The Second Civil War- The Complete History

by Adam Yoshida

“General?” asked Colonel Chernow.

  “The Second Brigade has made it across the river without any major hitches and is positioning itself along the highway. We should be able to bottleneck them there for at least a little bit - long enough to prevent them from reaching Quebec City before our counterattack does, at any rate.”

  “That’s good,” said Chernow with more than a hint of hesitation in his voice.

  “Speak your mind, Colonel,” said Welsey.

  “They’ll buy us some time, maybe,” said Chernow, “but they’re also going to be ripped to shreds. Now, I’m not adverse to making - however regrettable they may be - some moves that sacrifice lives for tactical gain, but I can’t help but feel that we might have found some other and better use of those particular men, especially given that they’re one of the few armored formations that we still possess.”

  “We’ve already sent our fastest units up to the Quebec City bridges,” pointed out Wesley, “the Second Brigade would have just trailed behind them and wouldn’t have made a difference there either way. If we win the bridges they’d have gotten there after we did that and likewise if we’d lost them. At least here they can make a difference.”

  “They’d have made a difference in Montreal too,” said Chernow.

  “What’s done is done,” replied General Wesley, “but, on that note, what is the current situation in Montreal?”

  “Their lines are broken at multiple points,” responded Chernow, “and we’ve managed, in several areas, to actually push all the way through to the other side of the island.”

  “Precious few prisoners, though,” pointed out the G3, “and our own losses have been high.”

  “Yes,” agreed Chernow, “that is regrettably very true. Our armored units in particular were badly mauled in the process. They’ll need to be withdrawn and reorganized before they are seriously committed to combat once again.”

  “The larger problem, as I see it,” said the G3, “is that this looks like purposeless butchery. Worse, it looks like purposeless butchery in which we are expending precious forces and resources that we can ill-afford to lose given the situation in the rest of the country. Given our loss of control in the Atlantic and lack of military industry, every one of the tanks that we lost is irreplaceable.”

  “Alright,” said General Wesley, holding up his hands, “you make some reasonable points. The losses are tragic - and very high. But I don’t believe that they are purposeless. By drawing the enemy into an extended engagement here we can support the political objectives that we are fighting for by forcing the enemy to realize the extent of the losses that they will incur in attempting to fully subdue us and, based upon that, secure a negotiated peace. That, you all must fully understand and accept, is our objective now. There is simply no way that, even in the most exceptional of circumstances, that we can truly win this in battle. it’s more complicated than that.”

  “Throw everything that we have that isn’t nailed down into the Montreal sector,” ordered Welsey, “now that we’ve smashed that brigade, I want to grind up the remaining bits and pieces.”

  HMS Prince of Wales (R09), Near the Azores

  The small Task Force had made good time so far. Captain Derek Welch yawned as discreetly as he could as he read the latest reports on the movement of the fleet. He’d barely slept at all over the previous seventy-two hours as the ships had headed towards their own rendezvous with destiny at maximum speed.

  “Sir,” reported the Tactical Action Officer, “Cape St. George reports that they’re tracking a submarine. At least one. Perhaps more.”

  “Get Admiral Collins on the line,” ordered Welch. Technically speaking the two-star American Admiral outranked him, but since this was notionally a British operation (or, more technically, one undertaken in the name of the “Free British Forces”, the higher-ranking officer was serving under Welch’s command.

  “What do you see?” said Welch into his phone receiver as soon as a nod from the communications operator indicated that the Admiral was on the line.

  “Coronado is tracking a hostile contact,” replied Admiral Collins, “we’re trying to get a better read on it now. Our best guess is that it’s a French SSN of the Barracuda class.”

  “We’re moving quite fast right now,” said Welch, “do you need to detach units in order to attempt to isolate and engage?”

  “I think that we can get it with our choppers.”

  “Very well. Keep me informed.”

