by Adam Yoshida
“But I thought that we expected attacks on both of those positions at any moment,” said the High Commissioner.
“We do,” replied General Wesley, “but those are going to be sieges, rather than mobile battles. If we can keep up morale there we can hold out for a long time and still inflict losses.”
“Won’t seeing forces sent away hurt morale?” asked the High Commissioner.
“Well, perhaps at first,” conceded General Wesley, “but I think that will turn around when they actually go into action.”
“And when would that be?”
“According to our best estimates: one week before election day.”
Temporary Seat of the Government of the United States, Colorado Springs, Colorado
Acting President Rickover looked at the British officer standing in front of him with his jaw slightly slackened.
“Lieutenant-Commander Windsor,” he said, having been briefed in advance on the young man’s preferred style of address.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me, Mr. President,” said the British sailor, carefully adjusting his arm in its sling.
“I know that you wish to keep your Royal connection out of this as much as possible and I can understand that,” said Rickover, “but it is not my ordinary practice to accept requests for meetings from mid-level officers. Let alone those who are prisoners of war. How can I help you, Lieutenant-Commander?”
“Well, Mr. President, to borrow a phrase I’ve heard from somewhere: let my people go.”
The Acting President chuckled slightly.
“Setting aside the originality of the phrase, Lieutenant-Commander, I don’t see how I can accede to this. I hope that this unpleasantness will do nothing in the long-term to diminish the special relationship that exists between the British and American people but, to be direct you were just trying to kill us. In fact, our records say that you did in fact kill one American pilot.”
The Acting President held up his hand.
“Don’t take that the wrong way. I know that you were a pilot and it was your duty. I don’t mean to be insulting.”
“I appreciate that, sir,” said Windsor, “please permit me the liberty of being likewise as direct.”
Rickover nodded his assent.
“The majority of the British people are against this horrible conflict and all else that has gone on. The government - my father’s government - rules largely by emergency decree now, with the ever-looming threat of further oppression. They’ve already thrown numerous leaders of the opposition into prison. Britain is not free at the moment.”
“The entire world is much less free than it was a few years ago,” said the Acting President darkly, “we’re working on that.”
“Let me help,” said Lieutenant-Commander Windsor starkly.
“How would you do that?” asked Rickover.
“The problem is the British government - not the majority of the British people,” said the Prince, “I know that technically they’re my father’s government and all of that business, but that’s really just not so. My father is a good man, after a fashion. As was once said of your own nation, he can be counted upon to eventually do the right thing once everything else has failed.”
“What exactly is it that you are proposing, sir?” asked the Acting President.
“Morale in the British armed forces is terrible right now,” explained Windsor, “there were plenty of sailors onboard the fleet who almost mutinied rather than fight against the United States Navy. Our comrades in the Falklands, those of us held here now know, did exactly that - and in considerable numbers.”
“There aren’t substantial British forces left in the field here in North America,” said the Acting President, “and, anyways, I think that almost all of our British POWs are either from the RAF or the Royal Navy. Isn’t that so?”
“It is, Mr. President,” said Secretary Preston.
“You didn’t just capture British sailors and airmen, Mr. President,” continued the Prince, “you also captured British ships. I’ve been speaking to some of the officers and sailors off of Prince of Wales. They tell me that the damage to her, while crippling in the short-term, could be easily and quickly repaired. Within a single weekend, in fact - much like Yorktown was between Coral Sea and Midway. It won’t be pretty, but she’ll sail.”
“Hmmm…” the Acting President looked at the Prince, “I suppose another Carrier could always be helpful as we continue the advance to the north.”
“That isn’t quite what I had in mind, Mr. President,” said Windsor, “I think that you should send us home.”
“Home?” said Rickover, “I don’t think that repatriation is going to be an option.”
“Not in a traditional sense, Mr. President. As well, I would be needing some help from your friends in the NSA, or whatever is performing the functions of that agency these days.”
The Acting President leaned forward, intrigued.
Federation Rehabilitation Center, Allenwood
The Minister of Justice nominally disapproved of the death penalty, but she was willing to make an exception in certain cases. The entire Federation was using the criminal laws of the United States, with certain modifications, and the death penalty had been retained as a part of that. One of the things that the Minister was proudest of with regard to her tenure so far was the introduction of the first new laws against “social crimes”, especially ones which recognized that certain acts had a particularly terrible effect upon women minorities and that those who engaged in acts of oppression ought to suffer the worst price.
Anyways, the Justice Minister thought, we executed black men without a second thought for years. It’s really necessary that more white men be executed so that the scales be balanced before we close the book on this particularly ugly chapter in our history.
The man who was now being strapped down had been notorious long before the war. He was a pornographer who specialized in getting women who had not previously done so to appear in his movies. Nothing, not even the horrors of war, had been able to abate the insatiable appetite of people all over the world for pornography and, in fact, the desperate economic conditions of the day had increased the number of people willing to participate in it. That, in the opinion of the Justice Minister, made the man in front of her not only a sex criminal of a sort but also a kind of war profiteer.
