by R A Peters
Pickens sure didn’t have a problem believing either. About the only thing surprising with the governor’s stroke was that it hadn’t dropped him years ago. The heart of anyone who drinks and smokes that much was essentially a ticking time bomb. His number two was just the high school dropout, hillbilly brother of some major campaign contributor. His hardest assignment to date centered on representing the governor at monster truck rallies. They only stuck him on that China trade trip to give time for the sexual harassment allegations to blow over.
Florida sure needed some strong leadership in this vacuum and that’s what he was trying to give. Pickens had made the tough decision to expand the Guard call up to protect every federal building and he personally ordered those senior federal workers to be placed in protective custody. In some cases, they were saved straight from the hands of lynch mobs. Somehow though, this all came off as provocative to DC. “Escalations,” that idiot White House staffer called them.
Pickens had even held a press conference explaining it all. Tried to, at any rate. Never before had he seen such a polarized press corps. They kept shouting him down trying to outdo each other with ever more outlandish accusatory questions.
He couldn’t even secure the attention of that egotistical dipshit in charge of the FNG force at Camp Blanding. While the attorney general was nominally the commanding officer of the state guard, during times of crisis the senior professional military officer on the scene took over. At least he would return Pickens’ calls, even if he then ignored all the orders merely to contain the paratroopers and try to avoid any further bloodshed.
Pickens wanted to sack the man so badly and had the authority to (probably), but wouldn’t that create its own set of problems? Would firing the most senior officer willing to stand up to the Feds destroy the Guard’s cohesion? Thereby removing the only real bargaining chip he had, or would those strange military people ignore him and carry on with their business, in effect staging a coup? Would Washington interpret the action as a peace overture or weakness? There were too many damn unknowns and things kept happening way too fast. If only he could have a little time to think!
Pickens weighed whether to fly out to Blanding and personally oversee the operation or not, when the former governor’s chief of staff interrupted and let himself into the office. It was the first time Pickens had seen a smile on that jowly face all day. Now the staffer laid it on pretty thick.
“Hey, Picky, I’ve got some good news for a change.” The attorney general bristled at the nickname. For years there wasn’t anything he could do about it since the fat man was an old college roommate and hunting buddy of the governor. Well, he also couldn’t do anything about him now. It was a shame that this prick’s expertise and inside knowledge were needed during this crisis.
As soon as things settled down, oh would this Bubba be out on his ass fast. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out, type of out. The chief of staff assumed Pickens’ smile was because he enjoyed the nickname. He took a seat, unoffered.
“I just got off the phone with Senator Dimone’s campaign manager. They want to set up shop down here. In Orlando, to be exact. Well, fleeing for his life from the mad dictator or some such craziness is how they’re spinning it. I’ve already chartered a plane to pick him up and promised on your behalf to grant, get this, ‘asylum!’ ” He couldn’t get enough of his own wit.
“The senator’s staff will be calling any second to hammer out more details. I wanted to be the first to congratulate you.”
“On what? This just complicates everything even worse. I’m doing all I can to keep things from falling apart here, and now this asshole wants to use the anarchy in the streets to score a few publicity points against the president. He’s one more headache I don’t need.”
The staffer looked shocked. “I guess…you haven’t had time to think this through. Step back a second. You just got bumped up to the big leagues. That was the governor’s whole plan and you’ve succeeded where he failed. We’re no longer a chess piece in this game between the Washington elites. We’ve picked a side! We’re no longer a prize they both have to compete for; we can tip the scales in the senator’s favor. In anyone’s favor, for that matter. We’re both the audience and judge!”
He threw up his hands as Pickens just frowned.
“Think about it. Previously, you had the senator up against a corrupt Congress and tyrannical president but backed by the Supreme Court. The quintessential ‘People’s Champ,’ but before you came along, he was just an idea without a host.”
“Like a parasite,” chimed Pickens dryly.
“That’s what I like about you, Picky. Even throughout all this you can keep a sense of humor. Well, call him whatever you want, but they’ll call you the People’s Champion. If we can convince a few of the Justices to ‘flee’ as well, the opposition’s public support will collapse lick split. Take a look at the polls, man! The Supreme Court’s opinion ratings are higher than the president’s and Congress’s numbers combined! Which horse are you going to back?”
The attorney general hated to admit it, even to himself, but that was a damn good point. What a huge chance he had here. They both forgot the fact that this wonderful opportunity was made possible only through the unwilling sacrifice of so many lives. Well, they didn’t completely forget. It was just that their egos were so large as to assume they could fully manage the situation and prevent any further bloodshed, while somehow still orchestrating victory.
Like so many “great men” throughout history, they were terribly wrong.
Camp Blanding, Florida
24 January: 0530
Lt. Colonel Anderson had never held a council of war in his entire career. Nonetheless, he felt it was the noble thing to do. Straight out of Xenophon’s playbook. Despite a 200-year plus legacy of defending democracy, voting was a rather un-Army tradition. He naturally assumed the council would be a mere formality that could add a touch of romantic flair to the history books.
