The Second Civil War- The Complete History

by Adam Yoshida

  “I appreciate the consideration that you’ve shown for the wholly-unique situation in which we have found ourselves, Mr. President,” said Mackenzie, “and I appreciate the reality that we cannot possibly wait much longer, given the political considerations that exist today.”

  “I should add,” said the General, gesturing towards the corner of the room, “that the arrangement that you made to accommodate General King has also proven to be very effective so far.”

  Sitting off to the side, Major General Augustus King nodded and displayed a slight smile. In the aftermath of Pueblo, the President had granted and the Senate had confirmed a direct Army commission for him in order to place the relationship between Praetorian and the U.S. Government on a more formal basis. As the first step in the formalization of that relationship, King had signed an all-services contract between Praetorian and the government on an even-cost basis. Naturally, there had been some resistance to this notion even among the patriotic shareholders in Praetorian, until it was quietly noted that, per the terms of the agreement, Praetorian would also be granted a waiver, signed by the President and the Attorney General, from certain conflict-of-interest rules and other regulations and, further, that the agreement called for them to be paid in chained pre-war Dollars in such currency or form as Praetorian chose, rather than to be paid in the newly-issued “War Dollars.” In the long-term, of course, this meant rather handsome profits for Praetorian as they were able to take payment in the form of Gold or other hard currency and then invest in speculative War Bonds or other financial instruments denominated in “War Dollars”, which presently sold at a large discount, but which would be redeemed for chained-value pre-war Dollars some two years after the conclusion of hostilities. Some people were certain to brand this arrangement as a form of “war profiteering” but, as King was quick to point out, if it were so it were wholly patriotic war profiteering, since Praetorian would only profit (in fact, would only survive) if the Rebel government won the war.

  “I think that we’ve all benefited from the range of services that Praetorian and other patriotic companies have provided thus far,” said the President sardonically.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. President, we’ll see you through,” replied King.

  No. 10 Downing Street, London, United Kingdom

  Prime Minister Henry Blunt surveyed the room with bleary eyes. The woeful performance of the last Conservative Prime Minister had put him, the son of a communist academic, into power and the split between pro and anti-EU forces on the right that had blossomed into a full-on civil war (one of the few of the metaphorical kind left in this particular world, he reflected), had given him another term as First Lord of the Treasury, but it had done damned little to make his job easy.

  And that, he thought, was before America decided to blow itself and half of the fucking world to Hell.

  “…Prime Minister?” the electronically-modulated voice of the German Chancellor came across the speaker phone, snapping Blunt back to attention.

  “Yes, Chancellor,” said Blunt, his voice raising to an unexpectedly high volume.

  “As I was saying, if we had a free vote in the Bundestag today, they would surely vote to bring all of our troops home…”

  “I think that the same could be safely said of the House of Commons,” said the Prime Minister crisply.

  “I don’t have to deal with such constraints,” interjected the French President, “but I agree with you that our intervention is unpopular.”

  “It’s been nearly eighty years since Germans have seen their soldiers coming home in body bags,” continued the Chancellor, “it would be impossible, but for the enemy that we are fighting over there.”

  “Yes,” admitted the Prime Minister, “our propaganda in that field has been effective. Perhaps too effective, I have to say that my own party would probably throw me overboard if I tried to discontinue our struggle against this modern fascist threat, as it has been put.”

  “What we need,” said the French President, “is some kind of third way… Some sort of alternative solution to the American problem. I am in the same position as you. The support for large losses is negligible, but we’ve built this up to be practically a fight against Nazis. And you can imagine how the French people feel about surrender to Nazis.”

  The Prime Minister stifled a laugh before continuing to speak.

  “I agree with you in theory, Monsieur le Président,” said Blunt, “but I must say, having spoke to Bryan on these matters I have found him to be supremely inflexible.”

  “That is my experience as well,” chimed in the German Chancellor.

  “Well perhaps,” said the French President, “there is a third way there as well.”

  Arlington, VA

  General Richard Hall had known when the Secretary of Defense had quietly asked him to meet him at an out-of-the-way Dennys in Arlington that the subject could not be anything any good.

  “My security people are here,” said Secretary Ransom, “I’m confident that we won’t be listened to here. We might be seen, but I’m sure that this place isn’t bugged.”

  “Ok,” replied General Hall non-committally.

  “Can I ask you a direct question?” said the Secretary.

  “Yes,” said Hall.

  “Do you think that this President has what it takes to reunite this country?” said Ransom.

  “I’m a soldier, not a politician,” said Hall, giving a stock answer.

  “Forget that bullshit,” said Ransom, “this is a civil war. Everything about it is political.”

  “I realize that,” said Hall, “but, at the same time, the military - especially in a conflict of this nature - must be apolitical even if the choice of allegiance itself is, in a sense, political. But it shouldn’t be. The principal by which those members of the military who have remained loyal have adhered is ensuring that the military is robustly non-political.”

