by Adam Yoshida
“Ok,” said General Wesley, “let’s order anything that can get to Quebec City before their heavy forces arrive to attempt to retake and then destroy the bridges there. We can also send a small force across the river to try and slow those armored divisions that are charging to the north. Everything else that we can use in Montreal, use it there. We’ll at least try and put some fucking points on the board before this is finished. In addition, let’s prepare plans to retire to the south once we’ve smashed the force in Montreal.”
HMNB Portsmouth, United Kingdom
Admiral Travis Childers had to read the orders that had been handed to him twice in order to ascertain for certain that he was awake.
“You cannot seriously expect officers of the King’s Navy to put up with this, can you?” he asked the political apparatchik whose early-morning appearance had caused him to be awoken several hours ahead of schedule.
“We do, Admiral,” said the man glibly, “for that is how things work in a democracy. The government issues orders and the military is obligated to obey them without question.”
“You propose to station foreign forces on every ship of the Royal Navy and in every single British military installation,” said the Admiral flatly.
“Indeed,” explained the man from London, “for one of the first determinations made by those investigating the debacle in the Mid-Atlantic has been that the continued notion of separate national military forces is an anachronism in the era of ever-closer cooperation among the member nations of the Democratic Union.”
“And what, exactly, would the role of a “Democratic Union Liaison" be onboard a ship of the Royal Navy?” asked Childers.
“Again, Admiral, I think that it’s time that we moved past the old and antiquated notion of separation among the peoples of Europe. By having a civilian official onboard every single ship and attached to every single military unit, we can ensure that all of our operations are properly coordinated and conducted in accordance with the shared values of the Union.”
“A political officer, like in the USSR,” said Childers.
“I think that’s a reactionary characterization,” said the man, “we can trust you to execute your orders, can we not?”
The Admiral nodded.
“Good,” said the man, “because I came to bring more news than that. You’re going to need to sail and soon.”
He handed Childers a second envelope. The Admiral ripped it open and quickly read the papers inside.
“They already got Prince of Wales back to sea?” he asked incredulously.
“Yes. The ship is half-functional and apparently crewed by a mix of Americans and racist far-right officers,” explained the courier, “but it is definitely at sea and escorted by a number of American warships.”
“I can hardly believe it,” said Childers quietly.
“Well, it is so,” said the courier, “and you’re going to need to get your ships in working order damned soon, because the only way that we’ll stop it is if you can get back to sea and keep your crew together. I expect you can do that, can’t you?”
Childers eyed the man warily for a few seconds before he responded.
“I expect that I can do something about the situation,” he said at last.
When the Admiral got back to his quarters he felt incredibly dirty. He sat for a moment in front of his personal computer and slumped backwards. It took several seconds to notice that there was an e-mail waiting for him from an address that he did not recognize.
Bravo Troop, 2nd Squadron, 7th Cavalry, 1st BCT, 2nd Armored Division, Mount Royal
The entire 1st Brigade Combat Team, after a pause of two days, had been slow to react when the enemy had begun to ship reinforcements into Montreal. Enough additional supplies had been dropped to the American soldiers to keep anyone from going hungry, but that was about it. The first attack had caught them wholly off-guard, with the sudden onslaught by the FNASA infantry coming within a few hundred feet of the 1st BCT’s lines in Mount Royal before being repelled. The lethargic American soldiers had managed to defeat the first assault by mere luck as much as anything else. The enemy forces had come on furiously but had been badly coordinated, hitting different points of the U.S. lines at slightly different times, thereby allowing forces to be shifted from one hot zone to another. Captain Dumont didn’t think that they’d come at them so carelessly and overconfidently a second time.
“Be careful about ammo,” the Captain ordered as he walked along the trench line that had been established by Bravo Troop, “we have some, but our supplies aren’t infinite. This isn’t a position where we can just truck the fucking stuff on in.”
Having done two laps across the entire zone covered by his Troop, the Captain walked over to the Stryker that was serving as his command vehicle and withdrew one of his last cigarettes from his pocket. He pulled his smartphone from his pocket and began to view the latest reports pushed to him over the ad hoc network that the Army had managed to set up around Mount Royal.
As Dumont read, artillery began to sound in the distance. It sounded like it was coming from the east. The Captain didn’t wait for the first rounds to make their impact. Instead, he immediately jumped back into the Stryker. Seconds after the sound of the artillery first came to his ears he heard the sounds of fire coming from the west as well: 1st BCT’s own artillery was now engaged in counter-battery fire against the FNASA force.
The Captain silently braced himself for impact as he continued to review the latest reports. More air drops were scheduled in two hours. He could have to detach a force to gather up the supplies and to then distribute them. It would, he decided, be Second Platoon’s turn to take on that particular chore.
The radio in the Stryker came to life.
“They’re coming your way, Bravo,” called out the voice of Major Olafson.
“Roger that,” replied Captain Dumont as he began to view the feed from a Predator drone that was circling overhead. He gulped as he got a better view of the the situation on the ground. This time it wasn’t infantry that was incoming, at least not at first: it was two Platoons worth of M1 Abrams tanks.