  Bravo Troop, 2nd Squadron, 7th Cavalry, 1st BCT, 2nd Armored Division, Mount Royal

  Captain Dumont lay with his back resting against the shattered remains of a Stryker. The infantry fighting vehicle had simply been destroyed by a direct impact from a 120mm HEAT round fired by one of the FNASA Abrams during an attack that had come at just after 3AM. Bravo Troop still held a little patch of ground, as did numerous other elements of the 1st BCT, but none of them maintained anything like a continuous line anymore. The assault by the three tanks had been driven off - with the loss of two Strykers and fourteen soldiers - but that attack had come from what ought to notionally be considered their rear.

  The CaptaIn knew that his men needed him and that any show of lassitude would be damaging to their morale but, at this one instant in time, he just needed a moment.

  “Sir,” said the baby-faced Corporal who had ended up in command of the 1st Platoon. He gazed back for a moment without responding.

  “Sir!” he insisted. Dumont wiped his hand across his face.

  “Corporal,” he finally managed.

  “We need water,” said the Corporal flatly.

  “Second Platoon has plenty, divide up with them,” he replied, slightly irritated.

  “No sir,” said the Corporal, “I’ve already checked. They’re out too. Third Platoon gave us a little, but they’re in a bad way as well. Can we get water on the next drop list?”

  “Yeah,” said Dumont distantly.

  “Sir?” said the Corporal.

  “Yes,” said Dumont, this time sharply, “I’ll get the fucking water.”

  3rd Battalion, 2nd Brigade, 1st Armored Division, Federation of North American States Army, Portneuf, Quebec

  Bravo Company had been the first element of the 3rd Battalion to make it off its barges and onto the roads. Colonel Ames had ordered them to move ahead without waiting for the rest of the units to finish the crossing. Above them the small FNASAF contingent that was attempting to protect the landing was already being hard-pressed by a group of USAF F-35s and no one had any idea how long they’d be able to defend the extremely-vulnerable forces on the water below.

  Ames watched as the old T-80s rushed forward in a long line, supported by two platoons of infantry in similarly-aged M113 APCs. More than a few of the soldiers had responded to their orders with indignation. Moving away from the main body of the army to try and block the road against a superior force was, in the opinion of a majority, basically a suicide mission.

  “They might as well have just ordered that we dig our own graves,” one of the Platoon commanders had said before Ames had pointedly told him to shut up.

  “We’ve got full loads of ammunition and air support,” said Colonel Ames, “that’s more than our brothers in Montreal have got going for themselves. Let’s just make sure that we make it count.”

  By the time that Alpha Company was finished unloading, the USAF had managed to punch through the thin screen that had been put up by the FNASAF and began to strike at the tanks and APCs of the trailing company as they began to push towards the road. From his position in his command APC on the shore, Ames watched as a pair of thousand pound bombs managed to strike one of the last barges, shattering it. The men onboard quickly abandoned the sinking vessel, leaving a full platoon worth of tanks to sink into the St. Lawrence along with the shattered bodies of several men.

  “There’s nothing we can do for them now,” said the Colonel as he looked at several members of his staff who appeared to be about to wade into the water, �
��we need to move to contact.”

  The officers, most of whom had never seen serious combat throughout the war years, stood still.

  “Get going,” snapped Ames.

  The officers began to move about, still slightly unsteady, as they transformed the area around the parked M577 into a temporary command post.

  Each of the Brigade’s ninety-two surviving T-80s carried a 125mm smoothbore cannon and thirty-six rounds of mixed ammunition. Even if the force was plainly materially weaker than the two brigades worth of American-made M1A3 Abrams tanks that were now barrelling down the road towards them, they still possessed considerable combat punch.

  The FNASA tanks fired first, launching anti-tank guided missiles towards the leading American tanks at a range of nearly four kilometres. Like most of the equipment that the Federation had acquired from abroad, the AT-11 Sniper missiles that they were using were at least two generations out of date and several of them were duds. However, like most aged Russian weapons, they had the virtues of being somewhat more dangerous to the enemy than to its operators and also of being cheap. The missiles that successfully fired managed to make it to their targets in a matter of seconds, commencing the battle by knocking three of the American tanks out of action in exchange for only one tank of their own that was disabled when the aged rocket motor in the missile exploded in the barrel of one of the tanks.

