by Adam Yoshida
The Colonel then turned to face the Lieutenant who had been guarding the door.
“Did you tell him about the movies and TV shows?” he asked. She nodded.
“Yeah, we’ve got a really great library of movies, especially. Stuff on old 30mm prints. We can set that up for you, if you’d like, Mr. President. We have a full range of classic video game systems as well.”
For a moment the President looked at Colonel Barbour, considering charging him and attempting to escape. For a moment it seemed as if he might try it, as absurd a notion as it was. Then, utterly defeated, he elected instead to turn about, re-enter his cabin, and slam the door behind him.
Church St. and Chambers St., Manhattan
New York City was large enough to swallow whole entire armies, let alone the flyspeck forces that were now battling for control of Manhattan. The Cuban brigade, supported by a handful of Loyalist irregulars, had spent much of the night fighting the 1st Battalion, Ninth Marines. The battle had largely proceeded from the north to the south, as the Cubans - taking advantage of their numbers - forced the Marines to abandon one street after another. The Marines sought to fight from the cover of buildings wherever possible, refusing to engage the Cubans in an open fight in the streets of the city itself. The Cubans were ill-trained and fell to the Marines in great numbers, but there were thousands of them up against hundreds of Marines.
From inside a destroyed Indian restaurant, Major Latifpour raised his rifle and fired upon a squad of advancing Cubans. As the battle had moved closer to the primary base of operations that the Marines had established in Lower Manhattan, the Major had elected to move forward and personally take command of part of the defense of the city.
Taking a calculated risk, the Major rose and aimed his rifle, firing off one burst after another at the surprised Cuban soldiers. The first burst struck one soldier in the gut, sending him to the ground. The next one hit a little bit higher, causing the second soldier to seemingly drop dead instantly. The third burst struck a third Cuban dead centre killing him as well. A fourth burst, fired as the Cubans began to return fire, went a little bit wild: it struck a fourth Cuban in the face with at least two rounds, carving away his nose and some other miscellaneous parts. Latifpour wasn’t sure if that burst had killed the man, but as he dove for cover he prayed that it had.
“Fuck, Major,” whispered the Company Gunnery Sergeant from a few feet away, “one more and we get to call in an air strike.”
“I’m hoping for a longer streak than that,” replied the Major as the squad began to scramble out the back of the destroyed restaurant. It had been one engagement along these lines after another. The Marines would fight from the wreckage of whatever was available, killing a handful of Cubans as they withdrew. The door to the kitchen had already closed behind them when the Marines heard the noise of multiple grenade explosions behind them.
Major Latifpour led the Marines out the back door of the restaurant and into the alley. As he emerged from the door he spotted a Cuban running towards him. He raised his rifle and shot the man. The Cuban fell to the ground, tumbling over. The man on the ground twitched briefly. Latifpour wasn’t sure if he was reaching for his weapon, so he shot him again. This time the man stopped moving.
“Lay down some suppressing fire,” Latifpour ordered a Lance Corporal with am M27 Infantry Automatic Rifle. The young Marine moved around the corner of the alley out into the street and emptied an entire thirty round magazine in the direction of the Cubans as the rest of the Marines sprinted out behind him. None of the Cubans fell from the automatic rifle fire, but they were stunned long enough to allow Latifpour and the rest of the Marines to place some additional distance between themselves and them.
The Major had managed to sprint around one hundred feet when he felt a bullet strike him in the neck. He felt a surge of pain, followed by nothing almost nothing at all as he collapsed to the ground, struggling to speak. The other Marines of the squad stopped, with the Lance Corporal with the M27 turning around to fire upon the pursuing Cubans as two of the other Marines picked up Latifpour and began to hustle him down the street.
Temporary Seat of the Government of the United States, Colorado Springs, Colorado
“Why isn’t the Army of the Colorado already in place?” asked Acting President Rickover moments after the morning briefing commenced.
“Mr. President,” said General Monroe, cutting off the young Brigadier General who was delivering the briefing, “we’re moving as rapidly as we possibly can, but turning an entire army around isn’t a task that can be done in a few hours. It’s not just a matter of moving soldiers and tanks - we have to move supplies and we have to move them in the right order, because certain supplies need to be paired with certain units. In essence, we’re in the process of relocating a city the size of Des Moines, Iowa right now.”
“While the forces down in Yuma and the Arizona state forces south of Phoenix are just barely holding on. Not even barely in Yuma - those lines are moving a little further back every time I look at the map,” said the Acting President.
“Mr. President,” interjected Secretary Preston, “I know that this is extraordinarily stressful - but we’re making solid progress on all fronts.”
“Not in Manhattan,” pointed out Rickover.
“That was always a gamble and a low-percentage one at that,” said General Monroe.
“As I read this map,” said Rickover, “there’s a very real scenario here where the enemy overruns Yuma, links up with the Mexican Army to the East, and then can cut off the Army of the Colorado from the rear as it moves towards Los Angeles.”
“That is a possibility, Mr. President,” conceded Monroe, “and one that we’re working to avoid right now.”
