The Second Civil War- The Complete History

by Adam Yoshida

  “Captain Dunford,” General Jackson said to the Company Commander, whose company had been allowed to pass out of the line for refitting and repairs after the engagement, “thank you for your quick thinking. Thanks to you and your men, we were able to swiftly engage the enemy and prevent them from slowing our advance. You’re a Major now, Dunford.”

  Jackson looked out into the distance, “our intelligence didn’t think that any Federal forces had pushed out this far forward. Now we’re redoubling our efforts to scout the road ahead. Thanks for keying us in to that as well.”’

  Major General Price, the commander of the newly-established Army of Northwestern Ontario, cursed violently as he read the first reports from Kenora.

  “I should never have sent a force so far forward outside of our air cover,” he admitted to his Chief of Staff.

  “If we’d caught them unaware and been able to really dig in at the city, it would have been worth it,” the Chief of Staff replied.

  “If, if, if. I’m not going to take another risk like that. Send orders to the Battalion at Dryden to pull back to here. We’ll dig them in within range of our air cover.”

  The 40,000 men and women of the Army of Northwestern Ontario were for the most-part half-trained and under-equipped but, under the circumstances, they were the best that the Federal Government could field. The geography of the region dictated a certain logic: unless the Western Army decided to cut loose from major roads altogether, at which point the logistics of moving an army the size of the Western Expeditionary Force would become untenable, they would have to pass through Thunder Bay. His soldiers, therefore, might not have the skill or mobility that the Western ones did, but they would be able to take advantage of fighting from fixed defensive positions. He had enough trained men and mobile forces that, if the Western Army attempted to bypass him, he would be able to sally out from his fortress and to cut their supply lines. Additionally, at the direction of the Prime Minister himself, most of the nation’s remaining fixed-wing air assets had been allocated to maintaining air supremacy over the Federal citadel.

  The Western Army had held back some of their newest assets throughout the early fighting. But now, with the largest battle to be fought on North American soil in more than a century and a half at hand, was not a time to hold anything back. General Wayne and General Jackson both agreed to release all air assets to launch an all-out attack on the Federal forces arrayed around Thunder Bay. A force of nearly eighty MiG-29s were launched, many outfitted specifically for the purpose of engaging enemy air defenses. The RCAF launched every plane that it had left to meet them.

  Colonel Stern watched the console in the cockpit of his MiG as the CF-18s drew progressively closer. The Federal planes were old and worn, but they had superior weapons as well as the advantage of an airborne radar transferred from ex-NATO stockpiles, one of the few pieces of new hardware to find its way into the hands of the Federal forces at Thunder Bay. A few of the MiGs carried air-to-ground attack packages, but most of them were assigned to the vital role of clearing the way for heavier ground attack assets to support the final advance. That left only his squadron armed for genuine air-to-air combat.

  At a range of nearly sixty kilometers, the CF-18s launched AMRAAMs against Stern’s fighters. His MiGs, as the leading edge of the attack wave, did not immediately break off or evade. Instead, they increased their speed and pressed forward, allowing their brethren behind them to gain precious seconds to close their own range with the defending aircraft. Finally, after an agonizing pause, when the MiGs had closed to within twenty-five kilometers of the Federal fighters, they launched salvos of their own AA-12 Adder missiles before moving to evade. The other MiGs, outfitted for ground attack and suppression of enemy air defense missions, accelerated and dove for cover near the ground.

  The outnumbered Federals were now faced with a choice: they could attempt to engage the ground attack package or they could continue to face off with the fighters who they had already exchanged fire with. Given their role in the operation, they opted for the former, placing themselves at further risk in an effort to defend the forces below.

  Three of Stern’s MiGs fell to the initial barrage, along with two MiGs from the other squadrons. The twelve survivors of Stern’s squadron turned to pursue the CF-18s now attempting to follow the ground attack MiGs into Thunder Bay. After firing their remaining Adder missiles, the MiGs kicked in their afterburners and tried to close the range enough to allow them to use their short-range Archer missiles to attack the Federal force.

  By this point the dance in the air had proceeded to such a point as to actually bring the fight over the city of Thunder Bay itself. The CF-18s were ordered to disengage with the remaining MiGs in order to allow the surface-to-air missile batteries that now dotted the city to open fire without fear of causing blue-on-blue losses.

  When the SAM batteries lit up their radars, part of the Western MiG force immediately engaged them with anti-radiations missiles, while others were were vectored to begin bomb attacks against the actual missile installations on the ground. One five hundred pound bomb after another dropped from the sky and tore into the defensive installations, while the anti-radiation missiles forced them to shut down their radars and move rapidly to avoid complete destruction.

  Behind the first wave of Western aircraft came a second: four C-130 aircraft hastily converted into improvised gunships supported by a dozen Russian-made Hind attack helicopters came forward and began to engage the forward patrols of the Federal Army. Mini-gun rounds tore fist-sized holes in bodies as missile fire engaged every aircraft along the road into Thunder Bay. The Federal soldiers within the city hugged the earth as, coming behind the waves of attack aircraft, long-range artillery fire began to engage their positions.

