by Adam Yoshida
The Captain nodded and the connection from Defender was terminated.
Admiral Childers turned to his Tactical Officer.
“We have a burning nuclear reactor afloat, spewing God-knows-what into the atmosphere. We have no equipment to put out those fires and they are dangerous. Given this, I have to conclude that the only course of action reasonably available to us now is to sink the Charles de Gaulle as soon as is practical. This creates a risk of radiation contamination of the ocean, of course, but I view that as preferable to allowing these fires to burn out-of-control in the atmosphere.”
“That seems reasonable,” said the Tactical Officer.
“Order Anson and Ajax to torpedo the Charles de Gaulle,” he said, “and make it fast. No point in sparing any force now.”
“Aye,” replied the Tactical Officer.
The Admiral stood in silence and watched the live video feed of the burning Carrier. It seemed unlikely, with the ship afire from bow to stern and oozing radiation, that anyone was left alive onboard the ship. Yet, from long experience with such matters, Childers knew that at least some of the over two thousand men and women who had been alive onboard the ship in the morning were still somewhere there and fighting for life. He knew that he was damning them. But also knew that he had no other option.
In a space of just under ten seconds, fully twelve Spearfish torpedoes struck the doomed ship, each of them delivering a 660 pound high explosive punch below the waterline. It was too much for the wrecked ship. Its hull punctured in multiple locations, its water-tight compartments long compromised, and with fires having melted structures throughout the vessel, the carrier appeared first to crumple inwards before it broke apart and then dropped out of sight and into the depths of the ocean.
Admiral Childers looked around the Action Information Centre.
“Fine work, everyone,” he said, “in the best traditions of the Navy.”
With that the Admiral exited the AIC and headed to his stateroom. With the greatest of effort he managed to close the door behind him before he let loose his first tears.
Bravo Troop, 2nd Squadron, 7th Cavalry, 1st BCT, 2nd Armored Division, Mount-Royal, Montreal
Captain Dumont wondered what had gotten into the FNASA forces who were assaulting Bravo Company as he watched them come on in spite of the fearful losses that they had already taken.
Maybe, he thought, they were told that the only way that they were ever getting home was through us.
The first assault, this one mounted by a group of French-Canadian reservists, had been fierce but-brief. The soldiers had been assaulting a lone infantry company that was holding the perimeter of the road to the east - indeed, they had been on the verge of overrunning them and penetrating the interior of the 1st Brigade Combat Team’s position - when Bravo Troop had arrived fresh on the scene and massacred them. The sudden change in relative strength had rendered the engagement anything but a fair fight as the greatly outnumbered FNASA unit had been torn to shreds by a mass of small arms fire with a little bit of extra punch provided by Bravo Troop’s mortars.
Now, however, a second and more powerful wave was coming in. The attackers had to move around or over the bodies left on the pavement by the first attack in order to press their approach, yet they were coming onwards anyways. With no real tasks left for a Troop Commander, Dumont had gone to the front with his own rifle. The situation was as such that a good shot with an M-16 was probably worth about as much as a Captain somewhere behind the lines.
The enemy soldiers charged forward, their heads lowered and their rifles thrust forward. Dumont raised his own rifle and shot one of them in the neck. The man collapsed instantly Seconds later a rifle-fired grenade exploded to the right of Dumont, sending him to the ground. When he managed to get up, slightly dazed, he was suddenly splashed with blood that was violently bursting forth from the wrecked artery of one of his soldiers. Seeing a group of FNASA infantrymen pressing their own approach, Dumont turned the selector switch on his rifle to full automatic and emptied a magazine into the small crowd, sending several collapsing towards the earth. Second later his own fire was joined by that of one of his unit’s light machine guns, which managed to cut down even more of the enemy soldiers.