“This is a lesson that everyone should learn: we in the Federation of North American States will not tolerate the continued exploitation of women,” the Justice Minister explained to the assembled media, “and will use every legal tool that we have available to us to pursue those who do exploit women and perpetuate a rape culture to the very ends of the Earth.”
“Mr. Franklin has been found guilty of felony murder by the Special Temporary Tribunal and review of his case has been denied by the High Court. The Special Tribunal found that it was wholly appropriate to bring such charges after one of the women he exploited, Alannah Sinclair, killed herself after her participation in one of his videos was exposed. Since the court found that her death’s proximate cause was her participation in the videos produced by Mr. Franklin and since, under the Temporary Federation Criminal Code, exploitation is a felony, the court found that Mr. Franklin was guilty of murder in the course of the commission of a felony.”
“I’m no lawyer,” one of the reporters from the New York Times said, “but, even under that reading of the law, given that Ms. Sinclair’s death was a suicide, wouldn’t any charges brought against Mr. Franklin be something other than murder?”
“Perhaps in the old patriarchal system,” explained the Justice Minister soothingly, “but today we recognize that people cannot, within hierarchical systems of oppression, really be wholly responsible for their own actions and that, just in the case of our reform of theft laws, we must recognize and criminalize the root causes of injustice.”
2nd Squadron, 7th Cavalry, 1st BCT, 2nd Armored Division, Ottawa, Ontario
“I thought that th
ey were falling all the way back,” commented Captain Andy Dumont as the sound of a bursting artillery round caused everyone in the 2nd Squadron’s headquarters to tense up.
“Lots of Canadians in this part of the FNASA,” said Major Tony Olafson, who had attained command of the Cavalry squadron a week earlier when the previous commander’s Stryker had been torn apart by an IED along Highway 417, “they didn’t want to abandon their capital without a fight, and I guess Chicago decided to oblige them.”
A moderate amount of snow covered the ground. It was enough to be a nuisance at times, but not enough to stop or really inhibit the movement of the 2nd Cavalry’s vehicles.
“It’s too damned bad that it’s not later in the year,” commented one of the platoon commanders, “a guy from the 200th told me that the river freezes solid enough during the dead of winter that we could just walk across it.”
“With fucking artillery firing on us? That’d last about five seconds,” said Major Olafson, “fucking think before you talk.”
Another artillery round went off nearby and shook the entire tent, sending a few objects off of tables and onto the floor.
“Should we get somewhere more secure?” asked one of the enlisted men.
“Fuck it,” said the Major, “they’ll have to have better fucking aim than they’ve shown so far to be a threat. We’re more likely to be killed by random shots walking around to go and take a piss.”
“Look,” continued the Major, “this is simple enough: we just need to cross the river and force back that fucking artillery. Nothing more. We’re not looking to hold control forever, just to allow the rest of the force to pass along the planned route and to make sure that they can’t swing around and attack our tail we continue the advance. Captain Dumont - Bravo Troop will be the primary attack force. This is going to be a thunder run. We’ve got your air support for once and there are some special forces guys who are already on the way ahead of you. We need you to race in through the downtown area, shoot anything that resists, then cross into Hull, race up to their positions, and put them out of business. Our best intelligence says that they’ve got a thin force here, at best.”
“Into Hull?” asked Dumont, “I don’t know that we’re equipped for a river crossing.”
“You’re going to cross the MacDonald-Cartier bridge right in downtown,” explained the Major.
“That’s a huge fucking bridge,” said Dumont, “won’t they blow it? Or don’t they have it at least wired for demolition?”
“Bridges are expensive, Captain,” said Olafson, “and these are cheap people, at least when it comes to their own money. We’ve got SF operators sitting on it and a pair of drones circling above at their command if anyone should approach it. We think it’s good. And, if not - well, you can swim, can’t you? Hop to it.”
“Jesus…” muttered Captain Dumont.
Bravo Troop, 2nd Squadron, 7th Cavalry, 1st BCT, 2nd Armored Division, Ottawa, Ontario
The sight of a sixteen-ton M1126 Stryker racing down urban streets at a speed of one hundred kilometres an hour was something to behold. The 1st Cavalry Division was at the front edge of the advance and the 7th Cavalry was in the lead. No one knew how much the Federation had managed to fortify Ottawa before the fighting had reached the city. For all that the US Army knew the city had been seeded with large caches of anti-tank missiles and other nasty surprises. Given this, no one was taking any chances as a hasty attack was launched to clear out the token force that had been left behind the defend the city and slow the advance of XII Corps.
More than a few of the soldiers who were driving the lead Strykers had seen combat in Iraq or Afghanistan. They knew exactly how to drive in this sort of environment: quickly and recklessly. Captain Dumont silently prayed that civilians had been able to observe and heed the warnings that their electronic warfare people had broadcast in the previous hour to stay clear of the streets as he watched the Stryker in front of him bump a carelessly-parked SUV, sending it tumbling onto the curb like a toy.
