by Adam Yoshida
“There’s a force within that force, though,” said Aiken, “and they’re very well-trained, well-armed, and determined. Some of them so much that they’ve decided to start the revolution early. That’s what Anderson was about. They have lists of people to kill, when the time comes. People to round up. Some of them don’t see any point in waiting.”
“And that’s who killed Tom Anderson?”
“Yes. I don’t have names or direct proof, but I’ve heard enough to be convinced of it,” said Aiken.
“I can’t do much without proof,” said the Detective, “why come to me?”
“Because I’ve been following your investigation and I know, based upon that, that you’re an honest man. I’m not a New Yorker, and so I don’t know how to tell in trying to figure out this place. I want you to help me find someone who can stop this. I already have the blood of multiple people on my hands, Detective. If we can’t find some way to get this thing back under control, it’ll be that of thousands, or even tens of thousands.”
“I need more than that,” said Mancini, “I need names. Real information.”
“I can give you one,” said Aiken with a sigh, “the man who approached me: Alexi Harman.”
“The School Chancellor?” said Mancini incredulously.
“Can you think of a better place to find recruits or to store weapons for an ultra-left wing army?” asked Aiken.
Ten Miles East of Wellton, Arizona
Major General William T. Jackson listened to two batteries of M109A6 howitzers as they lobbed 155mm shells on the Loyalist forces holding the I-8 and threatening the movement of the rest of the Army of the Colorado.
“This is no time for subtlety, General,” Xavier Monroe had told him in issuing his orders, “crack them open as fast as you Goddamned can.”
The advanced guard of the 200th Infantry Division was already in place, preparing for a frontal assault against the government forces dug in along the highway. But the General was damned if he was going to not first throw every single thing he had against the entrenched forces in order to best protect his own soldiers.
“General,” Colonel Evan Dunford said he walked up and saluted, “the First Brigade will be ready to hit their lines around noon.”
“Excellent,” said the General, “where are we with regard to our request for additional air support?”
“Colorado Springs reports that they’re going to release us a whole squadron of A-6s, plus the rest of what we already had on call. G-3 recommends that we use them to take out the artillery that they’ve got on those hills.”
“I think that’s about right,” replied the General, “they’ve got their forces arrayed pretty well. Interlocking fields of fire. If we just try and roll across those trenches, they’re going to offer a pretty stiff counterattack.”
“I don’t see an alternative here, beyond to fire and advance, General,” said Dunford.
“I don’t either,” replied Jackson, “but I don’t have to like what that means.”
The Situation Room, The White House, Washington, DC
“The main axis of Rebel advance appears to be west towards the California-Arizona border, led off by the 200th Infantry Division,” said Brigadier General Arielle Baker as she stood at the front of the Situation Room.
“That’s the same unit that fought at Pubelo. The Canadians, right?” asked the President.
“At this point, Mr. President, it’s another unit of the Rebel army. It does have Canadians in it, though.”
“It’s commanded by that Canadian General, though, yes?” persisted the President.
“The commander in Major General William Jackson - the Western Canadian commander from their civil war. He has, however, taken American citizenship.”
“A claim that we don’t recognize,” pointed out Secretary of Defense Ransom, “since it was awarded by the Rebel government.”
“Go on, General,” said General Hall, somewhat visibly annoyed.
“The 200th Division advanced about four hours ago. The First Brigade of our own 14th Division was holding the front edge of the line. They’ve been relentlessly pounded with both artillery and from the air. Also, as you pointed out, Mr. President, the troops that they’re facing are largely very-motivated volunteers, highly ideological and veterans of both Pubelo and, in many cases, the Canadian civil war.”
“They’ve managed to pretty much wipe out the First Brigade in a series of determined infantry assaults. Our resistance has been strong - and we have inflicted very heavy losses on them - but our forces continue to be pushed back.”
“May I also point out, Mr. President,” added General Hall, “that our best intelligence shows us that they have another division arrayed right behind the 200th. My best guess - what I would do in their position - is that they intend to feed the 200th Division right into the grinder and then have the other one pass through its line and continue the assault.”
“What is their objective?” asked the President.
“We believe that they’re going to drive right for the coast with their armor as soon as they can clear this force out of the way. They’ll need to move a lot of supplies, so they need the roads. But they’ve got plenty of engineers. We’ve pushed our own forces into a position where they can fight, to be sure - but where they can be fixed in position, broken up, and then destroyed in detail.”
“And they can drive on through to the coast and take Los Angeles and the rest?” asked the President.
“We don’t have the forces there to stop them, Mr. President,” said Hall, “we can hope to resist them, but we don’t have major manoeuvre forces in California. In essence we took the best forces we had and pushed them out to frontiers where, as I said, they have been rendered very vulnerable to destruction.”
“Yes, you made your opinion on the subject very clear, General,” snapped the President, as he tapped his fingers on the table.
The Oval Office, The White House
President Kevin Bryan sat alone in the Oval Office, brooding over the stormy meeting that had just concluded.
