by Adam Yoshida
The artillery fire did not abate as the infantry continued to approach the Arizonan position.
“Are they really going to call in fire on their own men?” the Governor asked the Captain over the sound of the explosions and firing.
“We’ve been throwing them off and forcing them to launch repeated attacks all along the line for twenty-four hours,” replied the Captain, “I think that they just want to kill us.”
The steady drumbeat of kept up without remission as the enemy forces continued to approach the Arizonian defensive works.
“I think that they’re going to try and overrun us,” said the Captain.
“Governor,” whispered the Maricopa County Sheriff’s Deputy who served as his chief bodyguard, “I think that we need to get back to the main CP now.”
“Fuck that,” said the Governor, “does anyone have a rifle?”
Another shell exploded nearby, spraying the trench with debris and dirt. A soldier, ducking low, came over and handed the Governor an M-16.
“I don’t think that we can get out of here that way, Jim” said the Governor to his bodyguard, “they’ve already moved behind our position as well. If we try and retreat from here, we’re just going to be mowed right on down.”
Yet another blast rocked the trench, knocking most of the occupants to the ground. The Sheriff’s Deputy got up and picked up his personal radio.
“If you’ve got any air support for us here at position tango,” he called out, “I’ve got the Governor here and we don’t have any other path out.”
“Shut the fuck up,” ordered the Governor, “for all we know they’re listening and they’ll come to capture me.”
The men in the trench were rocked by another blast, this one sprayed shrapnel over the entire group. The Captain dropped wordlessly to the ground. Governor Schmidt and one of the militiamen ran over to attend him. At first he looked fine, perhaps only knocked out by the force of the blast. Then they rolled him over, to find a long and jagged scar under his right ear where a piece of metal had clearly entered his body.
“Do you think it went into his brain?” asked the militiaman.
“I’m not a fucking doctor,” replied the Governor.
The artillery fire continued to fall all across the Arizonian lines.
“We can’t retreat. We can’t stay here,” breathed Governor Schmidt to himself.
“Governor?” asked the trooper, unsteady on his feet as the steady rate of enemy fire continued.
“As Commander-in-Chief of all military forces belonging to the state of Arizona,” announced the Governor, shouting to make himself heard, “I am assuming personal command of this force.”
The Governor’s shouted announcement was passed up and down the line as the bullets continued to fly and the artillery shells continued to explode all around the embattled soldiers.
“Can’t retreat. Can’t stay here,” repeated the Governor to himself as he thought of something that he’d read in a book or seen in a movie - he couldn’t quite remember which just then - when he was a boy.
The Arizonian heavy machine guns continued to inflict casualties on the advancing Mexicans as the first spurt of effective Arizonian rifle fire sent half a dozen men to the ground.
“Fix bayonets!” ordered the Governor, giving a moment for his order to pass down the line. More artillery rounds impacted directly behind his position, forcing the soldiers in his sector to head straight for the ground. A further round impacted a section of the defensive works one hundred yards to his right, killing and maiming some and spraying everyone else nearby with blood and viscera.
“No prisoners!” screamed the Governor as he rose from his crouching position and surged forward and out of his protected spot. He was followed by the rest of the militiamen, who joined him in charging forward and firing their rifles at the oncoming Mexican infantry.
The Governor fired his magazine in three shot bursts. He watched as one Mexican soldier after another fell to the ground, cut down by the massed fire of the Arizonian rifles. It wasn’t until he tripped and fell to one knee - a position from which he began to reload - that he realized that the ranks of his own soldiers had been similarly depleted by the fire of the enemy. ]
Both forces were extraordinarily close together now, firing upon one another with their rifles from practically point blank range. From his crouching position the Governor caught sight of a boy, of around eighteen, taking aim at a soldier further on down the line. The Governor raised his rifle and shot him three times in the face. No sooner had the Governor seen the boy drop to the ground than he noticed another Mexican soldier just feet away and aiming his rifle directly at him. The Governor turned and, without even thinking, fired two quick bursts that hit the soldier at roughly waist level.
Even before the second man had collapsed to the ground, the Governor spied out of the corner of his right eye a third soldier coming towards him. Acting once more on instinct the Governor rose up from his position on one knee and jammed his bayonet into the neck of the attacking Mexican. The grievously-injured soldier screamed as Schmidt attempted to pull back the bayonet, but then made the fatal mistake of seemingly attempting to raise his rifle. The Governor pulled the trigger on his M-16, putting three rounds into the neck of Mexican soldier from point blank range before attempting again to extract his weapon. The combined force of the the initial stabbing, the point blank rifle fire, and the rough extraction of the bayonet was enough to separate the soldier’s head from the rest of his body. It flew through the air and landed five feet away from the rest of him.
The Governor fell backwards, landing flat on his ass. He wiped away from his face some of the blood that the last soldier had sprayed all over him before he grabbed his rifle once again with both hands and stood up.