  “Ok,” said the Secretary, “I don’t know your politics. As far as I can tell, you’ve always been a registered independent. And, even then you haven’t always voted. You know mine: I’m a dedicated progressive. And I can tell you right now that I am very afraid for the future of our country. I believe in the Constitution as it was written and as it has existed through my entire life. What the Rebels want to do, basically, is to take the Constitution back into the 19th Century. They want to strip away voting and civil rights from millions of citizens and to take this country back, economically, to where it was before the New Deal. I don’t think that you want it and I don’t think that the majority of the American people want that.”

  “I do not disagree with you on any specific point,” said General Hall cautiously.

  “We need to adjust the thinking of the President - or whatever the national leadership ends up being. Do you think that we can defeat the Rebels? I’ll tell you frankly, I don’t. More of the military went with them and they control the parts of the country with the most people - and the right sort of people - who want to fight. If this becomes a war of total annihilation, they’ll win and then they will impose their Constitutional settlement on the entire country.”

  “My position has always been,” said Hall slowly, “that the military owes a Constitutional duty of loyalty to legitimate government. I would think, Mr. Secretary, that any attempt at an extra-Constitutional seizure of power would cause the defection of anyone whose support for this current government is founded upon that rock.”

  “Any extra-Constitutional attempt to seize power would be wrong,” agreed Ransom, “and I would be against it. But need such an act be necessarily extra-Constitutional? There are many potential options before us.”

  “This conversation is steering into a dangerous area, Mr. Secretary. In fact, it already is,” said Hall.

  “The time will come, General, when you and I - and everyone else in service to the nation - will have to decide what cause they really serve,” said Ransom simply, getting up and buttoning his jacket.

  Near San Diego
, California

  These days most of the food that was required to feed the residents of the vast urban concentrations of people that littered the California coast had to be trucked up from Mexico, given that much of the interior of the state was in Rebel hands and its food supplies were being trucked to the east.

  “Jesus,” said Second Lieutenant Alvaro Ramirez as he watched a procession of eighteen-wheelers race down California State Route 125. In an effort to throw insurgents off, convoys of food and other materials used all of the major north-south routes from California and into Mexico. In some ways, Lieutenant Ramirez even preferred the more-isolated SR125. Along the I-5 to the west, insurgents could snipe and even launch missiles against supply convoys and escape without ever placing themselves at serious risk. Here he and the rest of his platoon of California National Guardsmen could call upon regular support from roving squadrons of attack helicopters to support their movement.

  “All clear ahead,” came the call cleanly across the radio of the up-armored HUMVEE that Ramirez was riding in. More than a few of the old-timers in the unit had compared convoy escort duty along the US-Mexican frontier and other high-value areas with a large concentration of insurgents to their service in Iraq. Of course, Ramirez had just been a boy back in those days.

  “My wife signed up for one of those identity swap websites,” one of his soldiers was chattering in the back.

  “How’s that working out?” replied his friend.

  “Fine,” said the first soldier, “so long as the Feds and the Rebels never swap notes.”

  Because of the extreme internal displacement within the United States as a result of the war and with some rationing in effect on both sides more than a few people had figured out how to exploit the system by signing up for ration books in both the Rebel and Loyalist areas and then swapping ration books with someone who lived in an area under the political control of the other side.

  “Knock it off,” said Ramirez, “if you’re going to talk about fucking crimes on government property, at least don’t do it in front of an officer.”

  Both of the soldiers, each a much-older man, shot the Lieutenant a look as if to say, “stupid kid,” but, mercifully, they each also shut up.

  The sound of an explosion interrupted the silence.

  “Echo 11 is hit,” came a call across the radio net as Ramirez craned his neck to get a good view of a burning semi-trailer a few hundred feet in front of him.

  “Fucking RPGs,” muttered Ramirez. The simple and deadly RPG-7, the old-fashioned rocket propelled grenades designed by the USSR, had never really been utilized by the US Military in any organized fashion, but the Rebels had a lot of the Goddamned things and knew how to use them. The media said they had been shipped over to Southern ports by the Israelis, but Ramirez lacked 100% confidence in that statement. Even a Loyalist soldier such as he knew that the official media was slightly unbalanced when it came to the Israelis.

  “Keep moving,” ordered Ramirez into his radio as the driver of his HUMVEE manoeuvred to bring the vehicle alongside the burning truck.

  “Topsider, this is Bravo 6. Did you see where that came from? Over,” asked Ramirez.

  “Negative Bravo 6,” came back the call from the orbiting Kiowa Warrior attack helicopter, an ancient relic pulled out of a depot somewhere and forced backed into service.

  “Do you think he’s still alive?” Ramirez asked his driver as they approached the truck.

  “Looks like they hit the trailer, not the cabin,” observed the driver.

  “Ok,” said Ramirez, “we’ll stop, but everyone else keeps moving.”

  There were general groans from the crew inside the HUMVEE. The Lieutenant ignored them as he again went for his radio.

  “Topsider, Bravo 6. I think that the driver is still alive in the burning semi. We’re going to go and get him out of there. Can you cover us? Over.”

  “Roger that, Bravo 6,” signalled back Topsider, “we’re headed in for a closer look. Out.”

