Battlefield Pacific

by James Rosone

Castle nodded. “General Cutter has officially secured the Island of Luzon from the Chinese Army. His forces and the Navy are largely going to bypass the remaining PLA soldiers on the other Philippine Islands and either force them to surrender or starve them out. Now his Marines are staging and preparing to invade Taiwan. General Cutter says he’ll need at least 45 days to get his forces ready to retake Taiwan. The Navy also needs some time to rearm with missiles before they move closer to the Chinese mainland, and Admiral Richards wants to get a few of his ships repaired so they can be available for the invasion.”

  Castle paused for a second, then resumed. “Invading Taiwan is going to be like Iwo Jima or Okinawa was during World War II. The PLA is going to throw everything they have at us, and it’s going to get real dicey. I’d expect a lot of casualties when this operation kicks off, so we need to be prepared for that when the time comes.”

  He turned a couple of papers over. “Now on to the good news. The ANZAC force that landed on the Indonesian Island of Java caught the enemy with their pants down. They were able to capture the Indonesian capital of Jakarta and many of the military and political leaders. While the president of Indonesia did manage to escape, the rest of his government did not, and they opted to surrender rather than fight it out in the capital. We’re in negotiations with them now to get them to drop out of the Eastern Alliance and surrender the rest of their military forces on the Philippine Islands.”

  The President smiled. He needed some good news.

  Castle continued. “This was, by all accounts, a resounding victory in the Pacific, Mr. President, and will greatly reduce the threat to Australia. We can now look to liberate Malaysia and the rest of Southeast Asia with the Australians in the lead.” Castle spoke with genuine satisfaction written across his face. It had been a huge gamble to have the ANZACs and a single American brigade combat team conduct a surprise landing on Java and then race to the capital, but it had succeeded beyond their wildest dreams.

  “Jim, that is good news indeed,” said the President. “Send my congratulations to the commanders and the soldiers involved. They’ve moved us one step closer to victory.”

  An aide walked in and handed a note to the Commander-in-Chief.

  “All right, gentlemen,” Gates announced, “I’m being given the signal that we’re less than twenty minutes away from landing. I need to let you all go, but we’ll continue our discussion tomorrow when I’m back in Washington. Apparently, elections still have to happen during a world war, and I’m still required to do some campaigning.”

  *******

  Township, Michigan

  Selfridge Air National Guard Base

  When the President’s plane landed at the military base, the Secret Service was ready with their convoy of vehicles to escort him to his speaking engagement. Due to the heightened risk of Russian and Chinese saboteurs, the Secretary of Defense had insisted that the military also have a Special Forces team involved in the security.

  Gates descended the stairs and was greeted by a member of his campaign staff, and businessman Andrew Turner, the man he’d be stumping for in a few hours. Extending his hand, the President shook Turner’s. “It’s good to see you again, Andrew. I’m glad we were able to work this out.”

  Andrew Turner smiled. “Likewise. I’m glad you were able to fit this into your schedule. It’s a tight race here, and we could really use your help.”

  Turner was an Iraq War veteran and local businessman and was running against the Democrat Senate incumbent. It was a close election according to the polls, although by all accounts, it should have been a slam dunk for the incumbent. The sitting senator had recently made a few gaffes that had been caught by the media when he’d made comments about how the new British Prime Minister had found a way to deal with the Russian President Petrov, leading Britain to secure a separate peace with the Eastern Alliance. This had created a bit of a media firestorm as conservative radio pundits reminded the public that it was the Eastern Alliance that was responsible the nuclear destruction of Northern California.

  Since then, the race that had been written off by the GOP was suddenly within reach. Despite Gates’ unpopularity and combative relationship with the media and the polls prior to the war, the nation had largely rallied behind him during the country’s struggle, just as America had done for previous wartime presidents. So now the GOP was eager to use his new popularity to potentially influence this election.

  “Before we head into town, let’s sit down in the conference room in the hangar here and talk,” said Gates. “I want to know from you, Andrew, what are the meat-and-potato issues for your constituents? What are they concerned with? What are they optimistic about, and what can I specifically do to help Michigan, etc.”

  This was something the President did whenever he spoke somewhere. He preferred to find out from local leaders, not pollsters, what the situation on the ground was like. In his experience, the people who lived in a district were by far the ones who knew the issues the best.

