A NEST OF VIPERS:
CHANGE OF COMMAND
View attachment 760419
1950s-era portrait of Supreme Marshal Brigham John Barnes
As Chuck Oswald strode into the War Room, the frantic pecking and tapping of dozens of typewriters, decoding machines, and telegraphs stopped for a brief second, the various men and women saluting in respect before returning to their work. Chuck wore an all white Navy uniform, sans the cap, and walked with his hands clasped behind his back, a mop of wavy brown hair grazing his forehead. On his face sat a pair of tortoiseshell sunglasses, hiding eyes reddened by drinking, debauchery, and drugs the night before. He made his way to the inventively-named "Big Map," which was a roughly twenty by forty map of South America atop massive tables, toy soldiers, artillery, and ships marking the locations of friends and foes. Around the Big Map stood roughly ten officers in dress uniforms, smoking cigarettes like chimneys, eyes deeply sunken in, nails bit, their foreheads and underarms damp with sweat. These were the men whose job was to accurately update the Big Map to its current real-world state at all times, which included gathering and understanding countless reports, telegrams, and phone calls, as well as taking orders from the ancient Supreme Chief Acme Ashton as he struggled to carry out the conquest of an entire continent.
A wall of red phones, each with a cold cathode ray tube mounted to their receiver indicating incoming calls without incessant ringing, were off to the side, as well as carts of cold cuts, sliced bread, condiments, cigarette packs, ashtrays, and tuna. Most of it was room temperature and had begun to smell, but the men were too busy to care. Supreme Marshal Ashton blindly grabbed a tuna sandwich, took a bite, grimaced through the taint of rot, and sighed. Then he took another bite. The old soldier had survived 84 years. If he made it this far, a little room temperature tuna wouldn't take him out. And if it did, he supposed that was his own destiny. He sat the half-eaten sandwich aside and masticated it with his elderly, yellowing teeth as he noticed young Supreme Chief Oswald approaching. He respected Chuck's combat history and courage, but personally he could not stand the man. There was an indescribable aura about the man of malice not even matched by Steele. Steele, at least, seemed to personally value Ashton and his long career and expertise, but during every meeting Oswald participated in with Ashton, he seemed to look upon the Butcher of Belleville and the Hero of Kawartha Lakes Campaign as an ancient old wizard, long irrelevant to current affairs.
Oswald didn't hate Ashton. He simply had no value for him, and really not much of an opinion on him at all other than that he was far too old to successfully carry out the largest land war in history. As Oswald approached, he saluted Ashton casually and clicked his heels and the old man did the same. "Supreme Marshal, I trust you are, er, ah, well?"
"As well as one can be, Supreme Chief. Pleasure to see you. It is my hope that you are well, sir?"
"Simply marvelous," Oswald said with vigor and a dashing false smile displaying teeth as perfect as if they were sculpted by a Papist in the Renaissance. "I come bearing news, Supreme Marshal."
"I trust it to be good, with such a smile as that, sir," Ashton said as pulled a pack of Morton's out of his breast pocket and offered a cigarette to Oswald with a flick of his wrist, which the Supreme Chief politely refused.
"I would consider excellent, indeed. Supreme Marshal, you are hereby relieved of duties in perpetuity. You have served this country for many years, and you have earned our, ah, er, national thanks." Oswald's smile never slipped from his face, and he scratched his jaw through the awkward silence as all the men and women in the room paused whatever they were doing to look on in shock. "Ah, this, er, is effective immediately, Ashton. Your baton, please."
Ashton's mind was thrown into complete chaos. He had heard nothing of such a plan from President Steele nor any other government officials. Official policy, unless the Supreme Marshal was guilty of crimes, entailed a lengthy changing of the guard and a carefully-planned exit that would enable the next man to successfully continue operations. Stammering for a moment, Ashton collected his thoughts off the floor and said, "Sir? On whose orders am I relieved? This is most concerning. I was told nothing of retirement and I expected to die with my boots on in front of this cursed table. President Steele is the only man who can order my resignation."
Oswald laughed slightly and replied matter-of-factly, "You don't have to resign, Ashton. It's all taken care of. You can just walk out those doors over there and not look back. Enjoy your, ah, twilight years."
