by R A Peters
The man behind her lay face down in the parking lot, a good 20 feet away. In fact, every other member of her squad laid still or rolled in pain out there. Despite all the covering fire, she was the only survivor of that mad 50-yard dash. Which also meant she was the only one in a position to take the strongpoint.
The lock on the back door of the shop had somehow already been shot off. She inched closer. Men on the roof blazed away at far off targets, despite the grenade, but firing more or less blindly. Without sticking up their heads. At least the covering fire had some little effect. Inside, however, everything was deathly still.
She wasn’t fool enough to think her grenade had killed everyone, or even anyone. They were waiting for her pretty little head to pop in there. Well, she wasn’t the type of girl to keep a guy waiting. She reached into her web pouches and yanked out the only grenade left: a green smoke for marking purposes. Without wasting another second thinking about how stupid this was, she just popped the smoke and rolled it through the door.
The men barricaded inside half expected another grenade, but not this. The sickening phosphorous stink from the deep green cloud disrupted them more than HE would have. They fired blindly at the entrance. Through the ruckus, they didn’t hear the MP dash around the side of the building, strut right through the front door, take a knee and raise her weapon.
The SAW is not a preferred close combat weapon. Something lighter with more stopping power, say, a shotgun or revolver would have been a better choice. However, you work with what you have. Besides, an automatic weapon firing in long bursts into a 40 square foot space still got the job done, but what a messy job.
Feeling around the six bodies, she found all the frags she needed. One by one, she chucked them up the access ladder and among the oblivious guys above. She planned to sit back and use them all up. Kill in style. After the third explosion though, the whole north end of the roof, already stressed with nearly a ton of sandbags and way too many men, collapsed and brought the enemy to her. Picking off the shocked and wounded men trying to climb out of the rubble might have been as fair as shooting fish in a barrel, but she loved to fish.
She kept firing short bursts until the belt ran out, long after the last enemy stopped twitching. While loading her remaining 200 round box, the rest of her platoon came rolling in. She’d been so focused on staying alive she forgot all about the point of the operation. Taking this strongpoint on the wing of the enemy’s position created a gap in those deadly interlocking fields of fire that the rest of the unit could funnel through.
One of her platoon mates snapped a quick photo of her at that moment of exhaustion. She stood in the rubble, surrounded by more than a dozen bodies, and innocently redid her ponytail. It wasn’t the Medal of Honor she would later receive that made her famous, but that “Fucking PMS” photo. By nightfall, she’d be an internet sensation.
*
The chaplain said a prayer for the young rebel under him, even while still untangling his bowie knife out of the man’s lower intestines. He finally got it loose, wiped the blade on his victim’s shirt and slipped it back into his vest sheath. He gave the terrified boy a mercy double tap to the head and then another pair for his fallen compatriot next to him.
That probably wasn’t even necessary, but he was a thorough man. The preacher had shot him twice point blank in the chest before the now gutted kid jumped over the cash register and surprised him. Few of these rebels wore any sort of body armor. He even thanked the Prince of Peace for sparing his life by giving him the strength to kill these people. After tactically reloading his M16, he repositioned the rest of his grim flock and waited for the next rebel counterattack.
Things were usually pretty bad if the chaplain was the only officer left in a unit. On the other hand, he was one of the few officers anywhere that still held the respect of the desperate support personnel following him. Whether a result of luck or a side effect of being crazier than your enemy, either way, he had an aura of invincibility. He had protection from On High, and everyone wanted a share in it.
In the shaky condition his people were in, that was all it took to command. What made him a real leader though, one that might just inspire his people to overcome all odds, was that he didn’t ask his people to do anything he wasn’t already doing.
North Side of Lake City
5 March: 2230
The luckless 1-6 Infantry always seemed to miss the fighting. By the time they were ordered to abandon their blocking position on the wrong side of Lake City, the battle had already moved downtown. That didn’t faze the pissed of troops though. It was payback time.
Despite losing a third of their manpower, they were still the largest federal combat force in 20 miles. As they entered the north side of town, they were surprised to see the Georgia Guard battalion still active and moving around. The Georgians apparently weren’t overrun at all. What was all the fuss about?
While the new battalion commander tried to wrap his mind around that, four F-15E’s roared in and hammered them from the air. This time a large Abrams tank drew the attention from a volley of Maverick missiles. The first pass from the fast movers annihilated five of his tanks. The next pass cost two more and a Brad.
As if they didn’t have enough problems, the Georgia Guard laid into them with TOW missiles and 25mm auto fire. Apparently, the battalion bumped into yet another ambush. All they could do was begin breaking contact. Orderly, but quickly. At least they finally had something they could shoot back at, even if retreating.
Thankfully, there wasn’t a third pass from the Screaming Eagles. Someone up at Division HQ heard the battalion’s desperate calls for air cover at the same time and place the forward air controller rattled off kill tallies. It was disturbing how long it took to put two and two together, but eventually some genius up there decided to halt all close air support missions until targets could be positively identified.