  “Alright,” said Ramirez as HUMVEE came to a stop, “look sharp. We’re going to get him out of there, and then we’re going to speed the fuck off.”

  Everyone was tense as the door opened. Everyone had experience in dealing with these insurgents and they knew that their favourite move was the so-called “double tap.” First they would strike at a soft target - just like the giant truck full of Twinkies that they’d hit - and then they’d pick off whoever came to the aid of the same.

  Ramirez was the first out the door, clutching his M4 carbine tight to his chest as he raced towards the door of the burning truck. A bullet raced over his head as he surged forward. He felt it before he heard it, the air next to him being disturbed in the moments before the first bullet landed against the wreck with a thud.

  “Sniper,” he called into his radio. He could hear as the Kiowa Warrior above him changed course to attempt to search for the Rebels hiding in the nearby sand.

  As Ramirez approached the cab, he could see the driver of the truck still buckled into his seat. From twenty feet away, he appeared to be breathing. The Lieutenant surged forward towards the door of the truck. He was just reaching towards the handle when some instinct compelled him to throw himself against the dirt. As he dove, he bumped up against the edge of the bottom step, leaving himself momentarily dazed. The bullets missed him, but one of them crashed through the glass of the cabin window and transformed the head of the driver into an ungodly mess. Seeing the handiwork of the Rebels, Ramirez turned away from the truck back towards the HUMVEE just as, in the distance, he heard the Kiowa Warrior open fire with its .50 cal machine gun.

  “Well, he’s dead now,” he said as he walked towards the door of the HUMVEE, his shoulder slightly slumped, “let’s get the fuck out of here.”

  Borough of Manhattan, New York, New York

  In both war and peace the business of New York City went on. Detective Juan Mancini sipped his cup of coffee as he paged through the forensic reports from the crime scene of one of his open homicides.

  “Why bother with that?” said his partner, Detective Tom Brody, as he walked by Mancini and looked over his shoulder.

  “It’s still not cleared,” said Mancini, not bothering to look up.

  “Who gives a shit?” said Brody, dropping into his chair and leaning back.

  Brody had a point. It was a terribly frustrating, almost pointless case. A bankrupt ex-Hedge Fund master of the universe had shown up dead three weeks earlier in Central Park, shot twice in the head at close range. His ex-wife and children hadn’t bothered to attend the funeral. He was hardly a sympathetic victim - just another asshole ruined when the market fell apart during the days leading up to the Great Mutiny and the war.

  “I do. It’s my case,” said Mancini.

  “Fuck, I doubt if even the Mayor or the Commissioner give a shit about this one. Prioritizing limited resources and all of that shit,” said Brody.

  “The job is to close the case,” said Mancini, “and this one is solvable.”

  “Be careful, or people are going to think that you’ve got a hard-on for the Wall Street crowd.”

  “Fuck that. A victim is a victim.”

  The NYPD, like every other institution in American life, was struggling to deal with the dislocations created by the war. The Mayor, a whole-hearted supporter of the Loyalist cause, along with his hand-picked police commissioner were attempting to maintain their popularity in the midst of one of the greatest economic downturns in the history of the world - and certainly in that of the City of New York - by turning their class war on the wealthy up to an eleven. That had continued even though, thanks to the severe turbulence in the financial sector created by the war and the policies of the Federal Government, many of the so-called “wealthy” were now struggling and some were practically destitute. The priority of the NYPD was now supposed to be community-based policing, for which the force was supposed to work with so-called “community leaders”, in particular those who were politically well-con
nected. In particular, these days NYPD was supposed to devote equal resources to the killings of the mighty and those of the low.

  “What’ve you got?” asked Brody, finally letting his curiosity get the better of him.

  “Someone found some casings in the trash. We ran them. They’re a match for two other unsolved murders.”

  “So? I mean, he was in debt to everyone possible and had lost people tens of millions of dollars. It stands to figure that someone had him taken out. Plenty of dangerous fuckers amongst his associates.”

  “Yeah,” conceded Mancini, “I know that was the theory. Our theory. And one of the other killings was of another Wall Street guy with an assload of debt. So that’d be consistent with contract killer, loan shark, whatever theory. But the third was of a woman, totally unconnected to anything like that.”

  “Could have been somehow,” said Brody, getting up and standing over Mancini’s shoulder to look at his tablet.

  “Well,” said Mancini, “it’s possible. Or it could be something else. Something isn’t right about this.”

  “Don’t get weird about this,” said Brody as he reached over to zoom in on the pictures of the casings, “you know that the Big Bearded Marxist has other priorities.”

  “Unprofessional for a hitter to leave so many casings laying around, though,” continued Brody as he looked at the zoomed in photograph.

  “Yes,” agreed Mancini, lost in thought, “strange.”

  Temporary Seat of the Government of the United States, Colorado Springs, Colorado

  “Well, ladies and gentlemen,” said Acting President Rickover as he examined the papers laid out before him, “I don’t know that we’re any further ahead than we were a week ago.”

  “The truth is, Mr. President,” said Interior Secretary Huffington, “that there are no good options. What we have here is a range of bad ones.”