"On whose orders, sir?!" Ashton demanded, an anger building in his chest.
"My own, Ashton. I order you to leave. This is not a request." Oswald's face finally fell flat but the glimmer of joy remained his eyes hidden by the sunglasses.
"Sir, with all due respect, I demand to hear from President Steele before I abandon my post. And who shall replace me?"
At that, the double doors of the War Room flung open and a giant bear of a man stepped in. A hulking monolith of a black man who appeared to be in his 50s, with a left eye whited over and a pencil thin mustache adorning his upper lips. He wore a crisp, perfectly starched Army green uniform, his peaked visor stowed neatly under his left arm, his right arm swinging with every long, march-like step. Everything about the man was perfectly terrifying, and his manner showed both disinterest and total and complete self-control as he made his way to the Big Map.
Oswald held out his arm and said, "Ladies and gentlemen of the War Room, I give you your new Supreme Marshal, Brigham John Barnes, formerly Major General of Legion X out of Shicagwa." Chuck turned back to Ashton and said, "This is a new era, Ashton. You can either hand me your baton or you can leave it on the table. It's already done. You can start collecting your pension next week."
"On whose orders?!" Ashton barked again, his rage growing. He didn't even enjoy his position, but he was as solidly faithful to his job duties as any man ever had been. "The Supreme Chief of ORRA, with all due respect, sir, cannot remove the sitting Supreme Marshal. Our Constitution forbids it. The President and Atheling is the only man with the power to order my removal. And unless I hear from the President, I expect to carry on with my duties per usual."
"I told you, Ashton, on my orders. As President." Oswald's smile came back once more, bright and gleaming. Barnes stepped up next to him and they quickly saluted.
"Wha-what? Where is President Steele?" Ashton could barely find the words to ask. He knew Steele was in bad health, and he knew this day would come, but it still wasn't any easier to process.
"Dead, Ashton. President Steele is dead. Happened last night, I'm afraid. Drowned in his own blood in his private, ah, theater, if you must know. I have already taken the oath of office to ensure continutity, and will do so publicly tomorrow on national talkiebox coverage. Now, if we are done playing catch-up, I expect you to take your leave. We thank you for your service."
"Sir, sir! This is no way to manage a transition in a time of such extensive ongoing campaigns! If I am to be replaced, I need to teach my successor everything I know. You can't just replace me with... that," he said hesitantly, pointing at Barnes.
"A racist today, are we, Ashton?" Oswald feigned offense. "My my, I expected better of you. Barnes is a hero. And he'll be fine without your, ah, tutelage, as it were. Now, for the last time, Ashton, your baton." The young new President extended an open palm, waiting for the eagle scepter of the Legions to be passed.
Ashton felt rage boil inside him with the accusation of racism. During his invasion of Canada, he had fought and bled alongside black soldiers by the score. Barnes just truthfully looked like a monster, a cyclops, and his race had nothing to do with it. The huge black man gave him an evil stare with his one good eye while keeping his face entirely stoic.
"My Atheling, if I may speak?" Barnes said his deep Midwest baritone. Oswald nodded promptly and Barnes continued. "I am honored by this promotion and will carry out the duties of my office as courageously and honestly as possible. There is no god but Jev and Aaron Burr is his Prophet. And I marched into hell on Supreme Marshal Ashton's orders and saw firsthand the chaos that ensued from this aging relic's tactics. In the ever-changing modern warfare environment, there is no place for the elderly, the senile, and those who are long past due for retirement. If someone else had been in command two years ago at La Paragua, when I requested to pull back several miles because we were becoming entirely encircled by Neutie bastards, maybe, just maybe, half of Legion X would still be alive. It was a massacre, all because this stubborn fossil here refuses to recognize the use of a tactical withdrawal. 'Not one step back,' the orders said. 'Not one inch shall be lost.' La Paragua was the only loss of my career, and one of our bloodiest defeats in Manifest Climax to present day. Supreme Marshal Ashton has the blood of thousands of Shicagwa boys on his hands. This war for our Pinnacle Future will not be won by outdated infantry advances, but by air-power and carpet-bombing."
