by Adam Yoshida
Ramirez didn’t have time to linger over any of the dead soldiers who surrounded him. All that was left for him to do was to continue firing. He pulled the trigger once more as soon as he sighted a young woman attempting to sprint past an obstacle. Nothing emerged from his rifle. He was out of ammunition. He searched through his own pockets in vain for another clip. When none were to be found be dove down to the bottom of the trench and began to fish through the pockets of the corpses that littered the ground all around him. Finally finding one he released his magazine and popped in one of the three that he found on one of his dead soldiers. He raised his rifle and began to fire again. As he did so, he suddenly came to the realization that the Rebel soldiers were no longer advancing. The front rank of the Rebel company was continuing the fire upon his position in order to cover the retreat of the rest of the Company. Ramirez raised his rifle high and fired nine more bursts at the Rebels before he stopped once more to reload. As he did he took a moment - practically imperceptible to everyone save himself - to take what felt like his first breath in years.
Church St. and Canal St., Manhattan
From his perch, Roman Moore carefully sighted one of the advancing Cuban soldiers. The man in his targets - a boy, really - seemed to regard his surroundings with trepidation. Almost every step he took was hesitant and tentative. That was poor form for a soldier. Moore breathed serenely as he shot him in the head.
That was poor form, Moore thought, so much better, in a situation like this, to wound than to kill. Next time.
On seeing their comrade fall to his bullet, the Cubans out on the street dispersed and attempted to find cover. From the corner of his eye, Moore watched one of them dive behind an old-fashioned mailbox. Their movements were sloppy, he noted, and not characteristic of battle-hardened soldiers.
After a moment’s thought, Moore took aim at the dead centre of the mailbox and opened fire. The metallic box was able to absorb the shock of the bullet, but the sound and force of it was enough to spook the soldier standing behind it. The man moved away from his concealed position, allowing Moore to take a shot at him. This time he only wounded the Cuban, clipping him in the leg or side. As if on cue, another of the soldiers on the street responded to this by running to the aid of his comrade. Moore’s first shot missed the sprinting Cuban, but the second caught his squarely in the chest, sending him tumbling forward to the ground.
It’s a pity, he thought, if only we had another one hundred snipers as good as myself, we could hold this city all by ourselves.
Moore thought about shooting the wounded Cuban on the ground, but he was interrupted by Mack Dallas, who was guarding the door.
“We need to fall back,” said Dallas urgently, “the Marines need our help. The Cubans have surged through and are attacking them in waves.”
The Pentagon, Arlington, VA
General Richard Hall sat silently in his Pentagon office. The Secretary of Defense wasn’t answering his calls. The President was sitting passively in the White House. He was no longer sure of exactly who he served. He could, he supposed, pick up the phone in front of him and call up Mark Preston, or even Terrance Rickover himself.
“So sorry about all of that business,” he could say, “but I’m ready to report for duty.”
After all, with the Secretary of Defense suddenly issuing orders on behalf of the new “Commissioner” out in Chicago, he could certainly no longer avail himself of the defense that he was merely following the Constitution. He’d sent men and women to die fighting against the Colorado Government because he believed that they were attempting to launch a coup and, in so doing, violating the Constitution in a fundamental way. How could he ever place himself in their service?
But, at the same time, at least Rickover was an American President, as opposed to the former President out there in Chicago, who now seemed to serve foreign masters and whose assumption of powers was certainly extra-Constitution by any definition.
Perhaps, he thought, the best course of action for him would be to simply resign. He could go home and catch upon on a year and a half worth of missed sleep. That would be good for him, but where would it leave his soldiers in the field? What was his duty to them?
He has stood by Kevin Bryan, even when his decisions had proven to be wrong and altogether disastrous, because he was the proper and Constitutional President of the United States. But what was he to do, he reflected, when the old order simply ceased to exist? If the government that he served no longer functioned in a Constitutional sense, then what was the proper course of action?
The General sat at his desk late into the night, quietly writing on a yellow legal pad. He went over his options one at a time, carefully correcting his words and attempting to form his thoughts. He was still at his desk when the Pentagon exploded.
The White House, Washington, DC
The blast in Arlington could be heard all the way over at the White House. It was loud enough to wake the President from his weak and alcohol-induced sleep in the Residence. Groggily, the President attempted to shake off his stupor and to stand up. His feet hadn’t even managed to make contact with the ground when his door flew wide open.
“Mr. President,” said a man with an unfamiliar voice, “we have to leave immediately.”
“Wh… What?” said Bryan, shaking his head back and forth as he attempted to rouse himself to full alertness.
“The Rebels have attacked the Pentagon,” reported the unfamiliar man, “we think that they hit it with a missile or missiles. It’s almost all gone.”
“The Pentagon? They haven’t bombed anything within the cities before. Why now?” asked Bryan.
“I don’t know,” said the man, as a number of other soldiers moved into the room, their guns at the ready, “perhaps because of what’s happening in Arizona. Or New York. I don’t know, sir. I just know that my orders are to take you to safety.”