  The First Armored Division had done its best to protect its flanks as is moved down Highway 17 towards Thunder Bay itself. However, the area was rural, at places heavily-wooded, and there simply was not time for a methodical advance. Federal forces engaged the Western Army in a series of running skirmishes up and down the road, firing anti-tank missiles from the woods only to be subjected to punishing gun and artillery fire.

  General Price dared not to sally forth from his positions with any unit bigger than a platoon. Units caught in the open would be subjected to air, artillery, and ground attack and there was every reason to believe that many of his non-veteran soldiers would crack under that sort of pressure. Instead, he was left with no choice except to largely wait and hope that the enemy would, forced to move against its better military judgement for political reasons, dash itself to pieces against the rock that he hoped his army was

  Still, despite this, he was a gambling man. The CF-18s that had been ceded to his operational control had, during the early fighting, shown themselves to be incapable of really contending for command of the skies. That did not mean, he reflected, that they were wholly useless. The remaining fighters would be annihilated in an extended battle of attrition, but they could be made to be useful nonetheless.

  “Get me Major Sanders,” he snapped to his aide.

  Generals Wayne and Jackson had both moved to the Western Expeditionary Force’s Forward Command Post as the final stages of the attack began. The forces in Thunder Bay were formidable, but both Generals believed that they were green and likely to suffer severely under real combat stress. With the political clock ticking, they had agreed that they could not wait out a prolonged siege. Nor could such a force be left to their rear. Instead, they had decided that they would take the position at a run.

  “First Brigade is ahead of schedule,” noted Jackson as he surveyed the array of electronic maps in front of him. He took another sip of his can of his Coke Zero - obtained from a looted Safeway in Winnipeg - and looked at the latest updates as they flashed across the screen.

  “Yeah, we’re making good time,” replied Wayne, “the real challenge will come when we start to hit some of these prepared positions. That should begin happening in about an hour
or so.”

  “That should be enough time for another round of air strikes... provided that the pilots are in shape for it,” said Jackson.

  “Today they’ll fly around the fucking clock,” replied the representative of the Air Force attached to the headquarters.

  “Just this fight,” said Wayne, “and I have to believe that the Federals will quit the war. Just this fight.”

  “I think that we’re going to have to make plans to press beyond Thunder Bay,” replied Jackson.

  “I don’t think so. I think that they’ll quit if we whip them one more tim,” said Wayne.

  Jackson looked back up at the big board. He had some time before more intense fighting began.

  “I’ll be right back,” he declared, stepping out the door before anyone could react.

  Jackson walked across an dirt road, heading towards a group of trees. As he walked he stopped to check his phone. Civil war or not, someone was keeping these things running - even if they avoided using them for the most sensitive of communications. He flipped through his e-mails. One, this one from back home, had a couple of attachments. He put the phone back into his pocket.

  When he reached the clearing, Jackson unzipped his pants and quickly relieved himself against a tree. He then zipped up and turned around to head back into the cabin. However, after he had walked fifteen feet, he stopped and pulled the phone back out of his pocket. It was getting a signal, but only a low-quality one. It’d take forever, he realized, to download the pictures sent to him. After checking the time and confirming that he did, in fact, have a few minutes he turned around and began to walk up a nearby hill in search of better cellular service.

  As he reached the crest of the hill, his phone caught LTE service for the first time all day. With that available, he began to grab the attachments sent to him. The pictures, he now saw, were from his mother’s birthday party. With a moderate level of interest he began to flip through them. He was on the third of six pictures when a tremendous force knocked him flat on his face.

  Though slightly dazed, Jackson was able to quickly jump to his feet and turned around to find the building that had been serving as his and Wayne’s joint headquarters blown apart, the ruins in flames. Jackson began running down the hill in the direction of the fiery ruins - together with two dozen sentries who had been guarding the secluded location - but as he approached his eyes told him that there was almost no hope for anyone who had been inside the building. The wooden structure had been intended to be a concealed headquarters, not a fortified one. The thousand pound bomb that had struck it had simply blown the place apart.

  “It looks like we got them, General,” the Air Force Colonel reported to General Price as they watched the fresh video from the CF-18’s cameras on their computer screens.

  “That’s the problem with having so many mercenaries - they’re people who you know have a price,” replied the General nonchalantly.

  “What did we have to promise them anyways?” an aide asked.

  “It doesn’t really matter,” replied Price, “he was inside there.”

  General Jackson found a vehicle with a working radio at the side of the road. Other rescuers had already arrived on the scene, but it hadn’t taken them long to confirm Jackson’s snap conclusion: he was the only survivor from the Command Post.

  Sloppy, sloppy, sloppy. Fuck. Jackson cursed inwardly while struggling to maintain outwards composure. They should have been in a fucking bunker - and they certainly shouldn’t have had their staffs together, chatting and laughing like they were doing some sort of table-top exercise. In addition to General Wayne, they had just lost a lot of the men who knew how to keep food and fuel flowing to this army. None of those people would be easy to replace. Whoever had had planned the operation must have known that.