“No prisoners!” he repeated as he rose to fire his rifle once again. However, a quick survey of the scene around him demonstrated that his command was utterly unnecessary. All across his field of vision the Arizonian soldiers were clearing the battlefield. He watched with grim satisfaction as the Mexican infantry turned and ran in the face of the determined American charge and as the militia continued to fire upon the retreating soldiers, sending one after another crashing face-first into the ground.
USS George H.W. Bush (CVN-77), Off the California Coast
“Yes, Mr. Secretary,” said Admiral Neil Tompkins as he gazed out at the mid-day sun from the Combat Information Center of the USS George H.W. Bush, “we’ll get it done.”
The Admiral set down the phone and turned to the officers in the CIC.
“The landings are off,” he reported, “they’re going to change the destination of the Army of the Colorado. We’re going to detach the amphibious force and send them to the north. We have new orders. We’re going to support the forces protecting the flank of the army along the California-Arizona border.”
“With what?” asked the CAG of Carrier Air Wing Eight.
“We’re going to sail as fast as we can and fly off everything that we can. Our primary target is going to be the mechanized forces that are holding back from the main engagement. If we can disrupt those, we can prevent any breakthrough - or at least stop the Loyalists or whoever the fuck they are now from exploiting one.”
“Arizona is an awfully long fucking way aways,” noted the CAG.
“It is, Captain,” agreed Tompkins, “but we can get there. It’s within the combat radius of our F-35s.”
“Can the forces on the ground get us good GPS data?” asked the Captain of the Bush, “because - if so - I think that we can put our Tomahawks to good use as well.”
“Actually,” replied the Admiral, “Colorado Springs has a different use for most of our Tomahawks in mind.”
Chambers St. and Broadway, Manhattan
As soon as he saw the parachutes opening up over the city, Colonel Durham knew that it was over.
“There are ‘chutes open over Lower Manhattan, are they ours?” one of his Marines had asked him moments late
r by way of the radio.
“Negative,” replied the Colonel. Durham momentarily took off his helmet and scratched his head.
“Well, this was always a long-shot,” said the Colonel to the men and women around him.
“Does anyone have eyes on who we have coming down and where the LZ is?” he asked over the radio.
“Fuck me,” came back a message that was cut off.
“Say again,” said the Colonel.
“I don’t know who the fuck they are - though it looks like C-130s that they’ve got dropping them - but fuck me if they aren’t coming down right the fuck on the 9-11 Memorial,” reported a Marine over the radio.
Colonel Durham looked at the ground for a moment. He’d been barely more than a teenager when, more than two decades before, the terrorists had descended upon New York City. That terrible day, when enemies of liberty had murdered three thousand people on the streets of an American city, had been the day when a college student in Michigan had decided to join the armed forces. He had been to that particular place many times in the years since, always mesmerized by the odd beauty of the giant waterfalls that now stood where the footprints of each of the towers had once been. It was a special place. It was a sacred place. It was an American place.
It took the Colonel a second to catch his bearings.
“Gather around,” he ordered the members of his staff. In a few seconds, they stopped what they were doing and turned to face him.
“We always knew,” he began, “that this mission was a long-shot. Our objective here was to provide a distraction here in the East in order to obstruct the movement of enemy forces to the Western theatre of operations. Well, we’ve done that splendidly. But we are faced with an overwhelming force in the form of this Cuban brigade. That is doubly true because we are alone here, without any serious possibility of reinforcements or sustained support.”
“The hope, of course, was that we would be able to actually secure control of the entire island of Manhattan and then force the mustering of a much larger force to expel us. Obviously, given that we are fighting for the city block-by-block at this very moment, we know that that is not going to happen.”
“Now, I have always had secondary orders for this eventuality. If resistance make our primary objective impossible, my orders are to direct the members of this battalion to disperse and melt into the civilian population as best as they can for the purpose of engaging in unconventional warfare until such a time as the main force of the army arrives to liberate New York City.”
“Therefore, in accordance with my own orders, I now issue those orders to you: the battalion is ordered to disperse, blend into the population, and engage in acts of resistance until such a time as further direction is issued to it by a competent authority.”
“Those are my orders. Those are now the orders that I have issued to you.”
“Now, that being said,” continued the Colonel, “you’ve just all seen what I’ve seen and heard what I’ve heard. These motherfuckers think that they can come here, tear apart our country, and set their feet upon our most holy places. Well, I say: fuck them.”
“At this point, with the Goddamned Cubans coming from the north, I realize that this makes zero tactical sense but, let’s face it, this entire operation never made that much tactical sense. You’re all released to go and find whatever means of effectual resistance that you can. But, for my own part, I’m going to head on down to the 9-11 Memorial, and I’m going to try and kill every single motherfucker who has dared to profane that place.”
Fifty Miles West of Yuma, Arizona
The F-35Bs of six full squadrons moved together in a close formation. The depleted remnants of that portion of the California Air National Guard that had remained with the Loyalists had barely offered any resistance. The handful of old F-16s that had attempted to engage the onrushing wave of Navy fighters had been swept aside in a swift and contemptuous fashion. Such air defenses as remained had been largely set aside for defending against an attack coming from the west, not the east.
