by Adam Yoshida
“What’s going on?” he called out to the drone operators above.
“Uhhh… They’ve stopped firing,” reported one of the operators, “but there’s a lot of smoke over the scene. We can’t quite see what’s going on.”
“Should we dismount?” asked one of the Platoon commanders as the Strykers reached their designated points. Dumont looked around for a moment - the call was his.
“No. Halt here,” he ordered, “First Platoon is to probe forward mounted and to withdraw if they encounter resistance.”
Dumont sat quietly, watching the video feed from one of the Strykers. The images were almost indecipherable as they were almost totally obscured by smoke.
“Can you see?” he called out to the operators and the commander of First Platoon.
“There’s just a lot of fucking smoke,” called out the First Platoon commander, “it’s October and there’s a lot of dead leaves all over this place. I think that there’s a big fire going. We’re using infared as best as we can to try and get an image, but it’s a mess. Is there still artillery fire?”
“Negative,” called out the drone commander.
The feed suddenly changed, showing the approach of some object.
“Hold fire!” ordered Dumont, but he was far from the scene of the action.
Instinctively the lead Stryker opened fire as soon as they caught sight of the approaching vehicle, riddling the object with bullets. As soon as the first of the Infantry Fighting Vehicles fired the rest followed, opening fire upon the approaching wave of seemingly-hostile vehicles.
“Halt fire!” ordered Dumont who, further removed from the scene, had a better point-of-view. The outlines of the vehicles he was looking at certainly didn’t appear to be military to him.
“Jesus,” called out the First Platoon commander, “I think that was a bus.”
“Say again,” called out Dumont.
“I think that’s a bus that we just shot up. The last one. I can’t see fully,” replied the commander.
“Fuck,” said Dumont, “are you sure?”
“No, I’m not,” said the Platoon commander.
On the monitor, he watched more objects approaching First Platoon. These looked different in their nature.”
“Shit,” said Dumont, “those aren’t buses.”
He squinted at his monitor. It looked to him like dismounted infantry, with vehicles travelling a distance behind.
“They’re in missile range,” he said urgently, “engage, engage.”
Each of the four Strykers within range immediately opened fire, throwing hundreds of bullets towards the incoming enemy force. For a moment the enemy force, under heavy fire, simply froze in place, taking the fire and falling where they stood. Seconds later they began to retreat back into the smoke. It was only several hours later that the Army CID team that arrived on the scene found the improvised white flag amidst the three dozen corpses that lay scattered across the charred ground and began to put together what had happened.
Temporary Seat of the Government of the United States, Colorado Springs, Colorado
“How did the fire get out of control so quickly?” asked the Acting President as he watched the pictures of the fire that had consumed the Parc du Lac Leamy and managed to kill several hundred people.
“Well,” explained Secretary Preston, “the Canadian governments pretty much went broke in the aftermath of their civil war and putting things back together hasn’t been a priority for the Federation of North American States. Not that there was, all told, much that they could have done in the time that they’ve existed.”
“Well, fuck,” said the Acting President, “and this business with the tour bus?”
“The fire had just started and they came towards some of our soldiers. They thought they were an attacker in the confusion and opened fire.”
“Jesus,” said Rickover, “we’ve already got fucking Mitchell Randall on this. He just said - have you read or seen this - he just said that this is just a preview of what we can expect as we go into the bigger cities and, he’s Goddamned right about that.”
“And he’s going to play it for everything that it’s worth,” said Ira Skelton.
“Of course he is. Treasonous fuck,” said the President, bringing his hand slamming down upon the table in front of him.
“What’s next, Mr. President?” asked General Monroe, “should we issue an apology?”
“No,” said the Acting President, “issue a non-apology. Say that it’s tragic that lives may be lost in war, etc, etc, etc. Emphasize that this will end when the DU lays down their arms.”
“Perhaps we should play it a little more softly than that, Mr. President,” said the White House Chief of Staff.
“No,” insisted the Acting President, raising his voice, “we don’t get anywhere by that. Because if we bid we can be out-bid and, really, what apology would be sufficient for that mess anyways?”
The Acting President gestured towards the screen in front of him.
“No,” he continued, “we win this by winning. That’s what I already told General Jackson, ladies and gentlemen - or more accurately, gentlemen and Susan.”
“On that note, Mr. President,” said General Monroe, “I received word from General Mackenzie just before this meeting that he and his forces are ready to move.”
“Then, by all means, proceed,” ordered the Acting President.
U.S.M.C. F/A-18 Super Hornet, Over Reston, VA
Captain Michael Pope eased up the throttle on his Super Hornet as it passed over the mid-sized Virginian city. Pope and the rest of VMA-214 had been ordered, along with the rest of the survivors from the Harry Truman, to provide close air support to the advance of the 1st Cavalry Division as it executed a “left hook” that would see it move to the north of Washington, DC before launching the assault upon the city itself. As the Super Hornet slid towards its target, Captain Pope silently thanked God for the Air Force F-22s and E-3 Sentries that were providing a thorough combat air patrol further to the north over southern Pennsylvania.