The frustrated pilots, still with plenty of munitions aboard, gawked at all those targets moving around below. Maybe they had just whacked a friendly unit, but most of those vehicles down there couldn’t be friendly’s. After 20 minutes of circling, they watched helplessly as a company of IFV’s slaughtered an artillery battalion in town.
By the time the ground based command center finally sent them targets again, it was too late to make a difference. The same scenario was being played out across the sunny skies of Florida. All those war birds could hurt and harass the enemy, but by the time they were finally turned loose the chance to decisively influence the battle was past. That was the exact quote the history books would use to explain the limited role air power played in the entire Florida campaign.
High Tide
Downtown Lake City
5 March: 2345
After one hell of a hard fought hour, the Army managed painfully to claw their way into dominating half the mall. The local’s last line of defense was anchored on a Publix supermarket. They were totally on their own now. The small professional guard contingent and their newfound Georgian comrades were busy dealing with some federal counterattack from the north.
Every spare man the militia could scrounge up had long since been shoved into the fight. Far too many fighters in way too small a space. It only guaranteed casualties would be even higher than necessary. Unfortunately, safety in numbers was the only way for these amateurs to build the confidence necessary to stand their ground.
There wasn’t even any fire support left. The rebel’s last mortar and artillery rounds were long since expended. Either shelling the small airport or various other high value targets, the poor infantry didn’t rate high enough on the totem pole to get any support back when there was ammo to spare. Now the guns were silent and the Feds’ air force did a damn good job making sure no more supplies reached town.
Regional command promised one convoy after another but they all disappeared somewhere along the open road. Where the war birds used to be so hesitant to strike, terrified they might hit civilian refugees rather than comba
tants driving civilian vehicles, they now took the gloves off. Something about getting their asses handed to them broke down their reserve. The heat of battle tends to bend the iron of ROE. Thankfully, they were only turning up the heat outside of built up areas…so far. They’d yet to drop a single bomb in town despite plenty of observers and opportunities.
The short ebb in the fighting ended with the Feds reclaiming the initiative. They had long since dismounted the secondary armament, automatic grenade launchers and heavy machine guns, from the artillery pieces. Not surprising, considering their supply dump sat in a truck stop only two miles away, they had no shortage of ammunition.
Several Mk-19’s thumped out an endless stream of 40mm HE grenades into the militia’s positions. They were small explosives, but with each gun firing 40 rounds a minute, there were a hell of a lot of them. This mini-artillery barrage cleared the roofs of the occupied buildings, often by collapsing them. Machine guns of all sizes hammered anyone trying to shoot back.
This final push was far better organized than previous assaults. The Feds moved some of those artillery pieces far enough away so they were able to slam some high angle fire on the rear areas of the rebel lines. Ignoring the ROE and hitting anything suspicious paid off. Two lucky shells smashed a bowling alley being used as the temporary militia command center. A few more unfortunately leveled a church serving as a makeshift aid station, for wounded from both sides.
Three small smoke screens blossomed in no man’s land a few minutes into the intense bombardment. All three on the right flank of the rebel’s line. The defenders took note and concentrated all their suppressive fire into the clouds, hoping to break up whatever assault the enemy had in the works. The exhausted on scene commander even committed his tiny reserve to reinforce that wing.
The actual assault came without much prep work on the far left flank. A line of six hulking M88 recovery vehicles grumbled just inches abreast towards a Lowe’s Home Improvement store. The tracked and heavily armored tow trucks smashed through the thin pine trees and high bush on an undeveloped lot between the lines. They blazed away with roof mounted M240’s at the rebel’s forward pickets, who skittered away like so many panicked armadillos. Just like the little rodents, they were doomed to be road kill.
While the mechanics played tankers and drew attention, a mixed company loped along on foot a few dozen yards behind them. This team was made up of a real scout platoon, a fresh group of MP’s and a few loose infantrymen assigned to desk jobs for some reason. Just about all the combat troops that could be rounded up in the rear area.
If they could crack that retail redoubt, even if just a little bit, these worn out rebels would collapse. Behind them came a company of fresh combat engineers ready to exploit the gap in the enemy’s lines. The most powerful wedge they could find to drive into that foothold. In the ragged state the militia was in, it should be more than enough to pry them loose from their dug in positions.
The rebels knocked one vehicle out with the last of their supply of handheld antitank rockets. An overzealous mechanic in another one stopped a round with his neck when he stuck his head too far over the gun shield, hoping to get a better look at his targets. Unfortunately, the vehicles didn’t exactly do a perfect job shielding the dismounts from fire.
One infantryman went down with a painful gut shot. Another round striking square in the IBA knocked some other guy right off his feet. The body armor saved his life, but that much force still cracked a rib. No doubt, he was out of the fight. The two wounded men took four more fighters out of the battle while they helped haul the injured out of the kill zone.
Messy or not, the assault force crossed the open area and breached the loading dock of the big box retailer in moments. The wide aisles inside made clearing easy. They didn’t even suffer a single casualty from the backroom to the cash registers. In less than five minutes, the only strong point on the rebel’s flank rested in federal hands. In bloody federal hands. The professional soldiers gleefully mowed down the amateur enemy survivors trying to retreat across the open parking lot. Payback was a bitch.
