table><tbody><tr valign="top"><td> Ebook Links:<a href="http://www.mediafire.com/?comxfgv3tty" target="_blank">Adobe Acrobat PDF </a><a href="http://www.mediafire.com/?0xeqz9y0xch" target="_blank">Mobipocket / Amazon Kindle</a><a href="/files/miles/republic.htm" target="_blank">HTML (Read online)</a><a href="http://www.mediafire.com/?5fjn4iubwny">RTF (Rich Text Format / MS Word)</a> </td><td> Podcast Links:<a href="http://www.itunes.com/podcast?id=255211085">Subscribe with iTunes</a><a href="http://www.podiobooks.com/title/republic">Podiobooks.com</a> <a href="http://feeds.feedburner.com/Republic_A_Novel">Feedburner</a>   </td></tr></tbody></table> <a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0979411424?tag=sheehanmiles-20&camp=14573&creative=327641&linkCode=as1&creativeASIN=0979411408&adid=0EJBSMJ2GD9M5E0FAS55&" target="_blank">You can also order from Amazon: $16.95</a> Okay, so maybe you are wondering why? After all, I'm hoping that within the next few years, I'll be making enough money from book sales that I'll be able to write full time.  Isn't giving the book away somewhat counterproductive to that goal?I don't think so. Here's why: the biggest challenge most authors face isn't online piracy. It's not people out there diabolically copying their works and distributing them for free. In fact most authors (including yours truly) suffer from a different problem entirely -- no one has ever heard of them. After all, literally hundreds of thousands of new titles come out every year, and only a few hundred writers in the entire United States (if that many) actually live off their books full time. So, by giving away the book, I hope more people actually read it.Want to share it with a friend? Feel free. Email it to them, send them the link, whatever. If you find that you enjoy the book, I'm hoping you'll order a copy, but that isn't required.  You could also post a review somewhere.  Post a link in your blog.  Ask your library to order a copy, so more people can get it for free. Whatever.  If you do post a link somewhere, let me know about it.  I'd love to see lots of people reading the book, the more the merrier.Will giving it away cut sales and make me a poorer person? I don't think so. There's plenty of evidence out there that giving away the book will actually boost sales.  If you don't believe me, check out Eric Flint's column in Jim Baen's Universe, which actually runs the numbers and takes down some of the myths associated with Digital Rights Management, publishing, encryption, and copyright fanaticism.  <a href="http://www.ericflint.net/index.php/2007/04/27/eric-flint-on-drm-and-copyright/#more-316" target="_blank">http://www.ericflint.net/index.php/2007/04/27/eric-flint-on-drm-and-copyright/#more-316</a>Update:I did not expect this to end up on the front page of Digg. That is excellent. Someone asked about the license -- it's under the Creative Commonse 2.5 Attritibution, No Derivatives license. In other words, read it, give it to other people, but don't make money from it.  Thanks to those who mirrored when my server went down last night!

Technorati: Republic| ebooks| DRM| copyright|

http://miles.activecharity.org/blogid/2970 charles@sheehanmiles.net () Tue, 01 Jan 2008 09:45:13 EST And the winner is.... John Mayson of Austin, Texas!  I was going to post a video review last night, but we're a little crowded here in Atlanta for Christmas, so I'm just posting a quick blog entry instead.John will win a $150 gift certificant, either from Amazon or iTunes, whichever he chooses. Congratulations!