“Black Sheep,” the squadron commander called out, “targets are designated on the ground. Engage when in position. Out.”
The eleven surviving F/A-18Es of the Marine fighter squadron didn’t need any more of a signal than that. After a final glance at his HUD for confirmation, Pope banked his fighter to the right and dropped his altitude further to take him towards his assigned target. The DU forces on the ground around Washington were nothing to sneeze at - nearly one hundred thousand soldiers - but they had made the mistake of thinking that fixed defenses would be their salvation. Instead, at least in this particular case, they simply provided inviting targets.
In this case, the Marines were assaulting a series of fixed fighting positions designed to allow soldiers who were little more than jumped-up militia to hold their own against the advancing American tank crews. With enough anti-tank missiles - and Pope had no doubt that those were in anything but short supply - such positions could prove to be a serious impediment to the advance of the army. Losing one or two tanks at a time could leave the 1st Cavalry and 4th Infantry Divisions wounded and wheezing as they limped towards the Washington area where the best DU forces remained stationed.
Following his pre-mission briefing to the letter, Pope guided his jet over the enemy position that lay astride the highway and dropped four five hundred pound laser-guided Paveway IV bombs. The bombs fell straight upon their targets, each striking almost exactly at the points that had been already selected by a group of U.S. Army Special Forces operators who had been sent in on the ground ahead of the general advance. The bombs exploded as they impacted the roofs of the temporary structures that had been set up to shield the DU soldiers. The bombs simply obliterated the temporary structures that lay in their path, taking with them many of the men and women that they had been intended to protect as they sprayed deadly fragments of shrapnel through the improvised trench-works.
Immediately behind Pope came more Supe
r Hornets, which likewise began to strike the FNASA position in turn. By the time that VMA-214 blew clear of Reston, they had dropped eighty five hundred pound bombs on every single target that had been selected and left the battalion that had been stationed to defend the town a bloody ruin.
Camp David, Maryland
President Kevin Bryan - for that was still how he styled himself - awoke suddenly. It took him a moment to orient himself, for he remained quite foggy as a result of his activities of the night before. The people who held him prisoner here might not have followed his orders in all matters - or even permitted him to contact the outside world - but they were always willing to bring him whatever he ordered to eat… or drink.
A great crash sounded in the distance and washed over his ears. Bryan looked out his window - the fall skies were dark but clear.
That must have been an explosion, he thought to himself. His first intuition was confirmed when, moments later, the first blast was followed by three more in rapid succession.
It must be at least as bad as their eyes suggested, thought the President as he remembered the darkening looks he had seen in the eyes of his guards and jailers as the weeks and months had worn on. The Rebels must be attacking Washington, or upon the verge of doing so.
Bryan took a step back and sat upon the edge of the bed, trying to regain his balance. After a moment he suddenly felt a surge of discomfort and lunged for the bathroom, grappling with his belt as he attempted to get to the toilet before the urge to release whatever was in his cramped bowels became utterly overwhelming. He made it 90% of the way, almost jumping towards the toilet at the last second with his pants down around his ankles. The relief he felt at that moment was replaced by renewed anxiety when he heard a loud and insistent knock on the door.
“I’m in the bathroom!” he shouted back.
The knock was repeated, this time with more force.
“Sir!” a voice called through the door, “we have to leave!”
“I’m taking a shit!” he yelled back.
“We’ve got to go!” insisted the voice as the door flew open. The President reached for the open bathroom door, attempting to slam it closed. However, as soon as the front door of the cabin flew open a pair of burly men surged forward through and into the bathroom. They roughly seized the President by the arms and began to carry him out.
“Jesus,” cried out Bryan, “a little decency!”
“We have to go now, sir,” insisted the lead man, “orders.”
Uncomfortably, troubled as he was by a deep feeling of uncleanliness, Kevin Bryan pulled up his pants as the men took him towards a waiting SUV, and threw him through the open door before speeding off.
Democratic Union, Temporary Office of the American Commissioner, Chicago, Illinois
“They’re rolling up our defenses around Washington, sir,” reported Minister Ransom as he stood before the High Commissioner.
“I don’t understand how they could possibly be moving this fast,” said the High Commissioner, his face blank and the bags under his eyes unusually heavy.
“They threw a lot of air power into it, Mr. High Commissioner,” explained the Defense Minister, “and their fire was supremely - surprisingly - accurate. They struck and destroyed almost all of our fixed defenses in the span of a few hours.”
“Treachery from within,” said the High Commissioner darkly.
“That would be my guess, sir,” said the Minister, “we’ve seen a lot of partisan activity from within the Baltimore-Washington area. And a lot of it from unexpected quarters. It seems like some of those rumors about Green Berets in inner-city DC and Baltimore were true. In a lot of cases, in the really urban areas, they knew exactly what rooms and floors of buildings to hit. Word is that they managed to buy cooperation from some of the gangs, even.”
“But those are supposed to be our people,” said the High Commissioner sadly.