Still, the FNASA force pressed its assault forward. Two grenades managed to burst in mid-air above a group of enemy soldiers, killing and wounding a number and sending most of them diving for cover. In spite of these hazards, the survivors got up and continued forward further still. Dumont fired another clip at a fully automatic rate. The nine bullets that he put into the gut of one of the teenagers who was coming at him were probably excessive, but the act itself was basically automatic.
Dumont raised his head to attempt to survey the action beyond his own field of view. Looking into the distance he could see more men coming towards them. More than he could count. He raised his rifle and fired the last bullets in his clip before stepping back further and raising his radio handset.
“Squadron, Bravo Troop,” he called out, “we’re about to be overrun. We need assistance.”
His call was met by a silence that stood out even amongst the cacophony of explosions that echoed all around him.
“Squadron, Bravo Troop. Come in,” he repeated.
“Bravo,” called out the voice of Major Olafson after a few seconds, “there is no support. We’re all being overrun.”
United Nations Headquarters, Midtown Manhattan
The United Nations had decided, long before New York City had become a combat zone, that its interests required that it decamp to a safer location. From its new temporary headquarters in Buenos Aries, however, the UN had not shrunk from taking a position on the American Civil War. In fact, it had gone so far as to temporarily lend its Midtown Manhattan complex to the fledgling Democratic Union to serve as a temporary headquarters.
Part of the problem with the First Battle of Manhattan, the leaders of the resistance had decided afterwards, was that it had failed to engage enough participation from ordinary citizens of New York. Seeing the Marines battle the Cubans and French troops on the streets of the city had been a surreal experience for New Yorkers, one entirely beyond their own conceptions of what ought to happen in their city. For some others it had seemed like a battle between wholly foreign forces. In planning for the second retaking the city the leaders of the pro-U.S. Government forces had insisted that it would be vital to ensuring New York’s place in a renewed Union for the future American New York to have its own creation myth. In short, New York would need to liberate itself.
And that, thought Juan Mancini as he watched the scene outside of the UN Building, its just exactly what we’re going to fucking do right now.
Not all of the NYPD was against the Democratic Union and the Federation, of course. But enough of them were. Especially once suitcases full of money from Colorado had started spilling into the city. The Police Commissioner had never even been approached in the course of the planning, for he was purely a political creature of the foreign regime which now occupied the city. The leaders of New York’s resistance had decided, with only a slight bit of reluctance, that a bullet in the head was the only real way of dealing with him. This decision had been kept from some of the more-nervous members of the cabal.
The Deputy Commissioner for Operations, on the other hand, was a long-term NYPD officer who had proven quite an enthusiastic participant in the plans to take back the city. As soon as the Commissioner’s absence was discovered, the Deputy Commissioner had fully taken command of the department and issued orders for a full mobilization. That had included assembling a large number of officers around the Democratic Union’s headquarters in New York City.
“This building is surrounded,” announced a voice on a loudspeaker, “everyone is to immediately drop any weapons and prepare for a peaceful search of the premises,.”
The most prominent Federation official in the building was the former senior United States Senator from New York. That man, a consummate politic
ian, had actually rejected secession for as long as he possibly could. That had probably hurt him when it came to his new masters, and so he had been relegated to a second-tier role as an administrator. It would probably have been wiser for him to have simply quit and gone home, but people who play the game can rarely bring themselves to do that.
When there was no response to a second call for the surrender of the building, the Deputy Commissioner ran out of patience.
“Take the building hot,” he ordered.
The NYPD SWAT teams broke down the front doors to the building where a handful of stunned guards who waited a little too long to drop their weapons were quickly shot.
Mancini stood slightly in the background, listening to the radio as the Deputy Commissioner oversaw the storming of the building.
After about ten minutes, a follow-up call came.
“It looks like we’re clear,” said the voice.
“Alright,” said the Deputy Commissioner to the select team of officers that had hung back with him, “you’re all good to go.”