Technorati: Republic|

http://miles.activecharity.org/blogid/2957 charles@sheehanmiles.net () Tue, 25 Dec 2007 08:28:58 EST Reviving the Bonus March About ten years ago, I picked up a long out-of-print copy of Walter W. Water's account of the 1932 Bonus March. Waters was one of the leaders of the original group that travelled from Oregon to Washington, DC. The book had been out of print since before I was born, but is now back.Walter W. Waters was an Army sergeant who had served in Europe during the first World War. Like millions of other Americans during the great depression, he struggled to find a livelihood for his family, with little luck. In 1932, he led 300 veterans in a cross-country odyssey to petition Congress for release of the promised bonus for World War I veterans. Eventually, more ten thousand veterans gathered in DC. They were driven out. From Waters’ account of the tragedy: “The troops stopped at the buildings in the Pennsylvania Avenue area and took them one at a time. Each one housed forty to a hundred men. The men were chased out with drawn bayonets and gas bombs. The men of the B.E.F. had come to Washington, hoping to get something from the Government. They were getting it—the most modern type of tear gas.” While a number of accounts of the Bonus March exist, this is one of the only first-hand accounts, written by one of the leaders of the movement. I'm very proud to be involved with bringing this book back into print, and hope you'll check it out!You can find out more details about the Bonus March, check out the photo gallery and get other information at <a href="http://www.bonusmarch.info">http://www.bonusmarch.info</a><a href="http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/0979411459?tag=sheehanmiles-20" target="_blank">You can order the book at Amazon now. </a>

Technorati: Bonus Army| Bonus March| World War I| veterans|

http://miles.activecharity.org/blogid/2925 charles@sheehanmiles.net () Fri, 07 Dec 2007 14:14:57 EST Republic featured title at Borders Just wanted to share the news that at Borders' political fiction category, Republic is now a featured title.<img src="/files/miles/borders.png" />

Technorati: Republic|

http://miles.activecharity.org/blogid/2922 charles@sheehanmiles.net () Wed, 05 Dec 2007 09:44:53 EST Happy Birthday to my big brother Happy Birthday to <a href="http://www.shadowscope.com">Richie (who I neglected to call on his birthday yesterday, oops).</a> He's 41 today, which means I must about 25 now. I've included a before and after picture. See if you can tell me which one looks better.Before: <img src="/files/miles/1967-11.jpg" /> After:<img src="/files/miles/S6300310.JPG" />Unfortunate, isn't it?Happy birthday big brother.

Technorati: family| brothers| old people|

http://miles.activecharity.org/blogid/2921 charles@sheehanmiles.net () Wed, 05 Dec 2007 09:09:14 EST Irritated this morning (or why Chris Hedges pisses me off) About 2 days a week, I work from Cup a Joe Hillsborough in Raleigh, rather than driving all the way home after dropping my son off at school. This morning, I sat down at my table to see a copy of the Triangle Free Press, which the previous occupant left behind. The headline: "Top Commanders Oppose Iran Attack." So far, nothing too surprising. But then I read the first paragraph of the article, written by Chris Hedges. Here it is: <blockquote>When military command is the voice of reason in a debate about a new war, you know our democracy is in trouble. </blockquote> Chris, Chris, Chris. Come on. Where have you been the last decade? Here's the point you miss -- the last person who wants to go to war is the people who have to live through it. It's the stay at home couch commandoes who yell for war. The soldiers go where they’re told, and no doubt if they have to go to war, they do it without question and with absolute loyalty. But our recent history demonstrates all too well the fact that those who have to do the shooting (and dying) want to see reasonable steps taken before they are sent into combat. Here's a quick review. It was the Chief of Staff of the Army who gave the only realistic assessment of how many troops would be needed to have a successful occupation in Iraq. It was the Marine commanders who argued against stupid and unnecessary punitive expeditions to level Fallujah instead of a genuine counterinsurgency -- and the civilians who overruled them. It was the soldiers, who argued strongest against the use of torture, and it was a soldier who reported abu Ghraib and risked his life and future to make sure the right thing was done. It was the military lawyers who fought the Department of Justice (!) against the use of extreme interrogation techniques, and the counterintelligence experts who argued publicly that torture wasn't going to get us anywhere. In Congress, it was the military veterans, including John McCain, who argued most aggressively against failed techniques that violated the Geneva Conventions. It was veterans groups like Veterans for Common Sense that made the most cogent and reasonable arguments against going to war in the first place in Iraq. Chris, this is coming from an avowed left-of-center American. It's comments like that, which make the left look like a bunch of latte-drinking Volvo driving America haters. When you base your argument off an assumption that all too many in the left make, that the military is made up of a bunch of gun toting thugs who love to go to war and KILL KILL KILL, you miss the whole fucking point. You hand ammunition to the culture warriors, and take us all a step back into the time warp of the 1960's that all too many of the culture warriors on both sides want us to stay in. Finally, you alienate the very people who have the most to lose in any conflict -- the people who have to fight in it.