Mr. President, General Hall had insisted, we just can’t do it.
It was, he reflected, always a matter of no, no, no with the military. He wished he could simply fire the increasingly-truculent General, but he also knew that he was probably the only man holding the so-called “military Constitutionalists” - officers who were maintaining the vast military bureaucracy out of their loyalty to the established Constitution under - in line. If General Hall went no one knew who could follow him or what would be next.
The President got up and began to walk around the room. The situation he was in was not one that Presidents of the United States had been forced to face in many years - a genuine insufficiency of force. There had, he reflected, to be an angle.
Bryan walked over to the desk and pushed the button for the intercom.
“Is Jamal there?” he asked, “if so, send him him.”
Within seconds a worried-looking Chief of Staff scurried into the Oval Office.
“That wasn’t a good meeting, Mr. President,” he said quietly.
“No, Jamal, it wasn’t,” admitted the President, “and I am out of ideas.”
“I… I had a thought,” said the Chief of Staff quietly.
“Spit it out,” said the President.
“Can we look at that map again?” said the Chief of Staff, walking towards the Resolute desk.
The President walked over and handed Anderson his tablet, which the Chief of Staff quickly used to pull out a map.
“I have to admit,” said Anderson, “that I tuned out somewhat after the fourth or fifth time that General Hall repeated that there just were no troops to stop the Rebels from marching all the way to LA.”
“Well,” replied the President, “I think that he’s right on that count.”
The Chief of Staff pinched and zoomed in.
“I don’t think so,” said Anderson, “what about these?”
He stabbed his finge
r at a handful of squares on the tablet.
“Those are Mexicans,” replied the President, “units sent to watch and guard their border.”
“Yes, Mr. President, they are,” said the Chief of Staff.
“Do you think?” asked the President.
“Yes, Mr. President. I’ve already made some inquiries,” answered Anderson.
“How much?”
“Too much,” said the Chief of Staff, “but what is the alternative?”
New York City Hall, Manhattan
Mayor William Engels sat in his office and watched the footage of burning vehicles and swirling Arizonian sands.
Colonel Fernando Lara shifted uncomfortably in the ill-fitting business suit that had been issued to him by his country’s strained textiles industry as he waited to gain the full attention of the Mayor.
“I’ve seen revolutions before, Mayor Engels,” said the Colonel, “and I can tell you that now is the time to strike.”
“I don’t know…” said the Mayor, “the fighting looks like it’s still pretty hot… and brutal. Either side could win and where would that leave us?”
“You know the balance of forces as well as I do, Mayor. And then there’s this other business…”
“Bah,” the Mayor waved his hand dismissively, “the Rebels have nothing here. Not yet, anyways.”
USS Ohio (SSGN-726), Off Long Island
The USS Ohio, Michigan, and Florida had quietly put to sea from the improvised submarine base set up at Corpus Christi, Texas some eight days earlier after each crammed onboard one hundred and fifty U.S. Marines, a number that was well beyond the official carrying capacity of the converted ballistic missile submarines. Carrying that many Marines and delivering them by sea to New York City had required compromises. It meant that the Marines had no heavy weapons or artillery with them. It meant that they had no aviation component or other means of external support (beyond, that is, the Tomahawk Cruise Missiles stored onboard the Ohio-class SSGNs that were delivering them and would linger in the area). It also had required that a portion of the crew of each of the submarines be left ashore.
But, thought Lieutenant Colonel Morgan Durham, if we pull this thing off, it’ll be one hell of a fucking coup.
Colonel Durham wasn’t sure if the 1st Battalion, Ninth Marines had been chosen for this particular mission by chance or by someone with sense of history, but he was nevertheless extraordinarily grateful for the honor granted to him and his men by the selection.
The soldiers of the battalion hadn’t been told of their destination until while after they were underway. The secret had been kept, in fact, from everyone but the Colonel, his XO, and the Captains of all three submarines.
“Marines,” he’d explained to one group of men after another given the lack of a facility on the submarine that would have allowed for the whole of the Company crammed onto the Ohio to meet all at once, “you have been selected to be on the first wave of our counter-offensive against the tyrants in Washington. You will be the liberators of New York City.”
Now, though, he had to think about the practicality of making that wild promise into a reality.
Trying to take a city of ten million people with fewer than five hundred men is actively insane, thought the Colonel as he reviewed the maps spread out on the table in front of him.
Their place, of course was founded upon the notion that New York wasn’t actually a hostile city that would fight them, but rather an American city that was essentially under foreign occupation. Special Forces and intelligence personnel within the city promised that, when they time came, the NYPD and other armed city agencies would support the arrival of the Marines or, at worst, be neutral.
It was true enough, the intel provided to Colonel Durham explained, that the Mayor had managed to scrape together a small paramilitary force, but it was hardly up to the task of fighting a professional outfight such as the United States Marine Corps.
“We’re going to shove this right down their fucking throats,” observed Major Ken Latifpour, the Battalion’s Executive Officer, as he and the Colonel reviewed their final plans.