  As soon as the first missiles were clear of their launchers, the T-80s began to reload and to fire a second time. The first minute of this battle, all of the crews knew, would be decisive to the outcome because it would take approximately that long before the US Army’s tanks would be able to close the range sufficiently to bring their own guns to bear. The lead Company managed to fire a second wave of missies, disabling one more Abrams and scoring a kill on another. That was all that they managed before the range closed enough for the M1 tanks pulled into range and returned fire with their 120mm M256 main guns. In the six seconds after the first of the American tanks hit their marks and fired Sabot rounds back at their attackers. The accurate fire of the Abrams tanks tore through half a dozen of the Russian-made FNASA tanks in seconds.

  “Order them to hang back further, damnit,” said Ames as he watched the carnage unfold, “engage with missiles and try and stay out of their range.”

  The 42nd Division’s leading elements pushed further forward. Another volley of AT-11s took out another two advancing Abrams, but in return the rest of Bravo Company was shattered by the calm and accurate fire of the advancing U.S. Army. Within seconds the entire compliment of tanks belonging to the company were left aflame along the highway.

  Ames stood frozen for a moment as he observed the latest deployments flickering across the map in front of him.

  “Ok,” he said after taking a deep breath, “we’ve still got the rest of the brigade coming up behind us, but we can’t take losses like that. Get the other units off of the highway and have them try and draw the U.S. forces away. No more frontal engagements.”

  XII Corps Headquarters, Saint-Jerome, Quebec

  “The math just doesn’t add up so far as the Montreal supply runs go,” said Colonel Benson as she continued the morning briefing, “everything involved in the loading means a trade-off. More basic supplies means less ammunition and everything else that we need on the ground.”

  “They can’t fight if they’re dehydrated,” snapped General Jackson.

  “Yes, I know that, sir,” replied Benson, “but they’re running out of ammo. The entire situation on Montreal has just become a free-for-all. Our air power is strong enough that they’re not really launching organized assaults and all of our forces and theirs are intermingled with one another and with the civilian population. I think that some of our units will have no choice but to surrender before the end of the day.”

  “That’s not going to happen,” insisted General Jackson.

  “It might,” said Benson edgily.

  “No, it won’t. We are going to get them help. But no one is to, under any circumstances whatsoever, surrender along the Montreal front. I want that to be very clear,” insisted the General.

  “Well…” began Benson.

  “Under no circumstances whatsoever,” repeated General Jackson in a tone so stern that it brought a temporary silence to the room.

  “Ok,” said Jackson, breaking the silence, “what is the situation with the 42nd and 200th Divisions?”

  “Muddled,” replied Colonel Dunford, “the 42nd Division had some success in their initial engagement with the FNASA brigade, but now they’ve backed off and are delaying them further. In terms of relative force they don’t have any shot at blocking our transit, but they’ve caused us some real headaches. And they’re not done yet.”

  “That’s the 42nd Division,” said Jackson, “what about the 200th?”

  “It’s a bit of a mess,” said Dunford, “we’ve now had the 200th and 42nd Divisions trade place in terms of their order in the line of advance twice in a very short period of time. That means that they’ve got their logistical tails kind of entangled with one another. They’re making progress, but it’s kind of slow.”

  “The 200th Division should reach Quebec City before the day is out, according to our timetables,” said General Jackson.

  “According to our timetables, yes,” said Dunford, “but they’re falling behind schedule.”

  “How far, would you estimate?” asked Jackson.

  “Hours. A lot of them. To get an exact estimate I’d have to head back on over to the shop and do some more exact calculations, but I would guess that it falls within the range of twelve or more hours.”