It was soon obvious why democracy is nicer in theory than practice. When he put the simple yes or no question to the assembled captains, first sergeants and lieutenants of what was left of 2-6 Infantry, he received votes for four different courses of action. Despite the situation, he marveled at how the “party affiliations” lined up by ranks.
The captains were willing to throw in the towel. The young, unbloodied lieutenants wanted an Alamo-style last stand and the first sergeants wanted to try a breakout. His normally conservative XO held the minority opinion to join, in his words, the “rebels” and march on Washington. He was less than half-joking.
Fifty minutes of arguing only solidified their positions. As for the opinion of the junior enlisted men, out vigilantly maintaining the perimeter, no one asked or cared. They kept their ideas in heated, but pointless debate amongst themselves.
The first rays of dawn slithered through the pines when the colonel finally noticed something strange. “Where is the Sergeant Major? What’s he doing that’s more important than this?”
The Headquarters Company captain looked thoroughly puzzled. “He’s with the scout platoon, sir.”
“Ok…and where the hell is my scout platoon?”
“They’re out probing the enemy’s cordon for weaknesses, sir. The Sergeant Major said you ordered…ah, shit!” It wasn’t a cuss of anger, but one of hope.
The colonel knew the rest of the story even before his personal phone vibrated. The ammo dump was the only place Brown wanted to go all night. On a whim, he put the phone on speaker.
“Hey sir, damn good job! Keep buying us a little more time. Maybe 15 minutes and we’ll be back.”
“Sergeant Major, what in God’s name do you hope to accomplish? The situation is untenable!”
“It’s amazing how easy it is to infiltrate these amateurs’ lines at night, sir. Especially when you wear the same uniform and speak the same language. You know, we’re probably overcomplicating things. Bet we could march the whole damn battalion right out under their
noses! He haw!
“Anyway, Santa Claus is a comin’. Got us about three dozen AT-4 rocket launchers, six Javelin missiles and even a TOW missile launcher! We didn’t get enough vehicles for everybody–didn’t want to draw too much attention. Just enough to get us and our goodies back there.”
“Hold where you’re at, Sergeant Major. We’re surrendering, effective immediately. There’s no honor left in this anymore, and I’m sick and tired of this damn debating!”
“What the hell, over! I’m telling you, sir, it’s a clusterfuck back here. The Guard’s got a dozen different units running around, each thinking they’re in charge. With some heavy weapons to hold the Brads at arm’s length, hell, they’ll probably fold with one big push. We could, at a minimum, break contact pretty easily. Maybe steal some civilian cars in town. It’s only about an hour drive till the border–”
Anderson cut the phone off and stood up. He dropped his K-Pod and shed his IBA. The cooling kiss of only warm air wafting over his heated, sweat soaked body made him sigh. Florida winters were always mild, but this year was insane.
“It’s over, gentlemen. Collect your units’ ammo and stack arms. Battalion formation here in 10 minutes. I still want every sensitive item accounted for.”
Everyone was on their feet now, but all the rest still in their battle rattle. The XO began shaking, his hand unconsciously dropping to his sidearm.
“Robert, I can’t believe you’re betraying us as well. I, ah, I think we need to discuss your ability to retain competent command.”
The captains moved to the colonel’s side. The first sergeants reached some private agreement with a shared glance and took a step backwards. The lieutenants uniformly had a deer-in-the-headlights look.
By his reserved standards, the colonel lost control. “Major, is it even necessary to point out how out of fucking line you are? You have just relieved yourself of your duties.” He drew his own sidearm, but aimed at the ground. “Now hand over your weapon or I’ll take your rank too!”
The oldest first sergeant nodded at the other enlisted and stood at parade rest. “Sir, I have a suggestion. How about letting us slip out in small groups? If you go parlay with them, for just a little bit longer…I mean it’s still half-dark. Like the sergeant major said, they’re disorganized. The officers and senior NCO’s will, of course, stay behind and keep up the masquerade while the rest of the men break contact by squads. I think we could get most of the boys out that way.” He strived for the missing words. “That would be the most honorable compromise, sir.”
Like a true professional, he always listened to a NCO’s advice, but like a true officer, he then ignored it.
“We’ve had enough of this every man for himself shit tonight. We fight as a unit, we die as a unit and, in this case, we will survive as a unit.” He raised his sidearm to the low ready. “If anyone has a problem with that, we can begin summary field Court Martials!”
The XO flipped open his holster cover unnoticed, or so he thought. The colonel’s 9mm flashed dramatically straight up. His warning shot was almost anti-climactic. Whether it was the therapeutic effects of letting off rounds or just impotent rage, he couldn’t stop there. He let off three more shots into the air.
*
Leaning over the engine block of a utility Humvee blocking the road, a righteously pissed off young Florida Guardsman jumped at the sound of gunfire. No official word had come down yet, but he heard from a medic buddy that his cousin died fighting at the AHA. It was bad luck for everyone that he was just moving on to the anger phase of grieving when shots rang out from somewhere over at the airstrip.
He didn’t care enough to bother telling the difference between an M16 and a pistol. Nor did he touch the radio or wait for an order. He ripped off a solid 15-round Rambo style burst from his SAW, more or less in the general direction of the sound.