Fully enraged, Ashton drew his baton from his belt and threw the gilded scepter to the floor, sending it rolling until it was stopped by Barnes' boots. "
Air-power? That's your grand plan? And I do indeed have the blood of millions on my damn hands, sir! I have managed this war since I replaced Jansen, and I dare you to
not send some boys to their doom while you're in my shoes, you arrogant bastard. Do you think I enjoyed La Paragua? Do you think I jigged the dance macabre as I read the reports from the Meta River Campaign? Where my own nephew was slain! Do you suppose I relished in the reports of our men starving in the POW camps in Quito? Do you suspect I giggled with glee like a schoolchild as I was told of the 320th Cohort being executed in their sleep by Peruvian savages? I ask again, do you think I 'enjoy' my 'failures?' Let's see you do better, Barnes. Let's see it! And when you see endless rows of dead men, unit after unit, maniples and cohorts, rising from the dead in your slumbering nightmares to come for you, when you salute the flag-draped coffins at the railyard and hear the lamentations and weeping of their wives and sons and daughters until you become cold and numb to the sound like a trooper becomes numb to the sound of grinder-fire, and when you see the disfigured and wounded laid up in beds at Pat-St. Washington Memorial, their bodies mangled and broken, their loyal hands and arms still trying to form an approximation of a salute, I say to you: let's see you do better! Let's see you stop the slaughter. This is a total war, one requiring total commitment from every single member of our society writ large. And if you don't have the stomach to make those calls, or think a train full of dead boys is too much to give in exchange for a tactical victory, then you will fail far more than you think I have, son. You can carpet-bomb the Neutie Voidlings from here till Judgment Day, and it will
not secure victory, they will simply go underground, where they
will nest... like...
vipers. Good day, gentlemen!"
Ashton passed between Oswald and Barnes, his wrinkled face red with rage, and the entire War Room slowly stood up from their positions, one at a time, and saluted in absolute silence. A frown creeping across his handsome face, Oswald shouted, "All those who wish to follow Ashton into retirement, into the sunset, can do so by taking leave of the War Room at the present time. If you remain, I expect your absolute, steadfast, and continued devotion to the cause to be applied to Supreme Marshal Barnes. This is a new era, and those who agree with the man leaving out those doors will only be a hindrance to Supreme Marshal Barnes. And if any of you have problems serving under a black man, I am ashamed of you and would ask that you either learn to unlearn your prejudice, or also, once again, I will ask you to take your leave." One by one, about five percent of the War Room staff awkwardly and stiffly made their way out the oak double-doors and into the hallway. Most everyone, however, slowly went back to their jobs at hand, and the chatter, clatter, and pitter-patter of the War Room picked back up. Oswald turned to Barnes and asked, "What is your first decision, Supreme Marshal?"
Barnes bent down and picked up the baton, tucking it under his belt. "Have you met General Jehohanan Holyfield?"
Oswald thought for a moment and then replied, "Yeah, of the Angel City Holyfields, correct? The oil barons? My father has talked to many a Holyfield in his time with Phoenix Oil. Say, wasn't General Holyfield almost killed by a guerrilla attack a good while back?"
"Yes, sir," Barnes replied. "He was shot right in the face while inspecting fortifications in an occupied Peruvian town. Took most of his jaw. He has some interesting ideas you might enjoy hearing, sir. He's out in the hall if you would like for me to send for him."
"Of course, by all means," Oswald said, smiling once more and clasping his hands behind his back. After dispatching a runner to find him, within a moment a man even taller than Barnes, yet much more slender, entered the War Room with an equally-starched green uniform. An incredible number of medals hung from his chest, but that wasn't what stood out the most. Everyone looked at his long face, as white as a picket fence, a huge black mustache adorned to his upper lip. The man could best and really only be described as gangling. The long, thin body was matched by legs that seemed almost like stilts. His gait was odd. There was something uncanny or unnatural about the man. As he approached and saluted, it became more readily apparent that the entirety of his face from below the eyes down was covered with a porcelain or ceramic mask, even sporting a fake mustache. His facial wounds had clearly done a brutal number to him. A cigarette on a stick hung from the slightly agape glass mouth and pained-looking eyes behind the mask told the story of a man who should have been dead long ago, but had survived through sheer force of will. Oswald liked him already.
