The Second Civil War- The Complete History

by Adam Yoshida

  “How bad is the damage?” asked Michael Nelson.

  “The reports are incomplete,” said Preston, “but they took out of a lot of irreplaceable targets. Bridges. Power plants. Railway yards. They knew not only where to hit us, but they also knew where we wouldn’t be looking. We had our guard down, and what air assets we had were focused on protecting military assets. We just hadn’t come to think of things in quite that way.”

  “Can we hit them back?” asked the Acting President.

  “We can hit them - and we can hurt them,” confirmed General Monroe, “but I don’t recommend it.”

  “Neither do I,” added Preston.

  “Explain,” said Rickover.

  “Well,” said Monroe, “we’ve already managed to attrition them somewhat on their way out. And now we will hit their air bases… But in terms of destroying civilian infrastructure. Well, Mr. President, we’re going to have to rebuild anything that we destroy someday. Furthermore, indiscriminate air attacks are likely to alienate people whose support we’re going to need. They’ve chosen to attack us in this way because, frankly, they’re running out of good short-term military options. They can clearly see us preparing to move and they want to disrupt our planning for Vera Cruz.”

  “But our air power is superior,” pointed out Rickover.

  “Undoubtedly, Mr. President,” conceded General Monroe, “but it’s a matter of having the correct targets to strike. When we open up Vera Cruz we’ll use that air power to shield our own forces and then to provide close air support, but we don’t have strategic targets that we can effectively hit. For the moment, even attacks against military targets at long distance are going to be ineffective because they’re going to be defended and the ranges mean that we won’t be able to bring serious firepower to bear

  The Acting President nodded solemnly before placing his hands on the tablet in front of him.

  “Most of their military targets are hardened, to be sure. But I was reading an interesting story this morning.”

  Rickover manipulated the controls on his tablet to display the article on the large screen that stood at the front of the room. It was a piece from the New York Times discussing complaints about housing conditions on the handful of improvised bases where over a million new recruits were being trained to form the nucleus of the new Army of the United States.

  “I’m glad to know that, even in the midst of civil war, the New York Times is still on the ‘women, minorities hardest hit’ beat,” commented Preston to general laughter from around the room.

  “I’ve been reading these reports,” said Rickover, “that you sent over in the last few hours about the disposition of their air power. It’s certainly true that Washington and select other bases are well-defended. But how strong can the defenses of these new camps where they have a million fresh recruits stuffed together in temporary housing be?”

  Preston and Monroe both looked down at the table.

  “Need I remind you,” said the Acting President, “that they are the ones who struck from the air first? Or, for that matter, that these camps are stuffed with criminals and illegal aliens who are taking up arms for the sake of effecting the destruction of liberty?”

  “Mr. President,” said Secretary Huffington, “the press would be remarkably ugly…”

  “Fuck the press,” said Rickover, “they’re against us anyways. If we bomb anything it’s going to be ugly, because that’s just how those people operate. There’s an old maxim that I am fond of: if you’re going to be blamed for something anyways, you might as well do it.”

  The Acting President went back to his tablet, typing away for ten seconds before looking back up.

  “General,” he said, “what are the Air Force’s stocks of Mk. 77 bombs running at these days?”

  The Secretary and the General both shuddered.

  Camp Cesar Chavez, Near Oceanside, California

  Since the advent of the Rebellion had left most of the major training facilities of the U.S. armed forces in the hands of the Rebel government, the men and women who had planned for the training of the new Army of the United States had been forced to improvise using a mix of existing bases and new ones thrown together in great haste.

  Newly-promoted First Lieutenant Alvaro Ramirez was one of thousands of young soldiers pulled off of the line to attempt to bring some order to the great mass of humanity that the President’s decree had brought into the new armed forces.

  At least a lot of the fuckers already know some basic firearms skills, thought Ramirez, even if half of them want to turn their weapons over forty-five degrees for some stupid fucking reason.

  “Attention!” shouted the Company’s First Sergeant, who six weeks earlier had been a newly-minted E-5.

  “Alright!” shouted Ramirez as he strode in front of the men, “I know that you aren’t fully-trained soldiers yet. And you know that I’m doing the job of a Captain with at least half a decade more experience than I have. All of this is irregular. We’re just going to have to work on it together.”

  “Most of you are here because you’ve been given a second chance in life, just like this country is getting a second chance. For the majority of you it’s either onwards to victory or back to jail - or back to Mexico - whichever is worse. That’s the reality.”

  “I’m not going to linger on the politics of the situation. But the reality for all of us here is that the government, such as it is, doesn’t have the resources to train you in the traditional way. The Rebels took almost all of the big bases and most the trainers too. It’s going to take a year to get things put back together the traditional way and we just don’t have the time. So, instead, we’re going to train together and then we’re going to go to war together.”

  “Platoons, fall out!” ordered Ramirez as a trio of brand-new Second Lieutenants, community college drop-outs even younger than he, took charge of their platoons for the first time and manoeuvred them onto the freshly-cleaned physical training grounds.

