by Adam Yoshida
From a practical point of view, the solution was natural and incredibly elegant. From a political point of view it had been a harder sell, but the President and the rest of his spin team had, in this case, done a masterful job of exploiting white guilt and the impossible-to-challenge fact that the overwhelming majority of the nation’s prisoners were racial minorities of one type or another.
The plan of attack was simple enough, at least from what had filtered down to Edmonds. The Army of the United States was setting a trap for the Arizona State Guard, which had inflicted substantial casualties upon them as they moved into the state. To date, State Guard units had not attempted to fight pitched battles but, instead, had largely restricted themselves to hit-and-run attacks. Attempts to date to fight back had been frustrated by the refusal of the State Guard to stay in any one location. Given their use of vehicles and mobility versus the fairly limited options available to the AUS, all it had been possible to do initially was to attempt to better protect convoys and respond to attacks as they occurred. Now, however, they were going to attempt something new: they had been given the resources to set a trap.
Overhead a trio of Predator drones were conducting a careful patrol as a dummy supply convoy was run from Wellton to Dateland, the forward-most town occupied by the Army of the United States. They were assisted in this by two Avenger drones, each loaded up with half a dozen Hellfire missiles. The trucks themselves were largely-empty. A handful of them, thanks to Loyalist elements in Silicon Valley, were even self-driving.
The driverless trucks were among the leading wave of vehicles. allowed to drive gingerly along the I-8 in the hopes of attracting Rebel missile fire. They did not have long to wait. The convoy was barely a mile outside of the town when the first missiles flew across the sky, streaking across the distance from their launch points to their targets in mere seconds before setting off a series of spectacular explosions.
“Got ‘em!” shouted one of the Specialists onboard the UH-60L as they observed the activity on the ground below. As soon as the Predators had spotted the Rebel troops they had opened fire on them with their Hellfire missiles, sending spectacular return fire across the sky that smartly made its way to the target and impacted with spectacular effect, tearing apart several of the Arizona militia’s “technicals” that were sitting on the ground below.
“Ok,” said the Platoon Sergeant, shouting to ensure that he was heard over the roar of the Black Hawk, “we’re putting down.”
The pilot took the Black Hawk down fast. Faster, in fact, than was generally considered safe. The Rebels definitely had RPGs and might even have shoulder-launched surface-to-air missiles. The pilot, a veteran of Afghanistan, knew to have healthy respect for both.
In landing a platoon worth of soldiers from a dozen different helicopters, the air was to cut off every possible avenue of retreat available to the Arizonan militia on the ground. The AUS commanders were under no illusions about what would follow next.
“Form up squads!” ordered the Platoon commander, a veteran Lieutenant who had accepted a transfer from the regular Army as soon as the helicopters had landed and disgorged their cargo.
In the distance, through a swirling cloud of dust, Edmonds could barely make out the fires caused by the impact of the Hellfire missiles. Off to his side, his squad commander gestured for his soldiers to follow him.
The squad began to move in the direction of the Rebel forces at a trot. After a few moments, another missile raced past them, coming so low that it flew almost directly over their heads, as it moved into the direction of and scored a direct hit against another one of the Rebel trucks.
“Fuck!” shouted Edmonds as the missile passed on by. As soon as it did he turned his head to face the mess of smashed vehicles. It was vital, he knew from his pre-mission briefing, that they maintain their distance until all of the vehicles, each equipped with a deadly M-60 machine gun, be disabled before they attempted a direct engagement.
Behind Edmonds, the platoon’s snipers set up firing positions and began to hone in upon the Rebel position. As soon as the other members of the platoon drew clear of the snipers’ line of fire, they began to systematically open fire against the Rebel vehicles and their crews, taking special care to ensure that anyone who attempted to man the machine gun positions on the trucks was engaged and fired upon. Through the haze Edmonds watched one of the Arizonian soldiers attempt to mount the back of the truck, only to be struck in the throat by a bullet that tore a great gaping wound in his neck and sent the man crashing to the ground.
There was at least one sniper among the Rebels as well, or at least someone with a long-range rifle with a scope. Rather than attempt to engage in counter-sniper fire, the Rebel instead began to fire upon the approaching Loyalist infantry. The soldier next to Edmonds, a teenager from Salem, Oregon, caught a bullet in the lower abdomen and fell to the ground screaming in pain. Edmonds dropped to the ground, taking advantage of a natural rise in the terrain to move himself out of the sniper’s field of vision. The Oregonian teenager wasn’t so lucky. As he writhed on the ground in pain he managed to roll over the crest of the small hill and come back into the view of the Rebel sniper, who, in turn, managed to put a bullet directly into the teenager’s brain, sending part of the kid’s skull and other biological material in Edmonds’ direction.
“Fuck!” said Edmonds, as he futilely attempted to wipe his uniform off.
“Grenades!” ordered the Squad commander. On hearing the order Edmonds reached into his pack and worked to carefully affix his M203 grenade launcher to his M16A2 rifle. After twenty seconds of fumbling, he and the other members of the squad were prepared.