Mancini had been given the singular honor of taking the largest prize - the former Senator. He found him, a balding slightly-elderly man, hunched over his desk in his office. Mancini considered simply breaking down the door, but something in him caused him to restrain his behavior slightly as he watched the sad-looking man through the glass panels. The detective decided to knock instead. The former Senator walked up to the door and opened it.
“Senator,” said Mancini, his tone deliberately civilized, “I’ll need you to turn around.”
Sad-eyed and defeated, the man complied. Mancini grabbed his handcuffs and gently put them on the man.
“Sir,” the detective said, “you are under arrest for treason. Anything you say can and will be used against you in a court of law. You have the right to an attorney. If you cannot afford an attorney, one will be provided for you. Do you understand these rights?”
XII Corps Headquarters, Saint-Jerome, Quebec
“The 200th Division is making good time and the 42nd is right behind them,” reported Colonel Benson, “they’re going to be right on the tail of the retreating FNASA forces.”
“Very good,” said General Jackson, “I think that it’s time that we relocate closer to the front.”
“It isn’t all pretty though,” continued Benson, “they’re pressing the attack in Montreal pretty damned hard.”
“Yes,” replied Jackson, “I saw that.”
“200th and 42nd Divisions are both foo far away to help still. They just won’t be there in time.” said Colonel Benson. She looked over at the General and saw a worrying smile on his face.
“I wouldn’t worry too much, Colonel,” he said.
Bravo Troop, 2nd Squadron, 7th Cavalry, 1st BCT, 2nd Armored Division, Mount-Royal, Montreal
Captain Dumont ran as fast as he could and dove through the shattered glass that marked the entrance to the mall itself. As the FNASA forces had pressed their attack, he’d had no choice but to order all of Bravo Troop to pull back. The first retreat had been orderly, with the movements occurring by Platoon. That action had left a substantial pile of enemy corpses spilling across the parking lot.
However, the enemy had continued to press their assault, seemingly heedless of their own losses. A third wave of attackers had struck Bravo Troop as it was attempting to reposition for a second time. The result had been chaos as a full platoon had been caught in the open by an enemy force had suffered severe losses. Those losses had been multiplied when the rest of the Troop was forced to leave its own positions in order to attempt to rescue its endangered comrades.
As the Troop pushed back those attackers, yet another assault had fallen upon them. Faced with overwhelming force and almost out of ammunition, Dumont had felt that he’d had no choice but to order what was left of the Troop to fall back upon the mall itself.
Dumont took up a prone position on the floor amidst the shattered glass and fired his rifle at the advancing FNASA soldiers. Within moments he was joined by at least half a dozen other American soldiers. He wasn’t sure, looking around at the grime-covered men, whether or not they were from Bravo Troop or some other unit. More men were streaming in their direction with every passing moment. An explosion to his right kicked up a giant amount of plaster and drywall dust, temporarily leaving Dumont and the other soldiers around him blinded.
“Ammo check!” called out Dumont.
“One mag!” called out one man to his right.
“I grabbed half a dozen,” said another man in a shaky voice, “take two.”
The chatter continued to surround Dumont. He checked his own pockets to find that he had exactly one full magazine left plus the one that was in his rifle.
“Here Captain,” said one of the soldiers from First Platoon - Dumont couldn’t recall his name, but knew that he was from Iowa, “I’ve got an extra magazine for you.”
“Thanks,” mumbled the Captain as he took the offered ammunition and placed it into his pocket.
A further explosion occurred nearby. This one, so far as Dumont could tell, had come from somewhere behind them. Perhaps, he thought, the FNASA forces had taken to shelling the mall.
Footsteps and a loud clanking came from behind them as well.
“We’re Charlie Troop!” shouted a voice from the distance, “don’t fucking shoot us!”
Dumont turned around to see a pair of weary men lugging an M240 forwards, dragging several belts worth of ammunition behind them.
“Squadron CO said that you needed help,” said the leading man of the group by way of explanation. Dumont just nodded.