“Shit,” he said, “we’ve got armor inbound.”
The tanks were racing in at maximum speed. Each of the seventy ton vehicles was incoming at around seventy miles per hour. That didn’t give Bravo Troop much time.
“Do we have any air support, command?” asked Dumont into his radio.
“Negative,” replied Olafson, “they’ve thrown most of a battalion at our lines. You’re not the most threatened. Take them out. Out.”
“Well, fuck,” said Dumont as precious seconds passed by. He took another look at the rapidly-updating graphics in front of his face.
“Missile teams,” he said, “we’ve got eight M1s coming our way. Prepare to engage.”
The missile stocks of Bravo Troop were now limited, but Dumont decided that this was no time for them to be parsimonious.
“Fire as soon as those tanks hit maximum range,” he ordered.
There wasn’t a very long wait. Bravo Troop had four Javelin missile teams attached to it. As soon as they first caught sight of the tanks, even at a distance of a two and a half kilometres, they immediately opened fire. All four missiles flew the distance to their targets in seconds before launching a top-down attack. One of the missiles penetrated an ammunition compartment and blew apart an Abrams on the spot. A second missile caused the destruction of an auxiliary power unit and left the second M1 derelict on the streets. However, the remaining six tanks continued forward at a speed of nearly a mile per minute. It took just over twenty seconds for the missile crews to reload, by which time the tanks had closed nearly a third of the distance. This time the missile fire was more accurate. Three of the four missiles were hits. One of the tanks was struck, as a result of a coordination mistake, by two of the missiles. This tank was utterly destroyed. A second vehicle was struck by a round that failed to detonate and pressed onwards.
Now there were five t
anks moving towards Bravo Troop and they were now able to use their own guns. As the missile crews worked frantically to reload, the tanks opened fire with M1028 canister rounds, each of which threw over one thousand little tungsten balls in the direction of the American lines. The flechette rounds shredded soldiers and instantly took out two of the missile crews. One of the surviving crews fired one round that went wild before they were forced out of action by the fire of the .50 caliber machine gun mounted on one of the tanks. The last crew, realizing that they were the final target, abandoned their missile tube and successfully sought cover seconds before they were engaged and destroyed by a second round of Abrams main gun fire.
“Goddamnit,” called out Dumont over the radio, “we need support!”
There was no response.
Having dealt with the immediate threat of the missiles, the Abrams tanks continue to charge forward. One of them fired a HEAT round that struck and destroyed one of the neighboring Strykers of the troop. Several of the surviving vehicles, including that Dumont was using, ineffectually returned fire with their own weapons. Ordinary bullets, however, were wholly ineffective against the powerful armor of the M1 Abrams. A second tank fired on and destroyed another Stryker, even as it continued forward at full speed, blowing past the American lines.
Dumont winced at the thought of the sort of damage that one of those tanks, let alone five of them, could do to the forces that were situated to their rear. However, there was no time to linger upon that thought for no sooner had it crossed his mind than the nearby impact of an artillery round shook the ground.
3rd Battalion, 2nd Brigade, 1st Armored Division, Federation of North American States Army, Portneuf, Quebec
Lieutenant Colonel Timothy Ames had never expected that he’d end up commanding a force equipped with old Russian tanks. The T-80 was long-obsolete in general and the export models that the Federation government had been given as a form of military assistance by the German government were actually a deliberately inferior version of the vehicle.
However, reflected Ames, it was always better to have some tanks than none.
The FNASA forces in Quebec had carefully hoarded a group of barges for just this eventuality. Neither side that was fighting along the river had any serious amphibious capabilities. If it turned out that the U.S. Army had gathered a major force on the other side of the river that was prepared to oppose their landing, then Ames and his men would soon be dead. The same held true for if the air forces attached to XII Corps figured out what the FNASA were up to and unleashed their full fury against the handful of little ships that were being used to ship the better part of the brigade across the water.
The loading of the barges had been a surprisingly orderly affair. The Brigade’s staff had practiced and planned for days, but - given the overwhelming need to maintain secrecy - they’d never been able to conduct more than tabletop exercises or to issue exact orders to their subordinates.
Twenty-six old F-16s - representing a majority of the FNASAF’s strength along the St. Lawrence Line - were circling above the vulnerable ferries and three full batteries of medium artillery were also being used to prevent anyone from approaching anywhere along the line. Ahead of the barges that were carrying the tanks of the Second Brigade were a number of small vessels that carried a full battalion of FNASA infantrymen who had been equipped with extra anti-tank weapons as well as practically every extra shoulder-fired surface-to-air missile that could be found anywhere within the theatre.
The Colonel stood alone and watched the slow movement of the barges. It was an infuriating thing for him to be caught at such a critical moment with nothing more to do other than to wait. He withdrew a package of cigarettes from his pocket and lit one of the cigarettes contained therein as he observed the distant impact of multiple 155mm artillery rounds.