“Fire!” ordered the Squad commander. On the order Edmonds and the rest of the members of the squad fired a dozen 40mm grenades in the direction of the Rebel position. The grenades landed within seconds, exploding with one thump after another. As soon as they had, the Squad commander gave the order for the entire squad to advance. Edmonds and the other soldiers took off at a run, moving as quickly as they could in the direction of the Rebel position.
From behind the smoking ruins of an old Ford, Edmonds observed a Rebel soldier rise up and prepare to fire his rifle. As soon as he did, Edmonds stopped and raised his own rifle. Edmonds managed to fire first, letting loose a three round burst that struck the cheek of the Rebel soldier. The relatively small 5.56mm round didn’t have quite the force of the bullets fired by the snipers, so instead of tearing away the man’s face it sunk in deeply. Somehow it managed to miss anything vital and so, fighting through the pain, the Rebel managed to raise his own rifle and fire a burst in return that narrowly missed Edmonds. As soon as the Rebel fired, however, another member of the squad managed to zero in on him and fire another burst that struck him in the chest with two out of three rounds, sending him to the ground in agony.
Edmonds charged forward, firing several bursts as he approached the Rebel position. One Rebel unwisely attempted to take flight, presenting his back as an inviting target to the Loyalist soldiers. A series of shots managed to send that the Rebel to the ground.
Running towards the Rebel position, Edmonds caught sight of another Rebel running off into the distance. He lowered his rifle and fired another burst that went wide. He attempted to fire again, only to realize that he was out of ammunition. As he was inserting another magazine into his M16, he saw the Rebel fall over backwards.
“Hold your fire!” ordered the squad commander.
“I think we got ‘em all!” Edmonds heard the Platoon commander shout from the other side as he and the other men erupted into wild cheers.
No. 10 Downing Street, London, United Kingdom
“The arrests have gone off almost without a hitch,” reported the Home Secretary as Prime Minister Blunt sat impassively at his desk.
“All of them?” asked Blunt.
“The Leader of the Opposition and Amery have both been taken into custody. There are a few MPs and others who haven’t been found yet, but the majorit
y of the significant figures are well in hand. There was some nasty business in Kensington - one of the MPs had an illegal gun and used it to attempt to resist. He was killed in the process and on PC was injured.”
“Oh my,” said the Prime Minister, “a terrible tragedy that, though it does rather reinforce the point that we are dealing with terroristic savages, does it not?”
“Yes, Prime Minister.”
“And elsewhere?” asked Blunt, turning to face the Foreign Secretary.
“Good progress is being made across the board,” reported Sir Gavin, “Europe-wide, the crackdown upon politicians and public figures who traffic in racial hatreds is being well-received in most quarters. There’s been rather a bit of resistance in a few places here and there, but that was to be expected.”
“Well, quite,” replied the Prime Minister.
Temporary Seat of the Government of the United States, Colorado Springs, Colorado
“They’ve done better than I would have expected,” admitted Mark Preston as the results of the Loyalist offensive flashed across the screen, “some of those Army of the United States troopers proved to be pretty tough in the field.”
“They were up against second-line troops,” said the Acting President in response.
“That’s true enough,” agreed Preston, “but they fought hard even when they were up against our first-line forces. Enough to push them back. Especially in Virginia. They managed to take back Norfolk.”
“Norfolk hasn’t been worth shit since the Great Mutiny,” said General Monroe derisively.
“It still has symbolic value,” said Preston.
“That and $20 will just about buy you a cup of decent coffee these days,” shot back Monroe.
“I don’t think that the frontiers in the east,” said Rickover, “are of particularly great concern. If we trade off some territory in Virginia, Michigan, Illinois, Ohio, and a few other places… Well, our control of the whole region is pretty fluid. I think we can live with that. Tell me about the West.”
“Well,” said Preston, “they took Reno and they control the highway in that entire area. Our best estimate is that the force there is about a division. And there are some regular forces there as well. They had air support as well.”
“Why wasn’t Reno better defended?” asked Rickover.
“We elected to concentrate forces to allow ourselves a range of options, Mr. President,” answered General Monroe.
“Which left our frontiers mostly defended by militia units.” said Rickover.
“Yes, Mr. President,” conceded Monroe, “because to launch large-scale offensive operations, we need a sufficient concentration of force with an ability to manoeuvre. We have thousands of miles worth of frontiers to defend. If we attempted to defend all of them, we’d have no more than a reinforced battalion as our strike force.”
“But now we have to reduce and defeat these forces before we can proceed with the offensive,” said the Acting President.
“I don’t know that that’s the case, Mr. President,” said Secretary Preston.
“Explain.”
“One option, certainly, is to proceed with Vera Cruz as planned. However, the dispersal of forces executed by the Washington government gives us another option: to double-down on concentration,” said Preston before gesturing towards Monroe to speak.