Two hundred meters away, a federal paratrooper lying in a shallow, hasty foxhole answered the wildly far-off shots with a perfectly placed grenade from his M320 grenade launcher. Guided by the small laser range finder attached to it, he dropped a range perfect shot right over the truck’s hood. The 25mm flechette grenade popped barely two feet in front of the target’s face. The guardsman’s battle buddy didn’t have a chance to return fire. He was a little too pre-occupied dragging his partner’s headless body behind the Humvee.
An ironic calm radiated from the skirmish. Action, so long delayed, left everyone in a thousand yards from the explosion unsure how to take the initiative. Well, almost everyone.
Florida National Guard Colonel Beauregard wasn’t sure himself who had the initiative, but he knew who had the artillery. He issued a string of long awaited orders. For the first time in this busy night he strapped on his body armor. Noticing the quiet around him, he added a little heat in his voice.
“What the hell are you waiting for Captain? You heard me. Execute the prepped fire mission.” Keeping the order in familiar, safe military terminology sanitized the thought enough for the young Fire Support Officer to suppress his doubts and obey.
“WILCO, sir.”
Unlike most of the guardsmen under his command, Beauregard didn’t find it hard to believe the president was trying to seize complete control of the country. A megalomaniac himself, the political chaos gripping the nation presented an obvious opportunity to grab power. He was even in the same party as the president. Were he in the White House, he wouldn’t have hesitated to do the same thing.
In fact, the only thing that pissed him off was knowing that Guard officers from an opposing state would probably never rise high in the new regime. If only he’d been approached personally to assist with the coup, well…that’s not how it happened. Being on the other side, his only route to power and fame lay with being the man that decisively halted the dictator’s ambitions.
None of this meant anything to the men he so poorly led and even less to the battalion of US paratroopers on the receiving end of his massed artillery. Not one known for noble gestures, the hour cease-fire he granted was spent arming and sighting his 18 heavy 155mm howitzers and the 8 lighter, but faster firing 120mm mortars. The next hour would be spent killing more Americans than died in the First Gulf War.
The men of 2-6 Airborne gritted through three end-of-the-world volleys before they realized that time and ammo were on the enemy’s side. There were no senior leaders left to order an advance. Colonel Anderson and most of the unit’s core leadership were powwowing in the exact center of the incoming Steel Rain, apparently trusting too much in the armistice. They hit the dirt at the first whistle of incoming, but there wasn’t much cover around.
None would get up again.
Still, you didn’t need an officer to point out that the only way to survive the hell storm around them was to close with the enemy as fast as possible. If they could get close enough, maybe they could fight their way through the scores of armored vehicles ringing their position. It was more a collective hope than a plan, but in the absence of heavy weapons, hope was all they had.
The survivors began bounding forward by squads and fire teams, laying down suppressive fire as they went. That subtlety didn’t last long. The overwhelming urge to get close enough to the surprised guardsmen, to get out of the hammering artillery kill zone, culminated in an old-fashioned charge. With a collective shout of “Airborne!” heard even over the artillery and machine guns, they surged forward all across the perimeter. Their “wild” firing was not only intense, but also incredibly accurate. These were some of the Army’s most experienced troops, after all. Elite men with a narrow mission and only a few hundred yards till revenge.
They almost made it.
The scout platoon charged down a dirt back road towards the maelstrom. The fear of missing the big fight, of letting their brothers die without them, was a horror worse than the slaughter itself. Everyone rushed to the battle except the sergeant major. He stopped his Humvee and contemplated the tracers, all the same color, in the distance.
Despite the
personae he’d cultivated for years, he wasn’t all balls, no brains. You didn’t survive the things he’d been through or climb so high in the ranks without having a good sense for which battles to pick. With the single TOW missile launcher on the Humvee’s roof, he couldn’t make much of a difference to the disaster ahead.
Brown spent all of thirty seconds wondering where a single antitank missile could have the most impact. He chose his battle. In the confusion gripping the base and the rest of Florida, no one bothered stopping a lone Humvee heading north towards the border.
Chapter 4
Context
24 January: 0830
“Yes, that’s correct Dave. We’re just getting confirmation that the last of the president’s handpicked storm troopers have been captured. However, as you can see, they wreaked incredible destruction before the authorities could subdue them.”
The curvy, angry blonde waved a microphone over her shoulder while the unbiased camera followed. The rows of body bags and several still burning vehicles in the distance were context enough for millions of stunned American viewers.
Twenty feet away a hot, snobby brunette provided context for her studio. “Yes, that’s correct Tom. The local militia claim to have finished massacring the rest of the US soldiers. We still don’t know why they attacked the president’s peacekeepers, but as you can see, this is Governor Rhett’s vision of a New America.”
The rows of body bags and several still burning vehicles in the distance confirmed the suspicions of millions of other stunned American viewers.
Thirty feet away, an older reporter for a local news channel offered depth, context and reasoned analysis based upon the facts he could corroborate. Everyone changed the channel. His producer went into damage control mode. Before too long, the context-obsessed reporter was sent to find and harass, correction, interview the new widows.
