by Adam Yoshida
Now the challenge before the Prime Minister and the rest of his Cabinet was how to stay in office.
“I simply do not see,” the Prime Minister’s communications director was explaining, “how we could possibly hope to win a General Election if one was held within the scheduled time window.”
“Given that, Prime Minister,” said the Minister for International Development, “I think that we should look at and invoke past precedents. After all, no election was held for eight years around the period of the Great War and there was a ten year interval between elections during the Second World War. This is at least as great a crisis.”
“And, of course, if I understand our arrangements with the Russians - and for that matter, with the Americans - if everything goes according to plan we will, in a few years’ time, be in a much more financially sound situation,” pointed out the Chancellor of the Exchequer.
“Those are all reasonable points,” said Prime Minister Blunt, “but it is worth recalling that there were General Elections in both 1918 and 1945 - we could use the emergency to postpone an election somewhat, but the war appears likely to come to a conclusion one way or another in the very near future and I do not believe that we can postpone long after that.”
“Never mind,” pointed out the Foreign Secretary, “the effect that it will have in the country when, in the next day or so, we must announce that we have been forced into combat against British mutineers at sea.”
The Prime Minister sighed deeply.
“What a fucking mess,” he said.
“Prime Minister,” said the Defense Secretary, “our Task Force in the Atlantic stands ready to attack the force of mutineers. They want a final order from you, however, before they proceed.”
“Do it,” said the Prime Minister, his voice incredibly weary. He got up and left the room. Outside, his Personal Private Secretary, a young man in his twenties who looked like he hadn't slept since he was a teenager, was waiting.
“Prime Minister,” he said, “the Palace has asked for you to move your audience with His Majesty to this afternoon.”
“What? That fucking guy,” said the Prime Minister, “doesn’t he know that I have a whole fucking country to run?”
“I tried to remind them of that fact,” said the PPS, “but they were quite insistent. They didn’t quite use the word ‘summon’, but it was along those lines.”
“He probably wants to whine some more about his dumb kid,” said the Prime Minister with a sigh as he leaned up against the wall, trying to find a position that would bring some comfort to his injured back.
“Fine,” he finally said, “I’ll head over there now.”
3rd Battalion, 2nd Brigade, 1st Armored Division, Federation of North American States Army, Portneuf, Quebec
It was really nothing more than math, thought Colonel Ames as he watched one tank after an another disappear from the map that was displayed in front of him. He knew that each symbol winking out of existence meant horror for numerous men and women who were either already dead or burning to death within the confines of their old tanks.
“Fuck,” said Ames as the ground around his was rocked by a nearby explosion. The FNASAF had done their best to try and protect the Second Brigade - and had paid heavily for their valiant efforts - but their continued existence was no longer evident to the men and women on the ground. Thankfully for those who were now facing bombardment by the United States Air Force the air power that the U.S. forces had left in the theatre was quite limited also. That, of course, was cold comfort for those who were wounded or killed by the bombs that were still dropping.
“I never promised more than a heck of an afternoon,” said Colonel Ames quietly.
Another bomb went off. This one was, Ames noted, further away than the last. A few minutes ago the blows had been falling in rapid succession, but now they were coming at a much slower pace. The rate of fire suggested to him that there was probably just one lonely aircraft circling them, trying to throw them a little bit off-balance.
“Don’t we have anything to take that fucking thing out?” said Ames, the anger rising in his voice. He was met by silence all around.
“What do we have left?” he asked aloud as he looked at the map with a feeling of deepening horror.
“Most of Charlie Company managed to make it back over the hill. They’re still cut off from the rest of the Brigade, but that’s something,” said the Executive Officer.
“I count seven serviceable T-80s left in Charlie,” said Ames, “is that right?”
“Yes,” said the XO. Ames looked at him blankly for a moment.
“That is, technically, a majority,” added the XO.
“Yes,” said Ames, “and I suppose that you are right. Technically.”
The Colonel sighed deeply and walked over to the main display.
“And the rest of the brigade is on the other side of the road? Yes? I’m not mis-reading this, am I?”
“No sir,” replied the XO.
“The brigade commander has ordered us to resume our attack. Given that less than one-third of the battalion is combat-effective at the current time, I consider that order to be impractical at best. It seems to me that this would mean, basically, dispatching us on a suicide mission. I’m not prepared to sanction that. Does anyone disagree?”
Ames looked about. He saw a few nodding heads. He saw some sullen silence. He saw some men and women who were dazed and frozen. This was, he knew, his call.
“Alright,” he said, “then I intend to offer our surrender to the 42nd Division as soon as that can be effectively communicated.”
2nd Platoon, Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion, 501st Parachute Infantry Regiment, 82nd Airborne Division
Lieutenant Sousa checked his watch. After a few initial encounters with militia units stationed near the bridge, events in their sector had been shockingly quiet. However, all of the best intelligence that they had said that that couldn’t last. His men had been able to get a little bit of sleep, working in shifts, but they were all standing on alert now.