  The two of them talked for roughly twenty minutes before settling on a couple of main talking points Gates would focus on and projects that could really use government assistance. Following the discussion, the President signaled it was time to bring in the security folks and discuss the potential threats and what they would do should a threat materialize.

  Taking the lead in this discussion, the FBI agent in charge for Detroit explained, “We do not have any credible threats from any foreign actors. There is no chatter on any of the cyber rooms we monitor and nothing from our sources on the ground. That isn’t to say the Russians or Chinese may not try something, which is why we have Major Natal and his team with us on loan from Joint Special Operations Command or JSOC.”

  The military man, wearing 511 clothes and decked out in full combat gear, just nodded.

  “We do anticipate a large number of protesters in the area—mostly Antifa and antiwar protesters and student groups,” the FBI agent continued. “We have a number of agents wearing civilian clothes intermixed with them to help keep an eye on the protests and make sure they don’t turn violent. We’ve also limited where they can protest, so they shouldn’t clash with any of your supporters or those just coming to hear you speak. We’re trying as best we can to minimize our security presence per your request, but please keep in mind, it’s incredibly difficult for us to secure an outdoor venue for you during a war.”

  The head of the President’s Secret Service detail nodded in agreement. “I still wish you’d hold this event indoors, Mr. President. We have an alternate site secured and set up. It wouldn’t be difficult for us to shift the event to that location,” he offered, once more hoping the President might agree to a more protected venue.

  Looking at Andrew, Gates saw in the man’s eyes that he was really looking forward to this outdoor event. The park could hold a few thousand people or more, and word had it the park was already solidly packed. If they changed venues now, it would be to a much smaller indoor location that could probably only accommodate maybe three or four thousand people at best.

  Gates shook his head. “No, we’ll keep the outdoor venue. I don’t want to have to exclude people when we don’t even have any credible threats. People need to see that their political leaders aren’t afraid to see them, and we need to project confidence in our law enforcement and military to protect us,” the President said, ending the debate.

  A half hour later, the presidential motorcade left the Air Force base for the first of many 2018 campaign stops.

  *******

  Detroit, Michigan

  The Jeffersonian Apartments

  As he waded through the throngs of people who were coming to hear the President speak, George thought to himself how much he loved Michigan, and how he would really be enjoying this trip if he weren’t so wrapped up in his purpose for being there. “What’s not to love?” he thought. “Beautiful parks, the Upper Peninsula, and of course, Canada right across the border.”

  Walking up to the Jeffers
onian, George entered the electronic code his Airbnb host had given him, unlocking the outer door to the lobby. He smiled warmly at the young woman manning the reception desk as he made his way to the elevator bank. A bell dinged as he approached the elevator. A second later, a young couple wearing obnoxiously gaudy Gates T-shirts emerged, laughing at something as they walked past him and headed out the door to join the mass of humanity that was gathering in the park to hear President Gates speak.

  George pressed the button for the eighteenth floor and waited for the doors to close. Once he got off, he headed toward apartment 1818 and entered the second electronic code that unlocked the door. Walking in, George immediately headed over to the kitchen and grabbed a bottle of water. He opened it and took a long drink, rehydrating himself.

  Next, he walked over to the family room and plopped himself down on the La-Z-Boy recliner and grabbed the remote control for the 65-inch flat-screen TV. He turned it on and clicked through the channels until he found MSNBC, his favorite channel, and listened in on the coverage of the President’s motorcade as it continued to make its journey from the Air National Guard base in Townships to Detroit, where it would eventually stop in Erma Henderson Park. The talking heads on MSNBC were in a bewildered state as they discussed a new Gallup poll that showed the race in Michigan to be toss-up at this point. George shuddered. The President was doing his best to help elect more of his own party to the Senate, and George and many of his fellow Antifa activists feared this would only enable the fascist Gates to pursue more of his radical agenda.

  George watched intently as the local news helicopter showed an aerial picture of the President’s motorcade driving down I-94 before it would turn south to head toward the park where that night’s speaking event would occur. Twenty minutes went by with various pundits talking about what the President might say, or what they believed he should say. Slowly, the motorcade eventually made its way to the park. As it entered the perimeter, George could hear the roar of the crowd.

  Getting up from the chair, he walked over to the sliding glass doors and looked through them out at Erma Henderson Park next door. He found himself amazed that so many thousands of people had gathered to hear one man speak. “How can so many people be deceived by this fascist?” he thought. It blew his mind to think that all of those masses before him were blind to how the dictator Gates was destroying the country. “How many people have to die in this fascist war?”

