The Second Civil War- The Complete History

by Adam Yoshida

  “Alright,” ordered Rickover, “do it.”

  The Pentagon, Arlington, VA

  “Mr. Secretary,” the voice of the SECDEF’s senior military aide was becoming strained with impatience, “the President wants to see you immediately.”

  “I know,” shot back Secretary Ransom as he carefully went about arranging stacks of paper on his desk. Some served no purpose and would be destroyed. Some of them were harmless and safe to leave in a great heap. Some of them would have to come with him when he left the Pentagon for good.

  With a sigh he pulled his pre-paid phone out of his desk and dialled.

  “Santiago’s Pizza,” came the familiar voice.

  “I’d like to order an extra large all-meat,” said the Secretary.

  “Standby,” replied the voice.

  “Mr. Secretary,” said Prime Minister Blunt directly.

  “We need to accelerate the timetable,” said Ransom, “and we need to do something in New York City.”

  “How bad is the situation there?” said the Prime Minister with a heavy sigh.

  “If you want this thing to go off smoothly, we can hardly have Rebel soldiers holding the nation’s largest city, deep in the territory that’s supposed to be seceding and forming this new nation.”

  “I understand that,” said the Prime Minister, “but acting too precipitately would raise many questions that we don’t wish to have the answer. Certainly not at the present time.”

  “I’m telling you right now,” insisted Ransom, “that if you can do something, do it - because it’ll be a Goddamned and possibly unfixable mess if you don’t.”

  “There… We have options,” said Blunt flatly.

  “Then exercise them,” said the Secretary, “now.”

  Third Brigade Headquarters, 200th Infantry Division, Near Yuma, Arizona

  Colonel Evan Dunford strode into the brigade headquarters a little after 10AM. There had been no time for ceremony: the previous commander of the brigade had dropped dead of a heart attack shortly after 9AM. The previous commander had been in constant combat for nearly thirty-six hours at that point in time, first leading the attack on the 14th Infantry Division and then turning to ward off the Mexican assault before finally taking the lead on the road into Yuma. It was a heroic effort - General Jackson had stated in the Division HQ that he intended to see the man nominated for the Medal of Honor - but it had also left the brigade without a commander. The executive office of the Third Brigade had been killed by an errant artillery shell fourteen hours earlier - this being one of the primary reasons for the Herculean exertions of the deceased commander. Jackson needed someone who he could trust on the scene and so the command had fallen to Colonel Dunford.

  “Take command of Third Brigade,” he’d ordered, “and hold the position to the west of the city. Do that and I’ll make you a fucking General.”

  Of course, that was easier ordered than actioned.

  “We took control of several commercial diesel stations and were able to fuel up our Strykers,” reported the Operations officer, “but there’s damned little we can do about ammunition. We were able to requisition a little 5.56 from shops and the like, but that’s about it.”

  “I was just up at Division,” replied Dunford, “and they’re working with command to try and get us re-upped by air. We’ll try and put a priority on that. I can get them back on the horn - what’s the most urgent need?”

  “Anti-armor weapons and artillery shells,” said the S-4, “I think that we have enough small arms stuff to go a round or two with the bastards, but some of our vehicles are dead out of heavy rounds. If they come barrelling down the I-8 with Abrams, there will be Goddamned little that we can do to stop them. Unless we can get to Apaches or something allocated to us.”

  “We’re working on all of that,” replied Dunford, “let’s concentrate on what we can do.”

  “Dig. And pray,” replied the S-3.

  Barclay St. and Trinity Pl., Manhattan

  Lieutenant Colonel Morgan Durham watched as the mid-afternoon sun splashed across the temporary command post that had been set up for the 1st Battalion. Overnight the second wave of the expeditionary forces had been landed, with the Ohio and its sisters once again approaching the shore closely, this time to unload extra equipment and supplies.

  “We’ve only had a few incidents over the last few hours,” reported Major Latifpour, “a few sniper attacks, some civil disturbances and the like - but nothing major. Most of the local authorities aren’t making trouble. However, there are militant Loyalists holding out at City Hall and a few other locations.”

  “We can’t strike New York City Hall with Tomahawks,” replied the Colonel.

  “No sir,’ agreed Latifpour, “that would be a bad idea. Do we want to storm the building?”

  Durham looked at his watch.

  “No,” he said, “let’s give them some time to grow accustomed to the new situation. I mean, what are we talking about here anyways - a bunch of would-be Che Guevaras with old rifles?”

  “Intel says that it’s something like that.”

  “Well, fuck ‘em,” replied the Colonel, “they can starve.”

  “Fair enough,” replied the Major.

  “You know what Guevara’s last words were, don’t you?” asked the Colonel.

  “I don’t believe so, sir,” answered Latifpour.

  “When the Bolivians captured him and were about to shoot him, he cried out to them, “don’t shoot me, I’m Che! I’m worth more to you alive than dead.” The Bolivians didn’t give a shit.”

  The Colonel chuckled to himself at the thought.

  “The man was more than happy to machine gun civilians, but he proved himself a coward in the end. Don’t worry about this for the time being, Major: these people are cowards.”