“Are we going to the bunker?” asked Bryan.
“We’re going to Camp David, sir,” replied the man.
“Hold on, hold on,” said the President, “I want to talk to Jamal…”
“Sir,” said the man, “Secretary Ransom has ordered us to move you immediately. Your safety is of paramount importance right now.”
“Former Secretary Ransom,” shot back Bryan.
“I have my orders, Mr. President,” replied the man. He gave a hand signal and two of the other soldiers who had entered the room grabbed the President by each arm.
“We have a chopper already going on the South Lawn,” said the man, “don’t worry - we’ll keep you safe and secure from here on out.”
Third Brigade, 200th Infantry Division, Yuma, Arizona
Colonel Dunford knew he was making a mistake, but he felt that it was one that he simply had to make. The proper place of a brigade commander was at headquarters, directing the entire flow of operations. It was a lamentable tendency in modern armies, he knew, for senior officers to revert, in times of stress, to doing the thing that they were best at: commanding Platoons and directing fighting at the front. At the same time, he realized, there was no longer much for him to do at the headquarters level: the soldiers of the Third Brigade were almost wholly pinned down and engaged in a desperate fight for every inch of ground that they could grip on to as the Loyalist forces pressed on inwards. In times like these, he reasoned, even the life of a brigade commander was forfeit when weighed against the enormous stakes piled upon the table.
To the west of the city, the Army of the United States forces were attempting to advance by echelon. One unit after another was being fed into the fight against the dug-in survivors of the 200th Division, attempting to clear open a path to allow the advancing Loyalists coming out of California to link up with the Mexican column to the east. Each unit was thrown into the attack, displacing the soldiers of the 200th just a little more. As soon as a unit was ground down by the pressure of the fighting, a fresh unit was allowed to pass through its lines to keep up the pressure. The Rebel soldiers were figh
ting valiantly, but they were losing the fight just a little bit more with each passing minute.
From the moment that he’d stepped outside of the field headquarters, Dunford had been almost overwhelmed by the sound of the battle. Artillery on both sides continued to thunder away as the Loyalists sought to break through the rebel lines and the Rebels tried to suppress the enemy’s artillery and to break up their advance. Small arms fire of all types continued, even though the ammunition shortage on the rebel side had - despite several efforts to re-supply by air during the say - remained acute.
Dunford walked up to a ragged Lieutenant who was now in command of what was left of a Company. The Lieutenant offered a weary salute to the Colonel.
“Lieutenant,” he began as he searched his mind for the name of the man, “…Evans. What’s the situation like here?”
“The first time that they came through, we kicked their asses. The second time it was a little hairy - they broke up only in the face of sustained rifle fire. The third time… The third time we fought them from point blank range. And they haven’t stopped.”
The Colonel nodded with solemnity.
“You’ve done a splendid job of holding the line here nonetheless,” he said.
“That’s more Captain Murphy’s doing than mine,” said Evans in reply.
“Yes,” said Dunford, “and Captain Murphy?”
Lieutenant Evans averted his eyes in reply.
“I’m sorry to hear that. He was a good man and a brave soldier.”
The Lieutenant stopped for a moment to listen to his radio.
“Sir,” said Evans, “you’d better get going. They’re coming in again.”
“Thank you for you concern, Lieutenant, but I don’t have anywhere else to be. Besides - we’ve managed to shake loose a little bit of extra aid from command. Can your boys illuminate targets with flares?”
“Yes sir,” replied the Lieutenant before turning to speak into his radio, “light up any targets.”
“Support call sign is Coda-4,” said Dunford, “they should be on your net.”
Forward of where Dunford and Evans were standing, a series of flares began to light up the sky, revealing the ranks of advancing Loyalist infantry and making them visible amidst the darkness of the night.
“Targets designated, Coda-4,” called out Evans over his radio.
“Roger that,” came the reply, “engaging now.”
Dunford watched as a blast suddenly blew a giant hole in the formation of advancing Loyalist soldiers, sending parts of bodies flying through the air. Seconds later, a second blast scoured the same area. This second blast was less effective, as the advancing soldiers had immediately sought shelter after the first, but it still killed several of the attackers and wounded numerous others.
“What the fuck was that?” asked Lieutenant Evans.
“That, Lieutenant,” replied Dunford with a smile, “is an AC-130 gunship.”
The AC-130, escorted by two F-15s that circled nearby, began to carefully execute a right turn over the enemy position. The 105mm howitzer mounted within the modified transport plane began to reign direct fire down upon the enemy forces below, creating giant holes in the Loyalist lines and wholly disrupting their formation. After a few seconds, a missile from the ground zipped off into the air, flying directly for the lumbering turbo-prop plane. The AC-130 turned to avoid the missile, but it was struck in under a second.
“This is too hot for us,” called out Coda-4, “we’re going to break off.”
Streaming a trail of smoke behind it, the wounded AC-130 turned to attempt to to get away from the scene.
Democratic Union, Temporary Office of the American Commissioner, Chicago, Illinois
The former President - he should stop thinking of himself that way, he realized, for he was now a current something - rubbed his grey temples as the Secretary of Defense spoke via video conference.