“Yes, Mr. President,” said General Monroe, pressing a few buttons to change the image on the central display, “the problem that the Loyalists now have is that they’ve split their forces up pretty good. It’s certainly true that there’s now a large force in the path of both our planned offensives out of Arizona and Nevada, but that also means that those forces are geographically dispersed and unable to offer mutual support to one another. Also, I should add, it’s a hell of a distance from Reno to just about anywhere. It’s not like they’re going to move from Reno to take the rest of Nevada. If they did, we’d give them one damned fine pasting from the air.”
“We go south,” said the Acting President.
“Right,” replied Monroe, “we double-down on the offensive in the south and move to decisively take Southern California from the Loyalists. Not only does that give us the ports that we need to link up with the Chinese, but could there be any more decisive show of strength on our part than wresting control of Southern California and the surrounding area from the Legacy government?”
“How long would that take to set up?” asked Rickover.
“We would go right away, Mr. President,” said Preston, “we wouldn’t wait for the forces arrayed for the northern offensive to re-position. Instead, we’d launch the offensive our of Arizona on-schedule and then we’d leapfrog the first-wave of the forces. In essence, we’d end up with a Soviet-style operation with one echelon passing through the next.”
“But,” said Rickover, “before we proceed anywhere, if I’m reading this map correctly, we need to deal with 25,000 soldiers that have poured across the Arizona border. I mean, unless we want a massive assault on our flank.”
“That’s correct, Mr. President,” said Secretary Preston, “we’d elbow our way right on through and then launch ourselves at both Los Angeles and San Diego.”
“That Division is dug in pretty well. But we can deal with it,” said Monroe.
The Acting President flipped through the papers in front of him.
“Who’s in position to deal with that?” he asked.
“The 200th Infantry Division will launch its assault tomorrow morning, if you give the go-ahead, Mr. President,” answered Preston.
The Roosevelt Hotel, Manhattan, New York City
The Roosevelt had seen better days, but the lobby of the famed hotel still had a sort of faded grandeur, reflected Juan Mancini as he stepped through the revolving door.
New York City’s hospitality industry had weathered the storm of war surprisingly well, with the city - which still had ready access to supplies from Europe - playing host to more than 100,000 emigres who had fled the Rebel states. That meant that already-crowded Manhattan had grown even more oppressive through a year of war. Mancini’s source was one of those refugees, a telecommunications executive and former Mayor of Augusta, Georgia who had been forced from office (and the state) in the aftermath of the Great Mutiny.
Mancini hurried to the elevator, being careful to move deliberately so as to avoid attracting attention while also averting his eyes. He saw little need for any sort of cloak-and-dagger element to this operation, but the source had insisted.
The elevator moved hopelessly slowly, seeming to stop at every single floor along the way as Mancini looked down at the ground and ground his teeth with impatience. Finally, after a seemingly endless wait, the door opened and let the detective onto the 11th floor. As soon as he could, he strode quickly down the hallway and knocked on the door of room 1189.
“Were you seen?” said a voice through the door.
“No. There’s no one following me and I didn’t see anyone observing me,” answered Mancini.
The door opened and he walked on through. Behind the door was Andrew Aiken, the former Mayor, sweating and nervous in dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves.
“You’re the detective leading the investigation of the Anderson murder?” said Aiken flatly.
“Yes,” said Mancini, narrowing his brow, “how did you get my personal number?”
“Oh, that was easy,” said Aiken, “I still have plenty of friends from work.”
“Alright,” said the Detective, “while you certainly got my attention when you called. What do you have?”
The other man walked to the corner of the room and sat down in a chair.
“I want you to understand,” he began, “that I had no idea exactly what I was getting into when I was first approached. I was simply asked to contribute to saving the country from the radical ultra-right.”
“Ok,” said Mancini, “that’s fair enough. But I have absolutely no idea what you’re talking about, or what that has to do with the Anderson mu
rder.”
“There’s a war going on,” said Aiken firmly.
“As I am well aware,” replied Mancini.
“Well, when you’re asked to support the war effort, if you’re a patriot - as I am - you do,” said Aiken, his pace rising rapidly as he finished his sentence.
“You’re trying to tell me that Anderson’s murder was politically-motivated,” said Mancini.
“Not just Anderson’s murder. A lot of murders. Murders that aren’t being investigated. A lot of the ones that are being de-prioritized, to use the parlance of our times.”
“Why Anderson? As far as I can tell, he was a nearly bankrupt hedge-fund guy,” said Mancini.
“He was more than that,” said Aiken, rising from his chair and beginning to pace.
“There’s a war within the war going on, detective,” he said, “and it’s about to kill a whole lot of people. As soon as I got to New York City I was asked for a modest contribution by the Mayor. Through intermediaries, but certainly by the Mayor. Not to his political funds, mind you, but for a special project to support the war effort. I complied. A few months later, they came back and asked for more. It was then that the nature of the project was made clear to me. The Mayor and his supporters have been buying weapons. From overseas, mostly. Cuba for some of them. They’ve also brought in some advisors. And, from that group, they’ve constructed a militia here within the city.”
“I’m well aware of the City Defense Force,” said Mancini, referring to the city-organized militia that had already managed to cause some trouble for the NYPD and that was known to be dominated by left-wing radicals.