“I certainly don’t think that they, even if they expected something like this, would expect us to sail right up to the mouth of the Hudson River and put a Marine Battalion ashore in Battery Park,” agreed the Colonel.
“We’re going to have to be on the surface for longer than I’d like,” fretted the Captain of the Ohio.
“Can’t be helped,” said Colonel Durham, “but, really, it isn’t like they’ve got artillery there anymore.”
“At this range,” said the Captain, “they could damage us with a damned RPG.”
“Not quite,” replied Durham, “maybe with a Hellfire or an anti-tank missile.”
“Jesus,” muttered the Captain.
“It’ll only be a few minutes, Captain. It’s not like they’re waiting for us,” said Durham.
“They could have drones in the air,” pointed out the Captain.
“Well,” replied Durham, “if that’s the case, then tomorrow will be a tough day for some people.”
Five Miles East of Wellton, Arizona
No one had bothered to give the units of the 200th Infantry Division proper regimental designations within the United States Army. As a result, all of the units of the Division were simply identified by their affiliation within the unit itself. Perhaps this was because whoever would normally have been responsible for this had stayed with the Loyalists. Or maybe it was just because there were more important things to do. General Jackson reflected idly on this fact as he viewed the latest movements of the unit displayed on the large screen that dominated the wall.
In the first eight hours’ worth of fighting the Division had already suffered, as of five minutes earlier, one hundred and fourteen killed in action, three hundred and five wounded, and forty-six missing.
The First Brigade had followed up the initial artillery barrage with a direct assault against the system of Loyalist trenches, managing to overrun the forward positions by a little after 8AM. Once that had occurred, however, the Loyalists ha thrown all of their available resources into launching an immediate counterattack that stalled the forward progress of the entire First Brigade.
“General,” reported Colonel Dunford, “Alpha Company, Third Battalion, Second Brigade reports that they’ve under fire some four miles to the southwest of the city.”
“I guess they don’t like us probing their flanks too much,” said General Jackson.
“No sir,” replied Dunford.
“They’re too far forward,” said Jackson.
“The Third Battalion?” said Dunford, “you ordered them there.”
“No, no,” the General waved his hands, “the entire Loyalist force here is much too far forward. They’re only inflicting casualties upon us because we’re in such a Goddamned hurry. Order the rest of the Third Battalion to assemble in that position, then provide Colonel Collins with whatever support he needs for an assault in that sector.”
Grand Central Terminal, Manhattan
“I didn’t know who else to call,” said Mancini flatly as soon as Mack Dallas came and say down across from the Detective, “I could hardly take this to my superiors. First of all, I don’t know exactly who is trustworthy at all. Second, I’ve been running this whole investigation off-the-books. Third, even if this was legit and I had a superior who I considered to be rock-solid, I think that even they would hesitate before they implicated the Mayor and the Schools Chancellor in a criminal conspiracy to launch an armed uprising.”
The Detective sighed.
“This all sounds so fucking crazy,” he said.
“It is, but it isn’t,” replied Dallas before asking, “are you confident in this source of yours?”
“I’m about as confident as I’m going to get,” said Mancini.
“Look,” said Dallas, “we’ve spent months trying to figure out the scope of this organization. If this is the chain of command… Well, it’s time-s
ensitive that we act. Extraordinarily so.”
“I’m confident that it’s true,” said Mancini firmly.
“Then I’ve got to go,” said Dallas, already standing up, “thank you.”
Two Miles South of Wellton, Arizona
Captain Alvaro Ramirez shuddered as yet another Rebel artillery barrage shook the ground around him.
“Fuck!” shouted one of his Lieutenants as he instinctively dove to the earth upon hearing the nearby blast.
They’re so fucking green, he thought to himself as he allowed his eyes to scan the soldier who surrounded him on every side. The soldiers of the Army of the United States - as little as Ramirez thought of the personal qualities of some of the men - were brave to a fault, but they weren’t trained up to the standards of the soldiers of the old army, like those who they were fighting now. The 200th Division might have been an irregular unit, but its men were almost uniformly veterans who had fought together in at least two different wars.
The men of his Company - Bravo Company, Third Battalion, 35th Infantry Regiment - were dug in on a little hill to the south of the down that the 14th Infantry Division was defending. The entire division - a large part of the organized strength of the Army of the United States in Southern California - had driven into Arizona in the hope of forestalling the entire Rebel western offensive. Now, however, they were bearing the brunt of it.
Another shell landed nearby. This one was much closer than the last one. The Second Lieutenant who’d hit the deck at the sound of the first shell dropped to the ground again. Within seconds Ramirez was able to detect a distinct oder emitting from the man’s direction.
He shit his Goddamned pants, thought Ramirez to himself silently. Slowly, trying not to draw undue attention, he walked over towards the young Lieutenant.
“Lieutenant Ince,” he said quietly, “can you go back to the Battalion HQ and see if someone there can get us a report on our air cover?”