“We could turn the Army of the Colorado back around,” said Preston, “but that would mean breaking off the advance towards Los Angeles… Especially if the so-called Democratic Union sends in reinforcements, we might not be able to break through to the sea. And, without a reliable outlet to the sea, we’re not going to be getting the supplies we need. It’s the summer now - do you really think that we can make it through another winter without the proper resumption of international trade?”
“We need to do something,” said Rickover.
“We can detach some theatre reserves,” replied Monroe, “an ACR and a little bit more. But that’s all we can do without disrupting our entire plan of operations.”
“Well, what is the 200th Division getting?” asked the Acting President.
“We’ve gotten them some air support. And we’re pretty much shuttling in supplies via C-130s at the moment. As much ammo as we can drop on them. Some medical supplies too,” said Preston.
Rickover got up and walked to view the map at the front of the room.
“Well, what more can we do?” he asked.
“We’re doing pretty much everything that we can, Mr. President,” said Preston, “we’ve given as much support as we can without depleting our reserves to critical levels.”
The Acting President glared at the map, tapping his fingers across the LCD panel.
“What about the Seventh Fleet?” he asked.
“Well, we haven’t quite settled the matter of their disposition of the Seventh Fleet and the fleet Marine force if we’re not going to go for San Diego. That’s being war-gamed right now,” said Preston.
“The 200th Division is going to need air support if they’re going to hold Yuma,” said the President flatly, “and it’s going to have to come from somewhere.”
“The Marines with the fleet won’t be able to force an opposed landing without that support, either, Mr. President,” said General Monroe.
“Well, send them somewhere else then. Back to Hawaii if necessary,” said Rickover.
“We could send them to reinforce the landings in the Pacific Northwest, where the Loyalist presence on the ground is weaker,” said Preston speculatively.
“Not getting to San Diego in time is going to be a problem,” p
ointed out Admiral Wahl.
“That’s going to have to be a problem for another day, Admiral,” said the Acting President, “issue the necessary orders.”
No. 10 Downing Street, London, United Kingdom
“Well,” said Prime Minister Henry Blunt with a smile, “welcome to the fray, Commissioner. It’s good to see you again.”
“Indeed, Prime Minister, though I wish it could be under different circumstances,” replied the former President.
“I must say, that all of us are with you today, especially after the horrific attack upon Washington,” said the French President.
“Thank you, Monsieur le Président,” replied the Commissioner, “we don’t know the totals yet, but there appears to have been a considerable loss of life there. Fortunately, Secretary Ransom was not at the Pentagon and was able to assume control of almost the entire existing United States military apparatus with the help of numerous capable officers who happened to not be in the Pentagon at that time.”
“And the rest of the Federal Government?” asked the Prime Minister.
“The leaders of the major public employee unions immediately announced their support,” said the Commissioner, “so that’s been very helpful. We’re having some problems with the military and parts of the national security establishment, but - fortunately - the Army of the United States, which I suppose we’ll have to rename now - had its commanders chosen with political flexibility as part of the selection criteria.”
“Very good, Commissioner,” said the Prime Minister, “now what can we do for you?”
“Can you get anything down to Arizona?” asked the Commissioner, “if we can break through their lines there and hold them off, then I think that they’ll wither on the vine and sue for peace. If they break through to the Coast… Well, that’s a whole new ballgame.”
200th Division Headquarters, Yuma, Arizona
It had felt selfish to do it, but General Jackson had finally managed to catch a few hours of sleep while sitting upright in his chair. His Chief of Staff had insisted. No one, he knew, would be any Godddamned good at all if they hadn’t slept at all in days. It was particularly critical that the General get some sleep, it was pointed out, because if he didn’t than a lot of the rest of the officers of the division would likewise refuse.
“Where are we at?” asked the General the moment that he awoke and was able to focus his eyes.
“No major fighting yet today, General,” reported the G-3, “but we lost twenty-six KIA and had around 100 wounded in skirmishes over the last few hours. It seems that we held off their advance, but they’ve managed to bring up fresh forces overnight.”
An aide came and handed the General a cup of coffee. Jackson took a sip of it and then placed it back down upon his desk. He got up and walked over to the nearby bathroom. He didn’t bother to close the door as he unzipped his pants and began to relieve himself.
“And supplies?” he asked, raising his voice so that he could be heard in the office.
“Air drops are continuous,” reported the Division’s Chief of Staff, “we’ve got some of everything and not enough of anything. I can give you more details than that, if you’d like.”
“No, don’t bother,” replied Jackson.
The General zipped up, flushed, and turned around to face his officers.
“What I wouldn’t give for a fucking Apache squadron right about now,” said the General.
“We might have some good news on that front, actually,” reported the Chief of Staff, “command says that they’re preparing to release us some more air assets. They want guidance on how they might best be employed.”
“Well,” said Jackson, “what do we have coming our way?”
“Well, there’s what’s left of the 16th Division, most of the 40th Division, and then there’s another Division coming up behind that. Our best guess is that it’s another AUS formation - or whatever the fuck they call themselves now.”