  “You’ve been in the shit. How do you think they’ll do, LT?” the First Sergeant whispered as the ragged formations began to recede from view in the distance.

  “A lot of people are going to die, Sergeant,” replied Ramirez sadly.

  U.S. House of Representatives, Temporary Seat of the Government of the United States, Colorado Springs, CO

  “Pursuant to the rule the House will now move to the vote on final passage of H.R. 1114,” said the presiding officer monotonously as Michael Nelson watched from his seat in the former auditorium.

  “You know, Mike,” said Theresa Rowan quietly as the Majority Leader flipped through the papers on the desk in front of him, “there are even some people in the Conference who don’t like this bill.”

  Of course, it went without saying that the opinion of the House Republican Conference was the only one that really mattered within the Rebel version of the House of Representatives, where Republicans held four out of five seats and most of the rest were held by a mix of Libertarians and independents who were, in many cases, further to the right than the Republicans themselves.

  “Yeah?” said Nelson, barely looking up from his papers, “well, fuck them.”

  “Mike, listen to me,” said Theresa, “a lot of people are getting concerned with the direction of the government. We Rebelled because we were concerned about too much government control, and now we have the states issuing scrip and we’re passing a law that provides for this so-called ‘War Emergency Court’ in order to try people who’ve already been convicted…”

  “Of offenses that they have not already been convicted of,” emphasized Nelson.

  “Nevertheless, it looks like a Kangaroo Court designed to give a veneer of legality to the desire of some to simply put people to death,” said Rowan.

  “Why, Theresa,” replied the Majority Leader, “that’s because that’s exactly what it is. And I’ll be damned if I’m being lectured to about it at a time when we can barely afford to feed and heat the homes of almost
two hundred million Americans. Fuck it, Khalid Sheik Mohammed and the rest of his ilk deserved to die and now they’re all going to.”

  The Deputy Majority Whip stepped back slightly and looked sadly at the ground.

  “Oh, just go ahead and cry already,” said Nelson, “you and the rest of your lot are as much to blame for this situation as anyone on the other side. Every time you lost your nerve and pushed for a little bit more compromise - every time you helped to torpedo a decent patriot because he didn’t quite meet your standards of niceness and civility - you helped to move us a little bit closer to the fucking edge.”

  “That’s not fair,” said Rowan, “I’ve stood with you all the way and I’m for this bill.”

  “Then be for this bill!” shouted Nelson, attracting looks from around the chamber.

  “That goes for the whole lot of you!” shouted the Majority Leader at those gazing at him, “this is a time to stand up and be counted for this country, not to sit on the sidelines and whine!”

  Chicago, Illinois

  The former First Lady had, in all of her infinite wisdom, allowed the former President to have for himself the main room in the basement of the eleven bedroom house that she had insisted they buy after he’d left the White House. Finding the money to buy the place had been a hard slog, however, because - by the time that he’d left Washington - not all that many Americans were really all that interested in much of what he had to say. His earlier books, dubious tomes of marginal quality, had sold well thanks to the curiosity factor that had existed during his epic campaign for and early years in the White House. Selling enough copies of his Presidential memoirs in order to pay for the ten thousand square foot monstrosity in which he now lived, however, had required calling in almost every favor within his grasp. Still, the former First Lady had insisted and she was someone who no one ever liked to see angry, least of all her husband. As a result, reflected the former President, there were probably hundreds of thousands of copies of his last book sitting in the basements of union halls and universities all across the nation.

  During the early days of the crisis, the former President had held out hope that his successor would call upon him for assistance. After all, thanks to his two terms in the White House, he’d was one of the only men living who knew what it was like to sit in that place and make (or avoid, as was often true in his own case) momentous decisions. But the call from the President, for whom he had campaigned in his race for Virginia Governor, had never come and so the former President had sat in his basement and waited.

  The former President inhaled deeply, holding the smoke back in his lungs for as long as he could before releasing it in a spasm. One positive side-effect of the war, he reflected, was the way that it had sent prices dropping like a rock. The giant bag he’d bought last week had cost, in grand total, less than $10/oz. Anyone and everyone who could was growing the stuff in order to try and bring in a little something extra during these trying times.

  Still, when the Great Mutiny had begun, the first calls had begun to come in. Not from the President, of course, but from others who were beginning to worry. At first they were calling just to “check in” or to “ask for advice” but, after Pueblo, the calls had begun to take a sharper form and to gain in urgency. He knew a lot about the military and the rest of the national security establishment and he did not think highly of their ability or their loyalty. He, for one, did not think that such elements of it as were still clustered around Kevin Bryan would be enough to overcome the strength of the Rebellion.

  And what then?

  If the Rebels were to defeat the Federal Government, he and others asked themselves, were those who supported the existing government and its vision of a new and more progressive America to simply surrender themselves to be governed by armed reactionaries? Or was more drastic action called for?