As he looked at the layout of the battlefield as provided by a set of drones that were circling somewhere overhead, he reviewed the scenarios in his head. A FNASA armored battalion was leading the way northwards, trying to reach and cross the Quebec City bridges over the St. Lawrence before the 200th Division arrived in force. Without extensive air support and lacking tanks of their own, the exhausted paratroopers could serve as little more than speed bumps along the road.
There were a few tiny forward patrols. Those men, he could now tell, were lying directly in the expected path of the enemy forces. Tiny groups of men with no more than a handful of missiles up against M1 tanks, all alone amidst the dawn. If the enemy chose to engage them, those men would die. But they would also buy precious minutes.
“The forward patrols are to engage the enemy on sight,” he ordered through his radio.
The FNASA tanks were barreling down the road. Someone had pulled the engine governors off of the things, removing all restrictions upon their speed and so they were moving at a speed nearly seventy miles per hour.
A handful of tactical aircraft in the theatre were still serviceable and usable and had been allocated to support the airborne soldiers in Quebec City. The rest were needed to keep the tiny enemy air force away from the bridges. Sousa watched now, amidst the rising sun, as a half dozen old F-16s streaked overhead. He couldn’t see the impact of their bombs, but he could imagine it well. The tanks moving at maximum speed would be hard to hit, but a few of them would be and a few others wounded by near-misses. But he also knew that it wouldn't be enough. The enemy’s vehicles were coming for them.
Minutes later the first of the forward patrols engaged the incoming tanks. Javelin missiles fired at their maximum range broke through the early-morning darkness with brilliant streaks of light, slamming home and into their targets. The majority of the weapons that the paratroopers carried were useless against the armor of the tanks, but these missiles wer
e enough to destroy or disable at least some of the tanks. The commander of the lead company didn’t bother to to slow down or to confront the patrols that tried to engage and distract his force. Instead, the tanks simply barrelled on through. Two of the tanks of the enemy company had been destroyed or disabled by the first air strike. Three more fell to the fire of the missiles of the advance patrols. However, that still left six of the monsters continuing towards Lieutenant Sousa and his men.
“We have eight missiles here,” reported the Platoon Sargent quietly.
“Don’t hold back,” said Sousa in an equally-soft voice.
The Abrams tanks weren’t far away now. They had been ordered to charge through heedlessly, protecting a platoon worth of older APCs that carried engineer teams tasked with the swift destruction of the captured bridges that were following close behind them and they aimed to reach their objective, regardless of their own losses.
The first Javelin missile team fired as soon as they caught sight of an advancing tank. The missile flew straight to its target, making a classic top-side impact that left the Abrams utterly wrecked. The surviving five tanks, however, pressed on.
A second missile struck another tank. The blow missed slightly. The impact was enough to visibly damage the tank, but it continued onwards. Another missile struck the same tank seconds later, disabling it. A cheer went up from the ranks of Sousa’s platoon at this. An even louder cheer followed a few seconds later when a third missile struck the same tank, this time causing its complete destruction. Sousa cursed silently.
Three missiles to kill one tank, he thought, they ought to have left it disabled.
The tanks were closer than ever. One of them aimed and fired a flechette round that struck one of the missile teams before they were able to get off a second shot. From his vantage point, Sousa couldn’t tell the condition of the soldiers who had been manning the position. But, from a purely practical point of view, he realized that it was barely relevant: whether they were dead or alive, they were out of action.
Within seconds, all of the remaining missiles that the Second Platoon had were expended, leaving one more tank dead and one wounded but still moving. That left three Abrams coming towards men who only had rifles, grenades, and machine guns to oppose them with.
“The platoon is to move to cover by squad,” ordered Sousa, “and then to attempt to engage anyone in those APCs as soon as they emerge.”
The tanks continued to charge forward, with two taking up positions on opposite sides of the bridge and a third remaining on the ground on the east bank of the river, presumably to engage anyone who attempted to approach the engineers as they did their work.
First Squad came in from the northeast. The airborne soldiers attempted to approach the foot of the bridge at a run, moving as fast as they could in order to minimize the time that they were exposed to the withering fire of the machine gun carried by the Abrams that guarded the foot. Four men fell in less than ten seconds without even being able to get off a single shot against the enemy force that was now disembarking on the bridge.
Sousa cursed silently. The First Squad had jumped the gun. They were supposed to wait for the signal and advance together with the rest of the Platoon along with whatever was left of the First Platoon, which had been fighting its own engagement a short distance away. Still, he realized, in drawing the fire of the tank in one direction, they had created an opening for him. He signalled for the Second Squad, which he was with, to move as well.
“All units, attack,” he called out into his radio.
The weapons of the Abrams at the foot of the bridge were still focused on eliminating the First Squad. This allowed the rest of the platoon to move on past it as they headed onto the edge of the bridge. The second tank, watching events unfold, began to pull back in order to position itself to fire upon the soldiers of the rest of the platoon with both its machine gun and its main gun. At the same time as this was happening, the handful of soldiers spilling out of the APCs that had moved onto the bridge now began to turn their weapons towards the rest of the Second Platoon.