As luck would have it, God was on the rebel’s side. Maybe the two dozen Brads growling down the street weren’t avenging archangels, but they’d do until the real deal showed up. The high water mark of the Fed counterattack was also their last hurrah.
The mixed Georgia/Florida Guard team finished breaking up the weak counterattack up north less than 20 minutes ago. With nothing better to do and no higher command to interfere, they hauled ass out to the only other source of fighting around. The shocked support troops had broken out so few anti-armor weapons from stores. There simply wasn’t any need to earlier. The Feds were supposed to be the only force around with armored vehicles! The few AT-4’s they had handy were poorly deployed and even worse employed. Except for a single glancing blow that blew a track off of one vehicle, none of the enemy Brads were harmed.
One company of IFV’s raced west down the main boulevard to shred the artillery pieces mercilessly shelling the rest of town. The other company hung around the shopping mall. Their bursts of 25mm rounds or coax 7.62mm killed any camouflaged thing that dared move. In a flash of inspiration that was far from SOP but effective nonetheless, they rammed their 32-ton mini-tanks straight into the enemy’s lines. Firing the whole way.
The squad of infantrymen in the back of each track shoved M-4 barrels through the firing ports and added poorly aimed but plentiful 3-round bursts into the fray. Maybe it more closely resembled a video game than a traditional breaching operation, but the results spoke for themselves.
By the time the tracks barreled through the Army and dropped their dismounts a safe distance behind enemy lines, the Feds were thoroughly broken. They had no chance to regain the offensive and they knew it. All around the mall the devastated troops began falling back. Firing the whole time, but clearly bugging out.
That orderly retreat fell apart when the reinvigorated militia upped the pressure and charged their shattered defenses. All the repressed disaster and stress of the last few hours came back in a collective trauma. They surely put up an impressive fight, but they weren’t combat troops by temperament. They just weren’t used to this shit!
The final straw came when the Brads behind them began blasting apart unarmed trucks full of retreating men and women. A few hardcore small groups held up wherever seemed a little defensible and died to the last. Everyone else who didn’t have an immediate chance to escape threw down their weapons and raised their hands.
Despite the desperation of the fight and all the bad blood endeared, most were allowed to surrender. The occasional soldier had a smart-ass comment to offer the exhausted enemy. It was usually the last thing they ever said. Still, almost everyone that kept their mouth shut and arms high was rounded up safely.
The rest of the militia went full Rambo as they rampaged throughout the collapsing rear area supply and maintenance depots scattered across town. At the airport, some posed for photographs on top of an abandoned Blackhawk helicopter. In a Winn-Dixie parking lot, others spray painted obscene jokes on the sides of multi-million dollar mobile radars. The irregulars even cursed the president who was at that moment saving their lives.
Thirty miles north, a fresh, brigade-sized task force bore down on the burning town. The Georgia National Guard force couldn’t wait to avenge their slaughtered brethren. The details of the desertion disaster in Florida apparently changed a little bit before reaching the rank and file outside of the combat zone. In any case, they were willing and more than able to finish the job the regular Army started.
Fortunately, for the rebels, this president, who had never served in the military and sat 800 hundred miles away from the actors involved, did not trust the Georgians. Desperate to help and reading fragmentary reports, he believed he saw something the generals missed. Determined not to allow the enemy to receive further reinforcements, he called the unit directly. Entirely bypassing the chain of command in his ignorance.
The frustrated
brigade, only minutes from Lake City, halted and reluctantly turned around. Their commander’s disrespectful, almost mutinous response to the order convinced the president he made the right call. This success, of course, only emboldened the president to “help” further.
Chapter 9
15 miles north of Lake City
6 March: 0230
General McDowell hadn’t been overwhelmed; he’d just been under fire. Now that his command post was far enough out of town that tracers couldn’t rip holes in his map anymore he could finally think. Despite the desperate retreat, made even worse with all those civilian tag-a-longs blocking the roads, he somehow managed to get his unwieldy command staff and vehicle park out of harm’s way. A shame the rest of the division’s support trail wasn’t so lucky.
McDowell came closest to sympathizing with the rebels when the president personally called back his Guard reserves over concerns about their loyalty. Which could not have been more ridiculous. Their commanding officer was a West Point classmate of his, for Christ’s sakes! The combined Georgia/Alabama BCT now streaming back across the border might not have arrived in time to prevent disaster, but they would’ve given him options at least. At the moment, that’s what he was shortest on.
All the doctrine called for establishing a forward operating base and concentrating his support assets there. It was the most efficient way to supply his combat maneuver units while maintaining a minimum of security elements. A base in Lake City had seemed by-the-book perfect. Centrally located, with its own airfield and natural defenses that would channel attacking forces into narrow avenues. Just what doctrine called for, even if things turned out so terribly. Problem was, none of the field manuals held a solution for your own people turning on you or your president micromanaging the battle.