“Well, I suppose that those who were allowed to do so voted for you, sir,” said Minister Ransom, “but I think that their loyalty was always for sale.”
“I’m not sure what I’m supposed to say now,” said the High Commissioner.
“Sir,” said Minister Ransom, “I’ve already spoken to my counterparts in Europe. They’re all scared shitless, Mr. High Commissioner. They’re facing increased civil unrest with each passing day and they’re all looking nervously at their own people. A lot of them are thinking of bringing their troops home but, given the result of the Battle of the Mid-Atlantic, they’re not certain that they can safely do that unless they get terms from the U.S. Government and the U.S. Government, of course, refuses to entertain any such offers.”
“A small blessing,” noted the High Commissioner.
“Yes,” agreed Ransom, “especially since I think that we still have a chance. They’re not going to be able to replicate their success in Washington elsewhere - and I do think that we can consider Washington to be as good as gone at this point. They are now moving towards urban areas where they’re going to have to fight block-by-block. Philadelphia. New York City. Right here in Chicago. And I don’t think that the people of the United States, whatever their political leanings, have the stomach for that. They want peace. We just need to create the conditions for peace.”
“How do we do that now?” asked the High Commissioner.
“General Wesley has gone to take personal command of the forces being assembled in the northeast. He thinks that he can - if we get him enough support - meet XII Corps somewhere in Canada or upstate New York and defeat them. I think that he’s right. I think that we should release the mobile reserves from both the DC front and also more from here in Chicago in order to bolster him. I think that we need to ask our DU partners to have their forces stay with him. If we can strike a blow, we’ll turn them back and the Army of Northern Virginia will be bogged down on its advance to the north on Election Day. Mitchell Randall will be elected as the next President and, even if he poses as tough, he’ll allow us to survive in some form. It’s our best chance.”
“You want to strip the defenses of Chicago?” asked the High Commissioner with a note of incredulity in his voice.
“They don’t seem to be moving on this front,” said the Minister, “and if they encircle us, we’re as good as finished anyways. We have political support here, but not enough to re-fight Stalingrad on the streets of Chicago.”
The High Commissioner looked down at his desk for a long minute before speaking again.
“You’ll have to let me think about this one, Minister,” he finally said.
“Very well,” said Minister Ransom in response as he nodded and walked out the door. As soon as the door closed behind him, Ransom turned to one of his aides.
“Cut the orders, but be quiet about it,” he said.
Near Camp David, Maryland
The driver of the Cadillac SUV had never seen it coming. The former Secret Service vehicles left at the disposal of the security force that had been left at Camp David had been allowed to run down during the months since the advent of the FNAS. Only a handful of them had proven to be drivable when the orders had come from above to bug out before any of the high-value detainees held there fell into the control of the government of the United States. As a result, instead of travelling in a motorcade of more than a dozen vehicles of various types, President Kevin Bryan and his guards had been travelling alone when an ex-Soviet rocket-propelled grenade struck the front window of the SUV. The up-armored vehicle survived the impact, but the shock of the impact was enough to stun the driver, who reflexively turned the vehicle to the right, sending it tumbling over along the side of the road.
A dazed Kevin Bryan had barely managed to process what had happened when he first caught sight of the guns.
“Who the fuck are you?” he asked, finishing his question with a long, hacking, and productive cough. He raised his sleeve to his mouth and wiped away some blood.
The handful of men in front of him stopped for a moment, slack-jawed. They were w
earing a motley mix of military and quasi-military uniforms.
“We’re members of the Maryland Volunteer Defense Force,” one of the men finally said before falling silent once more.
After a pause of several more seconds, one of the men stopped and turned to face Bryan once more.
“You’re Kevin Bryan,” he said flatly.
Off to Bryan’s right one of the other men who had been in the SUV began to crawl forward. One of the militiamen saw the movement and responded to it by calmly raising his rifle and opening fire. The three-round burst killed the wounded man instantly.
“I am,” said Bryan, attempting to sound defiant.
“Then you, sir,” said the man who appeared to be in command, “are under arrest in the name of the people of the United States.”
Rickover-Chan Campaign Headquarters, Colorado Springs, Colorado
“Just over two weeks to go and we’re down by seven points,” said the campaign manager, “the trend in not favorable to us.”
“I know it,” said Ira Skelton, “but what do you want me to do about it?”
“You’re the fucking Chief of Staff,” raged the campaign manager, “get him out of his cocoon and get him campaigning.”
“He’s the Commander-in-Chief in wartime,” said Skelton, “he can’t just leave and head out on a ten-state swing.”
“Well, tell him - he hasn’t called me back in forty-eight hours, by the way - that he’s not going to be the Goddamned Commander-in-Chief much longer if he doesn’t get off his ass and work to save his job.”
Skelton sighed deeply.
“Is there anything hopeful that I can take back. Something, at least, that will soften this news?”
“It’s the war that’s really killing us. People are tired of it and not sure if they agree with continuing to fight because they don’t really see an exit strategy. Win the war before Election Day and I think that, maybe, we can pull it off. But we’ll be swimming against the tide.”