  Twenty Miles West of Yuma, Arizona

  After enjoying a shower and being issued a fresh uniform, Captain Alvaro Ramirez finally felt almost human once again. He, along with the rest of the nearly-destroyed 14th Infantry Division had been withdrawn far to the west after the engagement of the previous day, leaving behind only a handful of soldiers to attempt to slow the advance of the 200th Division. Now, however, they’d been reinforced by the 40th Infantry Division, a “real” division whose lineage could be traced back to the pre-war California National Guard as well as the 17th Infantry Division, a fellow Army of the United States formation.

  “Fuuuuuck,” Ramirez heard his battalion commander muttering to himself as he stepped out of the tent.

  “What’s up, Major?” he asked, walking in his direction.

  “They’re going to send us back in,” replied the Major.

  “What? Already? We don’t even have units re-formed or re-organized yet,” noted Ramirez.

  “The orders just came through,” said the Major, “the Mexicans are putting real pressure on the Rebels and they want us to smash through the forces that they’ve got down that road and link up with them.”

  “Jesus Almighty,” said Ramirez, “do they have any idea what sort of losses we’ve taken? What shape we’re in?”

  “You know Washington, I’m sure that they don’t have a fucking clue,” said the Major, “but, to be fair, the 40th Division is going to take the lead on this. We’re to move, but to act as a reserve.”

  Ramirez snorted.

  “We’ll see how well that holds up.”

  “We don’t have to like any of this. But we do have to to it,” said the Major.

  “Yes sir,” replied Ramirez.

  New York State Senate, Albany, New York

  “Mr. President,” began Senator Elizabeth Parker, “it grieves all of us that such a severe step must be considered but, with this war having arrived on our very shores, I believe that it has become essential for us to do so.”

  “For how many years are we to wage war - a war being fought at this very minute over the territories of this state - in order to attempt to bring back into the fold Rebels who contribute nothing to
this country but reactionary politics and earth-destroying demands for economic progress at all costs? It is time - long past time, in fact - for us to, as citizens of this world, begin to forge and create for ourselves a new path forward. We need to come together, as progressive human beings, to create a new and better society. If some people resent this, if they in fact hate it so much that they are willing to use the force of arms to resist it, than I say let is be so.”

  “Therefore, Mr. President, I ask that the Senate immediately take up the resolution that I have proposed - and that the Governor act upon it without any delay. Let us declare that New York has no wish to participate in this war any longer. Let us declare ourselves to be determined to take a new path forward.”

  Two Miles West of Yuma, Arizona

  “Here they come,” called out one of the new Privates who had been assigned to Captain Jake Hunter’s reformed Company. It was an unnecessary vocalization of something that everyone already knew: the meagre artillery left to the soldiers of the 200th Division had opened up on the approaching Loyalist soldiers nearly ten minutes earlier.

  “Hold your fire,” ordered Hunter. The advancing forces - a full company of Mechanized Infantry - weren’t immediately vulnerable to the small arms that made up the majority of the weapons of the company. The limited anti-tank weapons that they had needed to be used when they counted.

  The Loyalists were advancing in old-fashioned M2 Bradley Infantry Fighting Vehicles, moving forward rapidly and preparing to turn their 25mm chain guns on the Rebel position. The Bradleys were still several kilometres down the road, barely within the maximum range of their main armament when they began to open fire at the fortified positions held by the Rebel Company.

  “It’s just suppressing fire,” said Hunter to the rest of the Company, “wait it out.”

  At a range of two thousand meters, the fire of the Bradleys became much more effective. One soldier who was either unfortunate or stupid enough to find himself in a position of vulnerability was struck in the shoulder by one of the 25mm rounds. The impact of the high explosive round was enough to disintegrate the man’s right half, sending a river of debris splashing over the soldiers immediately surrounding him.

  In response, one of the soldiers further down the line fired off a missile at the incoming Bradleys. The missile, an old M47 Dragon that had been pulled out of depot somewhere and issued to the 200th Division, flew downrange and then crashed into the ground well short of its intended target.

  “Hold your fire and stay down!” shouted Hunter into his radio. His orders were quickly echoed by every officer and non-com stationed up and down the line.

  Moments after the first Dragon missed its target, the Bradleys came to a halt and began to fire more contemplatively against the Rebel lines. Having stopped at a distance of about two thousand meters, they were well outside the effective range of the handful of missiles available to the Rebel company but in an excellent position to rain cannon fire down upon the Rebels.

  The Bradleys dropped their back doors, allowing Loyalist infantrymen to spill out the back of the armored vehicles. The commanders of the the individual infantry squads moved carefully, guiding their forces forward along paths that allowed them to stay clear of the continued fire of the Bradleys.

  Carefully, the Bradleys fired at positions along the Rebel lines one at a time, allowing the Loyalist infantrymen to advance in leaps. Within seconds the heavy machine gun sections of the Company attempted to engage the advancing infantrymen, but each of these stood out enough that they were either rapidly killed or suppressed by the fire of the armored vehicles.

  The maximum effective range of the M16A2 rifle, the primary armament of Hunter’s improvised rifle company, is about five hundred meters. This created a long delay as they were forced to simply hold their positions and wait for the Loyalist infantrymen to approach.