"My Atheling! Supreme Marshal Barnes!" the man said in a stiff, slightly pained voice. There was an ethereal quality to the tone, almost haunting in its nature. "At your service."
"Holyfield, correct?" Oswald asked, extending a hand for the general to shake. The man's long white fingers grasped his in a shocking vice-like grip and pumped it hard.
"That is for certain, Mr. President. General Jehohanan Ipswich Holyfield II, Grand Army of the Republic. I'm an oil man. I understand your father did business with us in the past?" the slender giant asked.
Oswald finally wrenched his hand free of Holyfield's death-grip and replied, "Uh, yes, er uh, my father is the CEO of Phoenix Oil."
"Phoenix Oil, Phoenix Oil," the thin man said. "The Phoenix that rose from the ashes of Old Canada. Holyfield rose from the ashes of Pacifica, after we cleared those Papist vermin Frenchmen out. Us Holyfields were the first to stake claims around Angel City. We took over the old Infee pumps and rigs and expanded operations until we became the biggest fuel provider on the West Coast, all the way up to Barnumsburg. Our success was in no small thanks to your father, Mr. President. If Phoenix Oil hadn't taken up our side in the clan war against Pentagon Oil we never would have become who we are today, and I thank you personally for that, Mr. President."
"Of course," Oswald smiled. "We had to work together to get that bastard Kuhn taken down a notch. I was a but a boy, but I remember it well. Now, Supreme Marshal Barnes tells me you have some ideas you wish to, er uh, share with me? Or are we just going to shoot the shit about oil at this time?"
With a flamboyantly sinister flourish of his arm and a slight bow, Holyfield said, "Oh, indubitably, Your Excellency. I have much to share with you about a strategy for the Southern Continent." After a polite waiting period for Oswald's approval, the tall freak made his way to the Big Map, the nearby tactical officers shrinking away, intimidated by the man they knew as "Nightstalker," after the masks worn by revelers on Patriot-Saints Day Eve. With another dramatic wave of his arm, he fanned the lengthy limb across Gran Colombia, from the Panama border to the furthest reaches of the Venezuelan region. "My Atheling, I am--as I said before--an oil man. And though I be a military man first and foremost in warlike service to the cause of American freedom, the business of black gold never drifts far from my mind. It is bred into me, as a Holyfield, you know, as it was certainly bred into yourself as an Oswald. Mr. President, are you aware of the average oil production of Gran Colombia per year?"
Oswald shrugged his shoulders and replied, "Not off the top of my, er uh, head, no. An extraordinary amount in the millions, I would suppose."
Despite the featureless mask upon his face, Oswald could tell Holyfield would be smiling if he could, just judging by the twinkle in his cold gray eyes behind the porcelain. "An average of five million barrels of the crude liquid mammon every year since records began in 1932."
"
Jesus," said one of the tactical officers listening in as he shoved markers representing ships off the coast of Chile.
With lightning speed and a powerful thud, the long, thin hand of Holyfield formed a fist and smashed into the table. "DO NOT TAKE THE NAME OF OUR SAVIOR IN VAIN, COLONEL."
The officer dropped the box of wooden ships and markers from under his arm and they hit the black and white asbestos tiled floor with a thud and then a clatter. The officer's eyes twitched and he formed a stiff and rigid stance. "Sir, yes, sir, General, sir! My apologies!"
"Colonel, what is your name?" Holyfield said calmly as he walked around the corner of the Big Map, hands clasped behind his back, his brown lace-up riding boots clicking on the floor. As he got within arms-length of the swearing officer, he casually kicked one of the ships out of his way.
"Sir, Colonel Ephraim Sands, sir!" the young man replied, sweat pouring down his face glistening under the flicker of the overhead fluorescent lights.
"Colonel... Sands. Colonel Sands, pick up your markers immediately," Holyfield ordered.
"Sir, yes, sir!" Sands said with lightning speed, getting down on his knees and beginning to shakily put all the wooden markers and ships back into the small box.