  “Twelve hours,” said Jackson flatly, his hands pressing against the table in front of him.

  “Yes sir. That’s a back-of-the-envelope estimate, so take it for what it’s worth, but I don’t think it’d be off by much,” said Dunford.

  “It’s not that fucking far. What the fuck is causing twelve fucking hours in fucking delays?” raged the General.

  “The usual business,” replied Dunford, “equipment breakdowns, stay-behind resistance, and some enemy air activity.”

  “Well, it just isn’t acceptable. We need to be doing better,” said Jackson.

  “We’ll hit them soon enough,” said Colonel Benson, “if not tonight, then tomorrow.”

  “That isn’t fucking good enough,” said the General as he slammed his fist down upon the desk.

  “Don’t you know that there’s an election in four fucking days? An election that could determine the fate of the whole fucking world? What happens if there’s an entire American brigade wiped out just days before the vote? The fucking President of the United States is going to go up on a stage tonight and debate his challenger, who will throw all of this away if he gets in. What will it look like if he goes up there on the stage and we’re all bogged down and fucked up along this entire river? All of this will be for nothing. Not a Goddamned thing.”

  The General hunched over the table and sighed deeply.

  “Colonel Dunford,” he ordered, “I want you to take an Osprey, fly on out to the HQ of the 200th Division, and take command there. Sort out whatever needs to be done and get us tanks and mechanized infantry to those bridges today. Do whatever it takes. And then I want you to get across those bridges and then to Montreal before the end of the day or not come back alive.”

  “Sir?” said Dunford.

  “You fucking heard me.”

  “General Walters is a good solider,” said Dunford, “and he’s commanded those men for a while, ever since you left. He’s doing his best.”

  “He’s a fucking hack,” said Jackson, “who was picked because he happened to have enough seniority. He was a default choice.”

  “Sir…” said Dunford.

  “Perhaps you're right. He might not deserve it,” said General Jackson, running his hands through his hair as he spoke, “but I’m going to do this anyways, pour encourager les autres.”

  “Get a fucking move on,”
he ordered, “and I will get you all of the support that can be mustered.”

  HMS Queen Elizabeth (R08), The Celtic Sea

  Admiral Childers looked at the map that was arrayed on the electronic display with care. The Queen Elizabeth and her escorts had been joined, not long after she left port, by the familiar visage of the French carrier Charles de Gaulle along with a half-dozen other assorted European ships that had been fit to put to sea. Together they were now making best speed to confront the joint British-American task force that seemed to be set upon making their way to the United Kingdom (or, possibly, to an Ireland that had indicated its displeasure with the course of events within the European/Democratic Union).

  “The latest intelligence,” explained the French Admiral who commended the Charles de Gaulle battlegroup, “puts the enemy fleet somewhere around the Azores. So far as we can tell - admittedly only from observation by the Tourville - they only have the one carrier, Prince of Wales, with them. So we outnumber them. But there are also a number of those damned American AEGIS ships with them as well, which makes the problem rather more difficult.”

  “Quite,” said Childers flatly.

  “However,” continued the Frenchman, “I believe that we can compensate for this, since there appear to be only two of them, if we launch a coordinated attack with both of our complete air wings, supplemented by anti-ship missiles.”

  “It’s a simple enough plan,” said the English Admiral.

  “Sometimes directness is best, wouldn’t you agree?”

  “Certainly,” replied Childers with a broad smile.

  No. 10 Downing Street, London, United Kingdom

  The Prime Minister was sitting at his desk with white knuckles. After several tumultuous all-night sessions all of the heads of government (or, more accurately, all of the heads of government that counted and couldn’t be easily replaced) within the Democratic Union had agreed to the proposed accession of Russia to the union. Obviously some of the nations that were being placed within the Russian sphere of influence had offered certain objections to this, but with the United States divided and distracted and with Western Europe’s leaders eager to sell them out to save their own offices, they had no way of making their point effectively.