“Two Divisions, in other words,” noted Jackson.
“Two and a bit. But we should add that we think that at least one Brigade of the 40th Division - perhaps two - are behind held in reserve in order to exploit any breakthrough,” said the Chief of Staff.
“And our count?” asked the General.
“Just under nine thousand effectives as of 7AM,” reported the G-1.
“In other words - we have a light corps versus a heavy brigade at this point,” said Jackson grimly.
“That would be a fair assessment, General,” replied the Intelligence officer.
“And, if they break through, there’s nothing to keep them from linking up with the Mexicans, overrunning Phoenix, and then cutting directly into our own rear areas?”
“I don’t have a complete picture of the entire theatre of operations, but that seems accurate to me,” said the Chief of Staff.
“Then we’ll just have to hold here or die here,” said Jackson.
Near Liberty St. New York City
Lieutenant-colonel Rene Thorette had always found the sight of Lower Manhattan to be thrilling. Previously, of course, he had only ever experienced it as a tourist on the ground or an observer on an incoming civilian aircraft. The rapid approach of the cityscape as seen from the perch of a rapidly-descending parachute was another level of thrill altogether.
This, he thought, is much crazier than most of what our masters demand of us.
Airborne operations were hazardous at the best of times. Dropping a battalion worth of Foreign Legionnaire paratroopers into one of the world’s greatest cities as a battle went on down below was reckless beyond description. Still, when the call had come in, Thorette had been more-than-happy to accept. Given that the 2e Régiment étranger de parachutistes was the only available airborne unit in North America, it had made sense to call them away from their mission supporting the new army of the infant Republic of Quebec and to send them into battle against the American rebels who were attempting to seize Manhattan. After all, there were no other trained ground forces that might get there in time to resolve the battle that was raging at that very moment. And, really, what sort of a story would this be if he lived through it?
Still, even given all of that, he wished that they’d picked a better landing zone.
It had fallen to a group of American - or Federation or whatever they called themselves these days - C-130s to transport the French paratroopers to their targets. For the better part of a day, the Rebel Marines below had been fighting a running battle with the Cuban forces that had been covertly transported to Manhattan. The Marines, though suffering severe casualties themselves, had managed to badly damage the Cuban brigade in the process. Time and time again the Marines launched hit-and-run attacks against the Cubans. In each attack they managed to inflict a few casualties before falling back a little bit further.
Fernando Lara, the Colonel who commanded the Cubans, was in constant communication with the high command of the embryonic Democratic Union. He was sick, he explained, of the Marines being able to fall back block-by-block. When asked what sort of support he needed to end the battle, he demanded an anvil for his hammer. That was where the Second Parachute Regiment came in.
The French force, it was decided, would land behind the Marines and close off as many possible avenues of retreat as they could while the Cubans continued their advance. Time and mobility considerations therefore had dictated that the French paratroopers make an airborne landing in Lower Manhattan and there simply were’t that many spaces suitable for such an operations, especially in proximity to where the Cubans wanted their anvil placed.
Eventually someone - Thorette wasn’t sure if they had acted out of malice, ignorance, or expediency - had picked a spot on the map. It was pretty wide open, at least compared with a lot of other spots in the area. There was a few hazards to navigation, to be sure, but they regarded them as manageable.
The biggest hazards to navigation in the French landing zone were two giant man-made waterfalls.
Fifty Miles So
uth of Phoenix, AZ
The first Javelin anti-tank missile flew downrange at a speed of nearly two hundred miles per hour. The missile flew straight towards its target and impacted, cracking open the French-made Panhard VCR with a spectacular explosion.
“Fuck yes!” shouted Governor Robert Schmidt as the soldiers of the Arizona State Guard opened fire upon the advancing Mexican mechanized infantry across a front the better part of a mile long.
“Thank God the motherfuckers in Colorado Springs finally showed some Goddamned common sense,” said the Governor as teams of Arizonan soldiers let fly a second salvo of missiles. These missiles likewise soared directly towards their targets and then exploded with utter efficiency.
Faced with the flurry of missile fire, the Mexican APCs halted their advance and began to unload. Hundreds of soldiers began to spill out of the armored vehicles, all of the survivors of what had previously been a full battalion of infantry.
Schmidt instinctively ducked as the first barrage of enemy artillery fire landed close to the Arizonan position.
“Fine work, Captain,” he said, pointing at the burning vehicles in the distance as he held his helmet with his other hand, “now we just need to finish the fuckers off.”
“We’re working on it, Governor!” shouted the Captain over the sound of the exploding Mexican artillery.
“I think you’d better get out of here,” said the Captain as another nearby explosion shook the ground.
“Nonsense,” replied the Governor, “I don’t have anything to fear. God isn’t going to let me die today.”
The Governor patted the Captain on the shoulder as he spoke the last phrase.
As the Mexican infantry approached, the Arizonians opened fire with their own machine guns. From his position the Governor watched as one soldier after another was cut down by the bullets. All along the Arizonian defensive lines officers and non-coms sought to keep the militiamen from opening fire with their own rifles until they were able to actually hit something.