  “Mortars,” ordered Hunter, “fire for effect.”

  Hunter’s company had an incomplete mortar section, armed with just three M-224 60mm lightweight mortars. They now began to fire anti-personnel rounds at the approaching Loyalist infantrymen. Two of the first three rounds landed with great effect, detonating in the middle of small clumps of the enemy soldiers, blasting several apart and wounding a score of others. The mortars reloaded and fired again as the infantry persisted in their approach, this time overshooting and doing nothing more than providing the increasingly-impatient Rebel infantry with a pyrotechnic display to watch.

  “Hit them again,” ordered Hunter to the mortars, who let loose another set of rounds. The Loyalist infantrymen were close now, under a thousand meters away.

  “Open fire,” he ordered, “but do it carefully.”

  The Loyalist soldiers were beyond the effective range of the rifles of most of the soldiers, but the expenditure of a little bit of small arms ammunition was worth it if it would be enough to rattle the soldiers and blunt the effectiveness of their assault. Here and there a few of the Loyalists fell to the ground wounded. Within seconds they too began to open fire with their own weapons, even as the Bradleys continued to engage the defending soldiers.

  With the Rebels almost fully engaged all along their lines, the Loyalist Bradleys began to creep forward slightly, daring the surviving missile crews to expose themselves to fire from either the vehicles themselves or from the advancing infantry. Soldiers all along Hunter’s lines began to fall after being struck by enemy fire.

  Hunter looked up and down the line of his own men. They were beginning to wither under the disciplined fire of the enemy soldiers. The Bradleys, he could now clearly make out, were advancing along the right in the hope of outflanking the improvised defensive works now held by his forces. If, he realized, he could rally his missile crews along that same side and counter the advance of the Loyalist vehicles, then the entire advance in this sector could be stopped.

  Surveying the scene he remembered something that he’d read once. It was part of a poem by Stephen Vincent Benet. “Sometimes,” Benet had written, “and in battle even, a moment comes when a man with eyes can see a dip in the scales and, so seeing, reverse a fortune.”

  “Missile teams!” ordered Hunter, “on me!”

  Hunter got up from his position and began to move down the line. Two teams of Dragon gunners began to follow him as he moved hastily, attempting to use the hastily-dug network of trenches and the sandbags erected between them to shield him and the men with him from the fire of the rapidly-approaching Loyalist forces.

  “Alright,” he ordered, “we need to hit those Bradleys over there the second we get them within range. The rest of the company will provide as much suppressing fire as they can, but you can’t miss.”

  As he issued his order he worked to scramble up the side of one of the trenches, attempting to keep as low as possible. He was halfway towards the second trench when a bullet struck him in the chest, sending him falling to the ground in an instant. He tumbled into the next trench over and landed in an awkward position. One of the missile team members sought to immediately go to his aid, leading him to manoeuvre himself into a position where he placed himself in the line of enemy fire. The Loyalists did not hesitate to take advantage of this situation and put a bullet right into the face of the unfortunate man, killing him instantly and sending his fresh corpse crashing into the trench on top of Hunter, winding the already grievously-wounded man.

  Hunter struggled to form words, to issue orders for the missile gunners to go on. However, he couldn’t find enough air for him to spit the words out. Instead, he lay ineffectually on the ground, struggling to push the dead body that had landed on top of him off but quickly finding that he lacked the strength for even that. By the time, several seconds later, that several of the other residents of the trench managed to do it for him he was able to clearly see and hear the rate of enemy fire increasing, indicating that they were getting closer to the Rebel position. He tried to wave the soldiers attending him off and to tell them to go back to their duties, to return to th
e fight against the enemy, but they continued to attempt to treat him even as the sounds of the enemy drew closer still.

  The Situation Room, The White House

  “I don’t understand what the fuck is going on in California, New York, Massachusetts, Illinois… Well, I guess I should just read the list of the places where people - people who are supposed to be on our fucking side - aren’t suddenly making treasonous pronouncements,” raged President Bryan.

  “Mr. President,” replied Secretary Ransom calmly, “I think that it represents the dawning of a recognition in this country that this war, as things stand today, cannot be won. At least not in military terms.”

  “What the fuck are you talking about?” demanded the President, “you’ve heard the latest reports from Arizona, haven’t you? We’re pushing their forces back! We’re doing that right now!”

  “I think that’s debatable, Mr. President. But, even if that’s true, there’s another entire army behind that one. The forces fighting at Yuma represent only a small fraction of the Rebel strength - and we’ve only managed to cut them off by pulling another country with an entire extra army into the war. I don’t think that’s a trick that can be pulled off twice.”

  “What are you saying?” said the President, “that we should give up?”

  “I’m saying, Mr. President, that the time has come to think - as a lot of people across this country are thinking today - about how we can salvage something from this truly awful situation. I think it’s time to think about the future of the world and of how we preserve the best of America. I don’t think anyone - certainly none of us here - wants to turn the government of most of this nation over to Tea Party radicals. But, that being said, I think we now have to recognize that certain realities exist on the ground.”

  “What would you have me do, negotiate with the Rebels to hand them back the government?”