“Whack-a-mole,” called out one of the pilots over the radio as another AMRAAM streamed across the sky and blotted another Loyalist plane out of existence.
“Shut up,” came a curt reply.
Within moments, the targets on the ground rushed into view. There was no hesitation now, not like there had been over Hawaii the previous year. The formation broke up and the Rebel aircraft began to methodically engage their targets. They dropped one bomb after another, with each finding a different target upon the ground.
There was only scattered fire from the soldiers down below: the U.S. Armed Forces had, presuming that they would forever have air supremacy, largely neglected ground-based air defense throughout the modern era.
The bombs let loose by the onrushing airborne tide tore apart one tank and armored vehicle after another. The explosions shone brightly and visibly even in the mid-day Californian sun.
Packed in fairly-dense formations along the highway and fuelled-up in preparation for a rapid advance as soon as the way ahead of them was clear, the mechanized vehicles of the 40th Division made excellent targets for the Navy pilots high above. By the time the fist pass was complete nearly forty of them had already been shattered.
“We’ve got company. The Loyalist CAP is coming our way now,” reported one of the lead pilots over the radio.
The Rebel F-35s broke their formation. Two squadrons turned to face the incoming Loyalist F-15s.
“Fox Three,” called out one of the Rebel pilots as she launched an AMRAAM at a Loyalist fighter. Within moments she was joined by a veritable chorus of voices as the Rebels filled the sky with missiles. The Loyalist pilots dropped chaff and manoeuvred slightly, but continued to accelerate and remain on an interception course with the the main body of the Rebel attack wave that had hung slightly back from the leading edge.
The Loyalists deliberately allowed the distance between themselves and the mass of the Rebel force to close even further. Precious seconds slid by as the entered optical firing range for their own missiles. The F-35s that the rebels had deployed were stealthy, but they were detectable, especially by the powerful radars of the pair of nearby E-3 Sentries that were guiding the Loyalist counter-attack.
As the respective missiles of both sides crossed paths in the sky it quickly became clear that the Loyalists had managed to make their attack somewhat more effective, but at an incredible cost. Each of the F-15s turned to evade as soon as they had fired their own missiles. However, during the time that they had continued to close range with the Rebel F-35s, they had also allowed the Rebel AMRAAMs to come perilously close to them as well. There was little room for error as each F-15 attempted to execute a wild turn and then to alter its course in order to evade the Rebel missiles. One plane after another - fully half of the Loyalist force - was struck and tumbled out of the sky.
The Rebels also paid in blood and treasure. Eleven of the F-35s were struck. Nine were instantly destroyed. One managed to stay in the air long enough for the pilot to eject. One, which had almost managed to avoid the blast of the incoming missile, managed to limp onwards and land in Phoenix.
Fifty-Two Miles South of Phoenix, AZ
Governor Robert Schmidt found himself momentarily lost. He stopped amidst all of the shooting and the swirling dust to try and get his bearings. He’d run out of rifle ammunition nearly half an hour earlier. Now he was walking amidst the shattered wreckage of the Mexican column with his pistol out. On the ground, about ten feet from him, a Mexican soldier attempted to crawl forward. For all that Schmidt knew he was reaching for a weapon. The Governor raised his M1911 pistol and fired a shot. The first shot missed. The second did not. Better safe than sorry, he reasoned.
“Governor!” a voice called off in the distance. Schmidt only half heard it. He stumbled forward further, pistol pointed outwards.
“Governor!” the voice repeated insistently. Dazed, Schmidt turned around. He saw a man approaching him. Squinting he could b
arely make out that the man was wearing a US Army uniform.
“Who the fuck are you?” asked the Governor, not quite raising his pistol to point it directly at the man.
“I’m Captain Nelson Aldrich, sir,” said the man, “Alpha Troop, 2nd Squadron, 11th Armored Cavalry Regiment. We were detached from the main body of the Army of the Colorado to come to your assistance… Not that you seem to really need it here.”
“This is only one sector,” said the Governor.
“Yeah, we’re going to pursue here,” said Aldrich, “but we’re engaging all up and down the line.”
“Well, thank fucking God.”
Three Miles West of Yuma, Arizona
The air strikes had crippled the Loyalist manoeuvre force, ending all hope that a breakthrough that would upend the movement of the Army of the Colorado. However, that still left the survivors of the 200th Division grappling at close quarters with the survivors of the enemy force sent to break them.
For miles around the earth had been marked and re-arranged by the explosions of artillery fire and the construction of hasty defensive works. A hundred feet ahead of the spot where Evan Dunford was standing a group of soldiers were tossing the bodies of Loyalists who had died in a futile frontal assault against a well-fortified position into a hastily-prepared mass grave.
“Colonel,” said General Jackson as he hopped out of a HUMVEE and walked towards Dunford, “what’s the situation here?”
“Well,” replied Dunford, “the enemy force broke off their assault mid-afternoon. We then launched a counter-attack. I sent in two Companies to dislodge them from that hill over there. We gave them a through pasting with our artillery first. We took the hill by nightfall.”