  That was where the former President had come back into the picture. He was the contingency plan. Even if he was far from universally beloved, even in the parts of the country who had voted for him twice, he was at least acceptable. There were enough people who had the faded posters up on the wall and just a little bit of the Kool-Aid still flowing through their veins to make him a viable option. The fact that the regular political process was more or less in abeyance for the duration, furthermore, made him really the only choice.

  The phone rang and the former President set down his joint in one of the ash trays that his wife had had the foresight to steal from the White House on their way out the door.

  “Hello?” he said.

  “Mr. President,” began the voice of Secretary of Defense Gerald Ransom, “I just wanted to check in with you and keep you up to date on how things are going in Washington.”

  “I appreciate that, Mr. Secretary,” said the former President, pursing his lips. They had to be very careful in their electronic communications. Even if the Rebels had managed to destroy a number of the systems in their way out of D.C., the former President knew better than anyone just how thoroughly communications could be monitored in this day and age.

  “We’ve seen some hopeful developments,” said Ransom, “certainly, recruiting is up very substantially after the President’s decree. In fact, our problem now is acquiring enough weapons and supplies for all of the potential soldiers that we have, quite the opposite of the problem that we had a few months ago. And, by all accounts, our bombing attacks were effective in disrupting Rebel infrastructure.”

  “For which the Air Force paid a pretty substantial price,” noted the former President.

  “Once they hit back, to be sure,” conceded Ransom, “but it’s very much a question of relative strength. They can’t win back time.”

  “Will you still need my help?” asked the former President, with perhaps excessive bluntness.

  “Oh, certainly, Mr. President,” said the Defense Secretary, “in fact, the President’s actions - in having strengthened our military hand - make your continued support more essential than ever. By the way, Sal will be in Chicago soon. I’ve asked him to come and visit you. I hope that’s alright.”

  “Sal?” said the former President, “it’s been years. I’ll have to look forward to that.”

  U.S. Senate, Temporary Seat of the Government of the United States, Colorado Springs, CO

  Mitchell Randall looked across the nearly-empty chamber that served as the temporary meeting-place of the United States Senate in Colorado. The former Governor of Washington had been one of four Governors who had responded to the vacancies created in the Rebel Senate when the Senators who had remained in Washington had been expelled by arranging to have themselves appointment to the Senate. Historically, of course, this had been a poor move. In fact, only a single Governor to ever attempt such a stunt had been re-elected. But war, as it tended to do, had seemingly changed the rules.

  Besides, as was the case for two of the other Governors-turned-Senators, it was hardly as if he had much to do at home. Most of the State of Washington was occupied by the Loyalist government based out of D.C. Spokane already had a Mayor and most of the Administrative machinery of the government of Washington had aligned itself with the new government and Governor installed by the Loyalist military in Seattle. Senator Randall could make a pretty convincing case that, in resigning as Governor and leaving the rump government in Eastern Washington behind, he was doing his utmost to serve the people of Washington.

  “Mr. President,” began Randall as he rose to speak on the Senate floor, “the time has come for us, in light of the recent resumption of active hostilities between our government and the legacy government in the District of Columbia, to ask ourselves just what it is that we are fighting for. The time has come for a reassessment of objectives and a realignment of priorities, before this spins wholly out-of-control and becomes, quite simply, a fight to the death or leads to a permanent division of this nation - neither of which, I believe, is in the interests of the people of the United States.”

  “Somewhere there must be some middle
ground, a place where we could find shelter. There must somewhere be a place where we can be safe still.”

  “We know that we are strong. The world knows that. Our friends - and they remain our friends - in the rest of the country know it as well. We can negotiate from a position of strength, but negotiate we must unless we intend to drop truly and hopelessly into the abyss. We have seen a future of darkness and we can turn back from it.”

  421st Fighter Squadron, Near Oceanside, California

  Major Alison Miller had been one of many to win rapid promotion in the early days of the war. Her performance over Pueblo had earned her a promotion to Major and the command of the re-organized 421st Fighter Squadron. Today she was leading sixteen F-16Cs across the clear blue skies of California. The fighters shot beautifully through the brilliantly-lit day at nearly two thirds of the speed of sound. For a woman who had dreamed of such heroic vistas even as a little girl, it ought to have been the culmination of a dream.

  Her task this day, however, was a nightmare.

  The sixteen Falcons were carrying a mix of weapons. Major Miller and three others were flying aircraft outfitted with strong packages of air-to-air missiles. Over one hundred miles to the east, an E-3 Sentry AWACS was carefully sweeping the sky, keeping a watchful eye on any activity by Federal aircraft.

  “Echo Six, Showtime,” Miller’s radio crackled to life, “you have eight hostiles inbound at zero-nine-zero relative to your position, range one hundred. Looks like F-16s, over.”

  “Acknowledged Showtime,” replied Miller, “moving to engage. Out.”

  “Echo Flight, Echo Six. All escorts on me. Everyone else, proceed to the target. Out.” called out the Major.

  Miller’s F-16 banked swiftly to the right, followed by the three other escort aircraft. The sleek fighters moved beyond the speed of sound as they quickly began to close range with the other aircraft.