Holyfield bent over at the waist in an almost unnatural manner until he seemed to be enveloping the young officer like a crescent moon. His artificial face bore down upon Sands as he frantically picked up the items. "Sands," Holyfield began again. Saying the name correctly appeared to be tough with his disfigurement. "
Sands-uh," he repeated, mealing on the word and turning one syllable into two. He reached out a lanky arm and grasped the Colonel's shoulder squarely on the shoulder board like the talons of a bald eagle. "If I
ever hear you take the name of the Lord Jesus Christ Almighty in vain again, I will ship you immediately, post haste even, to the Brazilian Front. Do you understand me, Colonel Sands-suh?"
The mad frantically nodded, "Yes, General Holyfield, sir!"
"Good. And never interrupt me while I am giving a presentation to the President and Atheling again, Colonel. Now get back to work." With all the spilled pieces back in the box, Sands was shocked to feel Holyfield's hand go under his arm and help him pull himself to his feet. The same long, pale hand slapped him on the back. "That's a good lad."
Oswald appreciated the bipolar attitude. It kept people on their toes and demanded both fear and respect. He made mental notes. "Continue your presentation, General."
Holyfield went back to where he left off like nothing had even happened, immediately going back to it as he walked back to the other side of the Big Map. "As I was saying, Gran Colombia produces about five million barrels of oil yearly. But there is a catch! Right now, it produces none, because almost every inch of her soil is under Union occupation. The pumps have been sabotaged and destroyed, turned off and blown apart in hopes of delaying the acquisition of our rightful spoils. Fuel prices have continued to rise in the States, as I'm sure you are all aware. We don't have a genuine shortage, but rationing is so intense because we cannot produce enough oil to send to the front lines quickly. Phoenix Oil is doing its part, for instance, but it takes a long time to ship barrels of oil from Thunder Bay to Panama. Too long. Time we do not have when we have armored columns running on fumes and surrounded by Neutie savages. Time we do not have when we have bombers and fighters sitting on their runways and on the decks of carriers, starving, thirsting, yearning for their tanks to be filled with precious petrol. That brings us to my solution, gentlemen!"
Holyfield attached a fresh cigarette onto his stick and lit it with a nearby brass desk-lighter shaped like a bust of Custer. He slid the stem into the mouth-hole of his porcelain jaw and inhaled raggedly. "I propose that I be given powers as Emergency Military Governor of the New Lands. I will use my personal fortune and family business to secure and rebuild the oil rigs across Gran Colombia. I will utilize private security contractors to prevent guerrilla attacks, and thus free up thousands of troopers to further press our attacks as the governing bodies of the Neutie nations continue to collapse from our atomic attacks. I ask for my pay to be frozen, as I will not accept further personal monetary benefits to an already lucrative proposal. But in exchange for my rule, I believe I can get production levels up to 2.6 million barrels by years end. You can imagine the benefits of such incredible resources so close to the front."
"That would be a controversial call, General," Oswald warned, scratching his chine and folding his arms in thought. "The Industrial Clan would not take kindly to your company being handed the keys to the kingdom, as they say. But it would be a fine plan."
"I lost my face to the Neuties, sir," Holyfield said bluntly. "I lost what had been a strikingly handsome appearance and have been reduced to being known as 'Nightstalker,' by many. A monster. A demon. But I accept my lot assigned by Jev. I know I have not yet served my purpose, nor have I had my revenge. An eye for an eye. I will bleed Colombia dry. With a straw in my porcelain jaw, I will drink it up. Every last usable drop of petrol will be sucked out of the cursed ground and poured into the needy tanks of our war machines. I will make the Immolation of Mexico City look like mere child's play. They will know me as the McClellan of the Southern Continent. The money my hands and security will bring in will go to building entire new cities on the ruins of the old Infee infestations. I will turn Bogota into a Puritan's dream. I will build a monument to Custer on the side of the Andes. In the Amazon jungle, I will erect statues of you, Mr. President. These new holdings need to be brought into the fold, and I believe I am just the man to do it."
Oswald looked over at Barnes, who promptly nodded his approval. "All right, General Holyfield," the President answered, "I will see what we can do to get you those exclusive rights. I think you are just, er uh, what we need, right now. Now if you'll excuse me, gentlemen, I have a speech to prepare for. All hail."
View attachment 760420
A rare photograph (circa 1950s) of Jehohanan Ipswich Holyfield II, CEO of Holyfield Oil Company and Military Governor of the New Lands.
(Holyfield, in this image, was doctored to appear shorter than President Oswald)