I wonder if those are actually hitting anyone, or if they’re just a pretty show, he thought.
The barges were moving through the water without any sign of resistance. Ames dared to hope that their intelligence had been wrong and, in fact, the U.S. forces weren’t in the anticipated location. Holding onto that particular faint hope, he threw his partially-consumed cigarette into the water and climbed into his command vehicle.
The old M577A3 Command Post Carrier’s diesel engine was already running in preparation for the moment that the barge made its landing on the other side of the river. Ames quickly reviewed the latest tactical readouts on the myriad displays that were mounted in the interior of the armored personnel carrier.
“Do we have any updated information on the location of the enemy force?” he asked over the radio, calling back to the Brigade’s headquarters on the other side of the river.
“It looks like the 42nd ID is tearing it up and rushing up Autoroute 40. That remains your destination,” came a calm voice from the other end, dashing Ames’ faint hope for a reprieve.
“Roger that,” replied the Battalion Commander as he continued to examine the maps in front of him.”
“You’re going to want to clear off the docks as fast as you humanly can,” Brigade HQ added, “because there are hostile aircraft inbound. The CAP will do its best to protect you, but we can only do so much with what we have.”
“Acknowledged,” said Ames by way of response.
XII Corps Headquarters, Saint-Jerome, Quebec
“They’re trying to fuck with us,” raged General Jackson as he reviewed the latest reports from the front.
“They know - they must know by now - that they cannot possibly win so they have instead resorted to this to try and distract us. They want to force us to divert from Quebec City because they know that the game is over once we securely get to the other side of the river.”
“This,” he continued, stabbing his finger into the map, “is meant to be a distraction and to disrupt our momentum.”
“Naturally,” noted Colonel Benson, “but it’s a rather effective one, isn’t it?”
“Yes, Goddamnit,” replied the General with a heavy sigh.
“They’re right in the path of the leading units of the 42nd,” said Colonel Dunford, “but they’re not exactly right on top of one another right now. We can divert them.”
“We could,” agreed General Jackson, “but that would leave an entire fucking armored brigade in our own rear areas. I don’t think that’s a satisfactory outcome. Do you?”
“No General,” agreed Dunford.
“What is the current situation in Montreal?” asked Jackson, temporarily changing the subject.
“The 1st BCT still has some fight in it,” noted Dunford, “but they’re broken up into little pieces. They can’t conduct anything like organized offensive operations now. Not against a force that is so overwhelmingly superior in numbers.”
“Shards can cut,” replied General Jackson, “and they can still fight. Make sure that we conduct air drops to them. Get them as much ammunition as we can spare. Get them some additional laser designation equipment.”
“I think that they have enough of that,” said Dunford.
“Get them the laser designators and anything else that will be of use to them,” ordered Jackson, “we’ll try and get them some air support as well.”
“What should we do about the enemy brigade?” asked Colonel Benson.
“Order the 42nd Division to continue on its course,” said Jackson.
“That’ll slow them considerably,” noted Dunford, “that FNASA brigade might be made up of old Russian tanks and probably undersupplied as well, but they’re still a tank brigade and they can probably still put up one hell of a fight.”
“I know,” replied Jackson, “order the 200th Division to move off the road, if necessary, and to race ahead to Quebec City. Tell them that I know what they can do and that they need to move fucking fast.”
Temporary Seat of the Government of the United States, Colorado Springs, Colorado
“Get word to our people in New York City,” said the Acting President, “and tell them t
hat it’s time.”
“Mr. President,” replied Secretary Preston, “we’ve already got a lot of balls up in the air. In addition to the Battle of the St. Lawrence, we’ve still got mopping-up operations going on in DC, and we have the operations of our fleet in the Atlantic to worry about. As well, at the moment, if things go wrong in New York the way that we’ve set up the rest of our support package means that we won’t be able to go to their aid.”
“I know that we’ve got a lot going on at the same time, Mr. Secretary,” replied Rickover, “but at this point we need to be acutely aware of the clock. I don’t mean in a narrow political sense - I would never make a military decision that could cost American lives simply so that I could win election to an office that I had never before even seriously thought of of seeking before this damned war - but in the broader political sense of what is happening in the enemy alliance. They are nearing the point of collapse and the more points that we can be in action against them, than the sooner that point of general collapse will arrive.”
“I’ll grant the validity of that as a strategy, Mr. President,” replied General Monroe quietly, “but with action at so many points, you’re basically gambling that we’re going to draw a straight flush. The enemy has proven to be resilient at multiple points throughout this conflict. They may prove so again.”
“We are just going to keep pressuring them until they break,” insisted Rickover.
The rest of the men at the table remained silent.
“Get my orders to New York City,” said the Acting President, “and let General Mackenzie and anyone else who needs to know that I intend to be in Washington, in person, the day after tomorrow.”
Unified Army Group Headquarters, Brossard, Quebec
“Excellent, excellent,” said General Wesley aloud as he read the latest message to hit his inbox.