http://miles.activecharity.org/blogid/2920 charles@sheehanmiles.net () Wed, 05 Dec 2007 08:34:11 EST Republic: Chapter Twelve CHAPTER TWELVE JUNE 27 A drop of sweat crawled down Morris’ back as he stood in front of his assembled company. At 0800 hours, the sun already beat down on them mercilessly. It was going to be a hot day, over a hundred degrees. They stood on the edge of a parking lot, close to where their tents had stood for the last four weeks, next to the ruins of the shopping center. Damaged buildings and debris still scattered the area, but the Army’s job was over. “You’ve done a good job out here. We came into a dangerous situation a month ago, and each of you has seen things we’d have rather not seen. We’ll talk more on that subject, quite a bit, but in the meantime, I want you to remember a couple of key points here. Because of your work, the Department of Homeland Security has been able to collect the evidence they needed to identify the terrorists, and yesterday afternoon they filed charges against those who were responsible for this terrible crime. Because of your work, the site was secured and civilians were protected. You can all be proud of yourselves for the outstanding jobs you’ve done. First Sergeant.” At his order, the first sergeant marched back in front. The men and women noticeably straightened as the no-nonsense NCO walked to the front of the formation. Morris might be the commander of the unit, but he knew that the enlisted men and women tiptoed around the first sergeant. In their lives, he was the one with the real authority. Though gruff and almost aggressive in his manner, he sometimes seemed like a mother hen clucking over a brood of chicks. The troops didn’t know how good they had it. “Load them up, First Sergeant,” Morris said. “Yes, sir.” Morris walked away, leaving the first sergeant to direct the company onto buses for the ride back to Fort Meade. Small puffs of ash and debris rose around his feet as he walked. He paused, squinting from the glare, and stared up at the still damaged mall. Workers had built scaffolding, and were replacing the blown out windows. It would still be weeks before the area was cleaned up, and probably years before the buildings were rebuilt or repaired. Lieutenant Colonel Barksdale was talking on the phone when Morris approached. Morris stayed back a respectful distance while Barksdale finished his phone call. “Sir, my company is loaded. We’re ready to move.” Barksdale studied Morris, eyes squinted, like a teacher examining a problematic student. His comment came as a surprise to Morris. “Well, Captain Morris, despite first impressions, you’ve done a solid job out here. You should be proud of your company.” “Thank you, sir. They were well tuned when I arrived.” “All right, then. We’ll see you back at the post. When you get back, have your folks clean and turn in their weapons, then send them home for three days. I’ll plan to meet with you and the other company commanders at oh seven hundred hours tomorrow morning to go over next week’s training schedule.” “Yes, sir,” Morris said. Alicia would be thrilled. Barksdale turned and walked away without another word, and Morris was left to wonder whether he was expected to follow the Colonel or if he’d been dismissed. Barksdale continued marching away without looking back, so Morris shrugged and headed back to the company. It was already turning out to be a scorcher. Today Morris had completed his first month in command. Some month. He had wanted to be an officer in the Army ever since, as a fifteen-year-old kid growing up in Kentucky coal country near the border of West Virginia, he had seen his cousin come home from Afghanistan. Lucas Morris had been nothing but a lanky kid when he left for the Army. When he came home from Afghanistan, he’d become a man who commanded respect. The military became a lifelong fascination for Morris, driving him to college as an ROTC cadet at the top of his class and on to the Regular Army. What was the alternative? Coal mining? He’d seen enough of that life. Well, here he was, the tip of the spear, in command of a line infantry company, and half the time he didn’t know what was coming next. On the drive back, Morris and his driver didn’t talk. Instead, he worked on notes for the upcoming weeks, including training plans and leave for the men and women in the company. He found it difficult to concentrate. He’d not seen Alicia since their last conversation, which hadn’t exactly gone well. They had not written, only had a couple of brief telephone calls. Not like the old days, he thou