“Target ahead,” radioed the lead vehicle, “infantry at my 9 o’clock in the storefront.”
“Roger that,” replied Dumont, “all units, engage.”
There was no time to sight and mark targets exactly. The lead vehicle’s commander had pointed out that a small unit of infantry were hiding under cover in the shattered remains of a City Target’s ground floor. Dumont watched as an RPG fired by one of the soldiers sailed off wildly and struck the building across the street. The Cavalry troopers likewise lacked time to fully aim and instead turned their .50 caliber M2 machine guns to the left, letting loose a wild stream of bullets as each passed the target in the world’s wildest and most gruesome drive-by shooting. .50 caliber bullets could mess up armored vehicles pretty badly. When they made contact with humans the impact of the bullets had an almost pyrotechnic effect. Dumont shuddered as he watched the rapid-fire shred the tiny group of resisters, especially since he knew that more than a few of the bullets that they had fired had definitely gone wild.
“Up ahead,” called out one of the drone operators over the radio network, “they’ve trying to set up a roadblock with a handful of LAVs. Engaging.”
The Avenger drones that were supporting the rapid advance of the 2nd Squadron unloaded a quartet of Hellfire missiles in the next few seconds, sending them flying forward over the heads of the troopers towards the soldiers who were attempting to block the approach to the downtown bridge that would take the American soldiers into Quebec. In the distance Dumont could see the contrails of the missiles, though not their exact point of impact.
“Solid hits,” called out the drone operator over the radio, “they’re still there - about five hundred meters ahead - but they’re in disarray. Actually, they’re trying to regroup.”
“Everyone,” announced Dumont into his own radio, “maintain speed. Vehicles, engage when you approach the roadblock without slowing.”
The Stryker that carried Dumont was the third to approach the roadblock, where a small group of soldiers were attempting to find cover amidst the wreckage of their own vehicles. More than a few of them appeared to simply be scrambling for cover. For a moment he contemplated granting them mercy.
“Continue to engage,” he ordered, “we might have to come back this way.”
The Strykers were moving too fast for the gunners to take truly-aimed shots. They simply trained their weapons in the general direction of any enemy soldier that they observed and let loose a spray of bullets.
“Apaches have the artillery battery in sight,” the radio announced, “they are engaging now.”
“If we’ve got helicopters at the ready, why couldn’t they silence the artillery?” asked the driver of Dumont’s Stryker.
“Our job is to ensure that they stay silent,” said Dumont simply as he watched the vehicles approach the MacDonald-Cartier bridge.
“You’re good to cross,” called out the lead drone operator, “we’ve got the bridge clear and covered.”
Dumont studied the map that was displayed on the computer console in front of him. The Apaches had managed to temporarily scatter the artillery positions that were around ten minutes away from their positions, but they’d had to break off after firing their own missiles as the handful of soldiers defending the artillery had at least a handful of man-portable surface-to-air missiles.
“Alright,” said the Troop commander as he attempted to arrange affairs fully in his mind, “they’re in this park on the other side of the bridge. There’s another fucking bridge between us and them - we’re just going to chance that if they didn’t want to blow this one bridge that they won’t be ready to blow the second one. God help us there. Once we cross the second bridge we’re going to come within one click of their positions, at which point we’ll dismount to engage the infantry that’s defending them.”
“Bravo Commander,” called out the voice of Major Olafson, “you’ve got a supportive fire mission underway. We’ll curtail and stop it as you approach. But
wait until we call out that you’re good to go if you don’t want to get killed by blue-on-blue.”
“Acknowledged,” said Dumont, “we’ll be careful. Out.”
The Strykers continued to race forward, heedless of the danger to both themselves and anyone in their path. A foolish driver - who knew what they were thinking - provided a solid demonstration in the continuing validity of the laws of physics when they attempted to dart in front of the lead vehicle, which continued straight ahead, contemptuously swatting away the SUV and sending it tumbling over, crumpled and smoking, to the side of the road.
Tension hung in the air as the Strykers continued to fly through downtown Ottawa. The small groups of soldiers opposing them got a little more careful as the parade continued. One of them managed to fire an anti-tank missile from inside one of the office buildings that darted past their route, disabling one of the vehicles. Dumont watched the scene from his command vehicle and briefly pondered stopping to assist his endangered comrades. He resisted the temptation.
“Keep going,” he ordered, “we’ll have a second wave to help them.”
The MacDonald-Cartier Bridge was already fully secured by the time that Bravo Troop reached it, allowing for the Cavalry troopers to pass over it in peace as a handful of Special Forces soldiers carefully scanned for any sign of danger. None emerging, the transit over the bridge turned out to be thoroughly uneventful.
It only took a few minutes for the vehicles to make their way into the park where the FNASA artillery was situated. The absence of opposition, Dumont reflected, had now become somewhat concerning. He wondered if he could be walking into a trap.