  They could scratch together a staff from the rest of the Corps’ officers, but that would mean stealing the men and women who kept brigades and companies running effectively. Jackson made some rapid mental calculations. There had been no signs, before the bombing, and there were no signs now of a general advance by the Federal Army. They intended to hold, poke at them, and hope that politics would achieve the rest of their objectives. Well, he thought, fuck that.

  “All units,” he broadcast from his radio and in the clear, “this is General Jackson. You are ordered to commence the attack.”

  A fearful artillery barrage began to strike at the First Brigade, Quebec Volunteer Infantry Division. The unit, quickly constituted during the rapid Federal buildup after Second Vancouver, had a high percentage of veteran soldiers in its ranks in addition to a number of ardent volunteers. However, even the most-hardened veterans of the brigade - men who had served in Afghanistan for years - had faced anything like what was raining down upon them now. The Western artillery batteries held nothing back, maintaining a continuous rain of high explosive 155mm projectiles upon the forward positions held by the Federal army. The intensity of the shelling would have been more familiar to the great-grandfathers of those veteran soldiers who had served on the Western Front during the Great War. The shells burst over the well-dug trenches, inflicting fairly light casualties by shaking the earth anew every few seconds.

  Sergeant Will Grayson had served in Kandahar and had been under fire dozens of times. As the artillery fire continued - though it had now seemed to shift to more distant targets with fewer bursts overhead - he moved up and down the trench line that had been dug, seeking to comfort men who were clinging to the ground.

  “Jack?” he asked one weeping teenager. The boy looked up at him.

  “Man,” he breathed, wheezing as he spoke, “I didn’t think that it would be like this.”

  “No one ever does,” he replied.

  The teenager sobbed and held his arms tightly to his chest.

  “But what we’re doing here is important. We’re fighting to hold a country together. Do you understand that? Our fathers and grandfathers built this country and now these people,” he gestured towards the Western Army, “just want to take it, without a real vote even, and walk off with so much of what they built and fought for. And we can’t let that happen.”

  The teenager was rocking back and forth. But he was also listening.

  “I know that you’re scared. Everyone here is. But it’s what we do when we’re frightened that does us the most credit.”

  The teenager nodded. He said nothing, but he picked up his rifle. Grayson patted him on the shoulder.

  “Ok. That’s good,” he said.

  Grayson made his way up and down the line. Visibility was terrible. He could hear his own artillery shooting back - he could see some of the rounds tracing across the sky - but he couldn’t make out much more than that. As shells continued to burst over his position, he and his men continued to stay as low as possible.

  After nearly an hour, someone began dropping smoke rounds directly on his position. Realizing what this might mean, he and the Lieutenant in command of the platoon began to move up and down the line, checking in with men and preparing them for an assault that they knew had to be coming.

  The first round of smoke came and went. The shelling continued. Even Grayson began to tire as the night wore on.

  At 3AM a fearful blast of fire began to rain down upon the Federal trench. In addition to the long-range artillery fire, short-range mortars began to fall upon it. Soldiers who attempted to get up to take a look were shot by snipers. Two minutes later, with vehicle engines audible over the din, a steady rain of machine gun bullets fell upon the position. Their cameras and sensors reported tanks nearby and a few were sighted on infrared sensors, but no one was able to get up and survive long enough for an anti-tank missile to be launched. Frantic, they began to radio command for support. There was none available, the high command radioed back, and anyways other units elsewhere along the line reported far larger concentrations of armor. The smaller Federal tank force would have to be held back to cope with a massed attack, not to deal with well-dispersed penny packets
of the things.

  The noise of the engines drew closer. Grayson poked his head up to look. He couldn’t see through the smoke, but he could hear. In frustration, be blindly fired a clip from his rifle in the direction of the enemy before diving for the cover of the trench.

  Distant sounds began to reverberate closer as Grayson gritted his teeth in frustration. To attempt to mount a counterattack versus the level of incoming fire they were facing would be suicidal, but to do nothing was incredibly painful. He popped his head up over the edge of the trench once more, surveying the scene for a few seconds before once more seeking shelter.

  “We have tanks approaching our lines. They’re within a few hundred meters. We need support now,” he hissed into the radio receiving static as a response.

  He listened closer. Not only were the tanks coming, but they were coming in fast. Something in the back of his mind leaped to something from the distant past, something that he’d read in a history book about the Gulf War.

  “Get out of this fucking trench now, if you want to live!” he shouted, grabbing his rifle and attempting to lead his men over the top. As he scrambled over the edge, he got his first clear glimpse of the tanks, now just barely in front of him and coming in at high speed - they’d had improved bulldozer blades attached to them, which they were now driving into the earth before them. Grayson charged forward almost two feet before a portion of his head was cleaved away by a .50 caliber machine gun bullet, throwing what was left of him backwards into the trench. The Private who he had comforted earlier lingered for some hours longer, breathing his last labored and terrified breaths below the tons of dirt which the Western bulldozer blades had managed to dump upon him and the rest of his comrades.