A stream of bullets suddenly passed right by Dumont and killed the boy from Iowa who had given him the extra magazine. Dumont headed back down to the ground, squinting off into the distance. Through the cloud of smoke and debris he caught sight of advancing figures.
The men from Charlie Troop didn’t need any prompting. They opened up with their M240, sending a large quantity of bullets flying outwards towards the menacing forms. More bullets flew towards the position held by Dumont’s men. Both sides were firing almost blindly. The Captain watched as several men sprinted out a few steps in advance of the rest of the attacking force and attempted to throw grenades in the direction of the American defensive position. Machine gun fire cut down the first before he got his grenade off. The second one was shot by rifle fire and dropped his live grenade at his own feet. The resultant explosion tore the man apart.
The deaths of the first soldiers in the line didn’t stop the FNASA forces. As they came closer their rifle fire became increasingly-accurate, claiming the lives of six of the men defending the position in the space of ten seconds while wounding fifteen others. The M240 continued to roar away, pushing fire out towards the advancing wave. Then it suddenly stopped.
“Fucking thing!” screamed the Charlie Troop soldier manning it as he attempted to clear a jam. The sudden absence of machine gun support allowed the enemy forces to pick up the rate of their advance, closing almost to knife-fight distance with the soldiers from Bravo Troop.
Watching the approach of the enemy force, Dumont stepped forward and moved to his right. This sudden move exposed him to enemy fire but also gave him a much better firing position. Firing three-round bursts he managed to hit three enemy soldiers in about as many seconds.
Following upon Dumont’s lead, several other soldiers advanced and likewise took better firing positions. This resulted in more carnage but did not seem to stop or even slow the advance of the enemy force.
“There!” cried out the man with the M240.
“Get the fuck down!” he shouted. Dumont and the others dove for the ground as the M240 opened up again, letting loose with a burst of fire that took out five more FNASA soldiers in an instant. That was enough for the attacking force, which began to turn around and move away from what was left of Bravo Troop. Dumont wasn’t sure if the retreat was planned or not, but that uncertainty didn’t stop him from stepping forward
towards the retreating soldiers and gunning down two more of them with shots in the back.
Exhausted and perhaps a little disoriented, Dumont stumbled forwards several more feet and fired at another of the retreating soldiers. After watching a solider stumble and drop to the ground he took another step forward and aimed again. When he pulled the trigger he realized that his magazine was empty. Taking a further halting step forward he dropped the empty magazine and replaced it with his last full one. Hitting the selector switch, he now chose to fire only single shots. He began to shuffle forward awkwardly, alternating each half step with another shot. He was down to his last few bullets when he saw, amidst the clearing of the smoke, a great concentration of light in the distance. It was more enemy enemy soldiers. Perhaps another Company. Maybe even an entire battalion.
Dumont stopped and simply stared in the distance, uncertain of what to do.
It was a good fight, he thought to himself, but I think that’s about it.
As he stood there, the night was suddenly illuminated by a vast explosion in the distance. Seconds later the first explosion was followed by another and then another. A veritable waterfall of fire suddenly seemed to be falling down all around him at almost every point that he could see. After a moment’s contemplation, Dumont decided to simply sit down and watch.
USS Ronald Reagan (CVN-76), Off the Atlantic Coast
Admiral Layton couldn’t believe the readouts on the board in front of him in the Ronald Reagan’s Combat Information Center.
“Can we confirm this?” he said.
“Yes Admiral,” replied the CAG, “I’ve counted them all. We got all of them back.”
The FNASA forces, it seemed, hadn’t been quite ready for the arrival of a substantial portion of the Fifth Fleet’s air assets over Quebec. The limited air resources that they’d had had been elsewhere and, when one hundred and fifty modern fighters had shown up in a theatre of operations where both sides limited air forces were quite exhausted, it was more than enough to decisively change the balance of power. All of the aircraft that the Fifth Fleet had sent to Quebec had come home.
