Chapter I- July 4


It was a warm day- not too hot, not too cold, with clear skies overhead. Only a light breeze disturbed the calm, and in Master Sergeant David Foley's mind, really just added to it. The White House looked stunning for a building that had been nearly destroyed just two years ago; reclaimed in form as well as in fact, it showed barely a trace of the horrific damage that been done to it in the recent past. Even the MiG-29 jet fighter that had come crashing down on the front lawn after the EMP blast was gone; tireless work by the best gardeners the National Park Service could find had restored a smooth, fine sheen of grass across the White House Lawn.

The dollars all the restoration work had cost, the many hours of hard, hard labour, were understood by all present today to be nothing compared to the price so many had paid- on this very lawn- in blood. Nobody complained at any point of the restoration process- in fact, the White House offices had been forced to turn down legions of volunteers, directing them to the hundreds of other restoration projects going on at the many landmarks in the District of Columbia, and around the nation.

There was no shortage of things that needed to be rebuilt in the United States or Europe following the devastation brought by World War III- for the first time since 1812, Americans had witnessed the fire of foreign guns brought to their shores and cities. Only fierce- no, absolutely tireless, fanatical- resistance by the US Armed Forces had repulsed the invaders and allowed the Stars and Stripes to fly over all 50 states again. They had not only done that, but counterattacked in the Pacific and in Europe, achieving more than their numbers and resources should have allowed.

The bureaucrats were still counting up just how much it had cost.

The same could be said of Europe; though some might have been quick to forget this, many, many nations across that not-so-distant continent had paid an equally high price- arguably, some had even paid a worse one. France, Britain, Germany, the Baltic States, Poland- even Ireland, for sending her badly-understaffed Defence Forces to aid Britain in rising to meet the Russian threat- had paid dearly. Queen Elizabeth II- who had flatly refused to leave England's borders even in the darkest hours of the fighting- had declared at a recent Victoria Cross investiture ceremony in London that the people of the United States, Canada and Europe had "enough dead heroes for the end of time". For his part, Master Sergeant Foley was thankful there were some living ones. It sickened him to think of how few their numbers were, compared to those who had fallen and would never rise again.

Two years had passed since the Battle of Washington, and a few months over a year since the end of World War III. The American public had been clamoring for the recognition of the almost countless acts of bravery by members of the US Armed Forces during the war, almost from the day the war began. Administrators and bureaucrats had also been scrambling- once again in the face of immense public demand- to recognize a similarly staggering number of courageous, selfless acts by civilians of all types and ages. Among the civilians who would- in the following Presidential Medal of Freedom awards ceremony- begin to see recognition for their own selfless acts were several World War II, Korea, and Vietnam War veterans. The oldest civilians to go above and beyond for others during the Russian invasion of the United States were past 70- the youngest was not even 18.

Ultimately, Foley had a feeling the awards ceremonies would be going on for a very long time after today- more stories were always coming up; another act of selflessness by a soldier or civilian seemed to reach the newspapers every day. Even ten years after World War II, Korea, and Vietnam, men and women were still- finally- receiving proper recognition for their actions in those conflicts. Foley had no delusions about World War III- its story would be the same.

Today, then, was not about recognizing everyone. That just wasn't possible- not today, not tomorrow. Doing that would, truly, be a process for more than one lifetime. But July 4, 2018 was rightly chosen as the day that America would begin the process. Thanking the first fifty chosen to receive America's highest military honor- the Medal of Honor- and her highest civilian honor- the Presidential Medal of Freedom- would be where the process would begin.

It was the greatest moment of David Foley's career to be chosen as one of those fifty soldiers. Steadily becoming a household name across the nation for his many above-and-beyond actions and exceptional, cool-headed leadership during the Battle of Washington, Foley had been an automatic choice for one of the first fifty Medals of Honor presented for actions during the course of World War III. Who more deserved thanks than the soldier who personally led the retaking of the White House? And where better to thank him than on the lawn where he had fought his most famous battle?

Where better, indeed?

It was 1:30 in the afternoon; the sun shone down brightly as Foley shifted uncomfortably in his dress blues; he wished 1400 would hurry up and get here. These dress uniforms were designed to look good, and Foley's was spotless; not even a piece of lint, blown towards him by a passing breeze, dared touch the famed Master Sergeant's uniform.