Sousa watched as the man to his right was struck in the shoulder by a bullet. He attempted to continue onwards, his right side sagging towards the ground. Seconds later a second cluster of bullets struck him in the head, sending him downwards in a heap. Nevertheless, Sousa pressed onwards. He raised his M-4 carbine and fired a three-round burst towards the soldiers in front of him. Admit the chaos of the crossfire, he had no idea whether or not he’d hit anything.
A loud explosion in the distance caused Sousa to turn his head sharply to the left. He couldn’t quite make out what had happened. He didn’t think he’d seen them move any engineers towards the western side of the bridge, though he was far from certain on that point. Fully aware that, if they had, the bridge could collapse into the St. Lawrence at practically any moment, he pressed on nonetheless.
Another explosion, this time louder, occurred towards the other side of the bridge. Time time Sousa consciously suppressed his own curiosity and moved onwards. He caught sight of one of the infantrymen who had spilled out of the APCs aiming his rifle towards him. Instinctively, he raised his own rifle and fired back, striking the man in the face. It was the first time that the Lieutenant had ever been certain that he had killed someone else. Now he was within a few hundred feet of the position of the small circle of APCs. One of the soldiers, seeing the onrushing wave of paratroopers, suddenly turned and attempted to run for cover. Sousa shot him in the back and then, realizing he was out of ammunition, dropped his clip and inserted another. He was raising his rifle to fire again when one of the APCs exploded.
The Abrams tank on the bridge had now completed its turn and began to move towards the airborne soldiers. Seeing this, the handful of soldiers defending the small circle of APCs ignored the destruction of one of their number and likewise turned to face the rest of the Second Platoon. Looking further into the distance, Sousa could see that the tank at the foot of the bridge was likewise backing up and preparing to turn. The Lieutenant fired his rifle in the direction of the soldiers and felt a bullet fly just over him. Without giving it a thought, he dove to the ground.
Before he could even get up, he felt the bridge shake violently under him. Consumed with feelings of both failure and of impending death, he summoned up all of his strength and, gripping his rifle, he began to get up and turned to take a look at the M1 tank that was coming for him and his platoon.
Then the M1, as it moved to turn its main gun towards them, exploded as well.
“…the fuck?” asked Sousa. He turned to the left and suddenly realized that there were two Merkava tanks now in the process of mercilessly destroying the APCs on the middle of the bridge.
CHAPTER THIRTY
The Debate
University of Colorado, Boulder, Colorado
“With us tonight,” explained the moderator to the audience both in the theatre and across the world, “for the first and only Presidential debate of this campaign are independent candidate Mitchell Randall, presently a United States Senator from the State of West Washington, and the Acting President of the United States, Terrance Rickover of Virginia. Gentlemen, welcome.”
The audience politely applauded as both candidates appeared on the stage, strode forward, and shook one another’s hands before taking up their respective positions.
“The rules have been agreed upon by the respective campaigns,” said the moderator, “each candidate will have an opening statement to begin. Afterwards questions will be asked by our panel of journalists and each candidate will have the chance to rebut the other. Each candidate will be allowed a closing statement. The time for this debate will be limited to ninety minutes. Based upon an earlier coin flip, Senator Randall will speak first. Senator Randall, you may proceed.”
“Thank you, Sean,” said the Senator, “and thank you, Mr. President, for agreeing to this meeting under such extraordinary conditions. I know that this gathering is unconventional, to say the le
ast, but I believe that it is fundamental to the continuation of American democracy that it take place. I appreciate that you have helped to make this happen.”
“Thank you Senator,” replied Rickover somewhat-warily.
“My fellow Americans,” began Senator Randall, “it is a testament to the tremendous strength of the country that we are in the midst of this campaign for national office even as battles continue to rage across this country and the world. Just as happened during the First Civil War and the Second World War we are setting a good example for the world by showing that democracy is only only possible, but that it is even desirable, under all conditions.”
“There is no need to dwell upon the events that brought us to this unhappy moment in our history. The facts that led to the commencement of this terrible war are known to all. Nor should we do anything other than commend Acting President Rickover for the very fine service that he performed for this country during that hour of supreme crisis.”
“However, this election is not about what happened in the past. It is not about what we were doing or where we were two years ago. It is not about what the American people think about the Constitutional wrongs of Henry Warren or Kevin Bryan, both of whom are now dead anyways. This election is about the future.”
“It is the future, not the past, where the differences between myself and my opponent are revealed. I mentioned earlier my admiration for the service of the Acting President during the Constitutional Crisis that spurred this war, during the Great Mutiny, and in the struggle for control of the government of the United States. I believe that it is the profound success of the Acting President during those moments of national crisis that have drawn him into the errors that impelled me to enter this race and that have caused millions to support the cause of my campaign. The Acting President is determined to, by whatever force is necessary, restore something like the world that was before this war. To be sure, he wants to amend certain laws, add some more Constitutional safeguards, and gerrymander the country a little bit in order to take power away from the wrong people - noble enough aims in context - but fundamentally he believes that the war should go on almost indefinitely. He believes that the war will not be over until we have restored the United States as it formerly existed. He believes that the war should go on until we have restored something like the old balance of power that existed before, even if it means sending our soldiers into overseas wars. I disagree.”