“I’m glad to see that you weren’t in the Pentagon when the Rebels launched their attack,” said the former President.
“Yes, it was fortunate that I’d already moved to a temporary command post,” said Secretary of Defense Gerald Ransom from Raven Rock Mountain in Pennsylvania.
“It sounds like our losses there were quite awful,” said the former President.
“Indeed, Mr. Pres… Commissioner,” replied Ransom, “it appears that almost the entire senior command of the armed forces were killed. At least, we haven’t been able to pull any of them out of the wreckage so far. In any case, they’re not in a position to command anything. Their positions have all been assumed by their designated successors at various alternative command posts. Principally here at Raven Rock.”
“Have we had much pushback yet from the field?” asked the Commissioner.
“There have been a few officers who’ve resigned in response to the evolution of the political situation. But most of the senior officers of the Army of the United States - which makes up most of our forces in the field - were chosen for their ability to deal with ambiguity. They’re still fighting for the most part.”
“Where are we at right now?”
“Well, in addition to the usual fighting going on all across the front - guerrilla activity and the like - the majority of the fighting is occurring in Manhattan and Arizona. The Mexicans continue to push towards Phoenix, where they’ve met largely token resistance from Arizona State military forces to date. However, there’s a large Rebel forces moving to meet them. They need to be reinforced by our own forces ASAP. However, our forces are currently held up at Yuma. The Rebel division there is holding on by the slimmest of threads, but they’re holding on.”
“Alright,” said the Commissioner, “and in Manhattan? What’s the situation there?”
“Fighting,” replied the Secretary, “has continued through the night. The Cuban brigade is advancing out of Hell’s Kitchen and into Lower Manhattan, but they’re meeting stiff resistance from the Marine unit there along with whatever local forces the Rebels have managed to scrape together. Our local forces - together with the authorities - appear to be sitting things out.”
“Anything that we can do to help there? How the fuck did we end up with a Cuban unit in New York City?”
“The former Mayor’s initiative, apparently,” said the Secretary, “I don’t know exactly what he had in mind - and I suppose that we never well now, - but securing their support was simple enough. As for what we can do - we’re going to try and send some French paratroopers into Manhattan to back up the Cubans. The Marines there appear to be determined to fight to the end, but they don’t have any real support.”
“Well,” said the Commissioner, “make that happen. And can we do anything for Arizona?”
“They’re almost out of ammunition, fuel, and anything else in Yuma. We’re going to throw everything that we have at them there in the morning and break their lines.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Its Hour Come Round At Last
Camp David, Maryland
President Kevin Bryan woke up a little after 5:45AM with a throbbing headache.
Jesus, he thought, what did I get up to last night?
It took him a moment to order his thoughts. Camp David, he finally realized as he surveyed his surroundings, I’m at Camp David - and not of my own free will.
The events of the last day: the stubborn rebellion of the Secretary of Defense, the virtual secession of a number of states, the treason of the former President, and finally his midnight right to Maryland came rushing into his head in fragmentary form.
There was no computer in the room. He checked his pockets: his smartphone was gone. On the small table in the bedroom were a pile of books - novels mostly - and a few bottles of liquor. He went to the door and opened it up.
“Good morning, Mr. President,” said a pretty girl in an Army uniform, “can I help you?”
“Washington,” he said, though it was physically painful to speak, “I need to get back to Washington.”
“Well
,” she said, “I’m not set up to do that. But I can get you breakfast, or whatever you’d like. We have a wide library of films, television, etc. Whatever you’d like.”
“I want to get back to the White House. Now,” insisted the President.
“Just a moment, Mr. President,” replied the Army officer, before raising her radio to her mouth.
“Is Colonel Barbour available?” she asked, before listening to her earpiece for a reply.
“Someone who can deal with this will be right on over, Mr. President,” she replied, maintaing a fixed smile on her face throughout.
Moments later a tall - over six and a half feet - Army Colonel came ambling down towards the door of the President’s Cabin,
“Good morning, Mr. President,” he said, “I’m Colonel Barbour. Secretary Ransom assigned me to take charge of your special security detail. Our mission is to assure your safety and comfort throughout this difficult time.”
“Colonel,” said Bryan, “I want to get back to Washington, DC. I want to do this immediately and by the fastest transport available. That’s an order.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. President,” said Barbour evenly, “but my present orders are to assure your security here, in this location. After the tragedy at the Pentagon yesterday, you can understand how the safety of our senior officials is now our top priority.”
“I am ordering you, as Commander-in-Chief, to return me to the White House,” insisted Bryan, raising his voice.
“I’m afraid I am not able to do that, Mr. President,” replied the Colonel, “but I can attend to anything else that you need…”
“Get me Secretary Ransom,” ordered the President.
“He isn’t available at the moment, but I understand that he intends to come by this afternoon. In the meantime, please let me know if there is anything else you need. I understand that we’ve already provided you with some reading materials and some refreshments in the room.”