The promotion had come with the award; Foley's superiors- among them Colonel Henry Marshall, who was also here today, though still waiting on his pending promotion to Brigadier General- had been very clear on that. Though Foley had initially wanted to turn down the award- medals were not why he had joined the Army or the Rangers- seeing so many soldiers he personally knew and respected accept the honors being given them convinced him to go along with it. After all, some- too many- of their comrades did not have the chance to be at any awards ceremony. Too many American soldiers and civilians would never be doing anything, ever again. It was for them- not himself- that Foley was wearing these terribly uncomfortable dress blues today.

Across the lawn, under the shade of a tree that had somehow- to the amazement of many- survived the battle that had just two years ago raged around it, Foley spotted a young boy arguing with a very well-dressed couple who had to be his parents. The boy was no older than 12, and wearing what had to be an awfully expensive suit. He had sandy-blonde hair, a round, handsome face- and a most insistent look in his gray eyes.

"Mom!" the boy was saying, making an effort to keep his voice down, "Let me do this! Please."

The parents looked like they were trying to reason with him. The boy kept insisting that it had to be him; he owed it to Will. Will had saved his life. The parents finally reached a compromise with their son, though it took a couple of minutes. Or rather, they folded. It looked like this boy was not about to accept anything less. He seemed to be insisting that he be the one to walk across the platform during the ceremony; after a time, his parents agreed, telling their son they'd be watching from the crowd.

The boy's words were almost lost to Foley's ears- he was already standing more than twenty feet away and trying not to make it look like he was listening- but he was clearly deeply moved, and very grateful.

Standing next to him, Staff Sergeant Jake Dunn tilted his head slightly towards the three, keeping his voice down. "Sarge, check that out. Not your average 12-year-old, hooah?"

Foley grunted; he didn't like Dunn even pointing those folks out that way. It didn't take a genius to figure out their honored family member was not one of the living soldiers being honored today. Of the 50 MOH and PMF recipients today, 25 were living and 25 posthumous awards. That decision, too, had been difficult- but President Mark Bennett had been adamant that not only civilians and military but the living and the dead be honored in equal numbers at this first major awards ceremony. The entire event was all about symbolism, about making a statement before the nation and the world. America, President Bennett had said in a speech announcing the July 4 ceremony, had an obligation to honor its heroes- living and dead- with equal reverence and respect.

Finally, though, Foley nodded, but kept his voice down. "Leave 'em be, C-Sergeant," and scowled with mock sternness as Dunn grinned at Foley's near-mistake of addressing him by his former rank of Corporal. Even though some time had passed, Foley still wasn't quite used to his old team leader's new rank- or his own, for that matter.

Regardless, Dunn went on, "Not like I was gonna go up and say what's up to 'em." He tossed another glance their way- then noticed the family of three had melted back into the crowd, which was slowly getting into- of all things- formation, in preparation for the start of the Medal of Honor presentation ceremony.

Dunn soon caught sight of the boy again, and thought briefly of his 17-year-old nephew Kevin, and how the teenager would be one of the Dunn family members watching as Jake received his Medal of Honor today. Steven Dunn, Jake's brother, had been killed by Russian paratroopers during the invasion, one of thousands of civilians to meet such a fate. A horrid memory from that day flashed before Dunn's eyes; a BTR-90 firing its explosive cannon rounds into houses as it drove down an Alexandria, Virginia suburban street. And him- the big Army Ranger, Kevin's hero Uncle Jake- skittering through side alleys with nothing but an M4 in his hands. Powerless, absolutely powerless, to do anything to stop it. The sight and sound of that BTR killing its way up a picturesque American neighborhood had haunted Dunn for the rest of the war- and would probably haunt him for the rest of his life.

David Foley had made Master Sergeant for a reason; a very obvious reason. Simply enough, he personified the name: he was a Master Sergeant, an expert of a U.S. Army Ranger's tasks and drills and an icon of the professional NCO. This meant that he had little difficulty reading the darkened, troubled expression of the younger sergeant beside him. "Look, Dunn," Foley said in a more gentle voice, "Go up and talk to the kid afterwards. If you really want to."

Dunn shook his head, fighting off some rough memories. "Hooah, Sarge. I hear you."

The ceremony started fifteen minutes later.