  He was still struggling with what he was about to do—it went against everything he had ever been taught, but deep down, he knew he couldn’t sit by and let his little brother die in a senseless war, not if he could do something to stop it.

  Turning away from the sliding glass doors, George examined his setup one last time. He had moved the kitchen table further back into the kitchen, placing additional distance between it and the sliding glass doors. Then he’d placed a few pillows on the table and propped up his Winchester Model 70. He had a pillow plush against the tripod to help provide more stability for him. When George had arrived at the Airbnb condo three days ago, he’d checked the park out and calculated where the President was likely to speak from to make sure he had placed the table and the rifle in a position that would allow him to shift his aim as needed. He knew he was likely only going to get one solid shot off, or else another sniper would probably find him and shoot him.

  Being a novice shooter and having never shot anything living before, he was nervous he might miss, or that his hands might be shaky. He looked down at his fingers. They were still, but definitely sweaty.

  The crowd outside broke his circling thoughts as they roared and then chanted, “USA, USA, USA!”

  George couldn’t really hear exactly what the President was saying over all the noise. Then again, he really wasn’t focused on the speech, despite the audio of the President’s speech being relayed over MSNBC. Placing his head against the stock of the rifle, he leaned his right eye into the scope. He closed his left eye as he tried to zero in on Gates.

  George shifted the rifle a couple of times before finding a comfortable position that still allowed him to place the red dot on the man's chest.

  “Aim small…miss small,” he said quietly as he recited the phrase his shooting instructor had taught him. That retired Marine sniper had spent every Saturday at the range with him for nearly three months, teaching him everything he knew about marksmanship.

  As the President raised his right hand with the Senate candidate’s hand up in the air, that was the moment when George decided to make history. “This is for you, little brother,” he thought, hopeful that his actions would speed the war’s end and bring his brother home.

  He took a deep breath, then applied pressure on the trigger, just like he had been taught, until he heard the rifle bark, recoiling hard into his shoulder. The glass sliding door in front of him shattered instantly as the .300 magnum round flew out the barrel at 3,000 feet per second, crossing the 500 meters between George and the President in less than a second.

  Through the scope, he saw the round hit the President. Before he could comprehend what he had just done, he immediately pulled the bolt back, ejecting the spent casing and loading another round into the chamber. George took aim at the stage, which was suddenly being swarmed by Secret Service agents who were attempting to cover the President. The businessman who had just been holding the President's hand ducked for cover, just as George squeezed the trigger again, sending a second round at the stage. His next round slammed center mass into the upper body of the Secretary of State, who was being led off the stage by the Secret Service.

  Once his second shot was fired, George immediately worked the bolt, loading the third round into the chamber, and scanned the stage. A cluster of Secret Service agents was carrying the President off the stage, and now the Secretary of State. George was scanning quickly for another high-value fascist to take out as precious seconds were ticking by.

  “There you are,” he said aloud, speaking to no one in particular. The President’s vehicle, “The Beast,” pulled up and an agent was yanking the door open as several agents tried to throw the President inside. George fired his third round, hitting one of the agents as he attempted to move the President into the vehicle. The agent fell, and it looked like the President fell with him. Then the two of them were shoved into the vehicle together, and it sped away faster than a vehicle that size and weight should be able to move.

  Just as George scooted off the table away from his rifle, the optical sight on his Winchester exploded, scaring him half to death. George fell to the floor and began to backpedal toward the wall when a second round flew into the room and hit the floor where his foot had just been. George quickly jumped to his feet, grabbing his backpack, and was out the door of the apartment seconds later. He quickly made his way down the emergency exit stairs, practically leaping from one landing to the next as he desperately tried to get out of the building.

  When he entered the lobby, he immediately made a beeline for the front door. Outside the apartment complex, hundreds if not thousands of people were running down the street, screaming and yelling, trying desperately to get away from the danger. No one knew if another attack was going to happen or not. Then they heard a loud Boom!

  About a block away, a small charge in a dumpster blew up right on time.

  “`Bout time my Antifa brothers did their part,” George thought as he joined the throng of people trying to run away.

  There was chaos all around him. George could hear helicopters flying overhead and police sirens traveling in multiple directions. Several clusters of police were trying to stop the mass of humanity from running past them as they attempted to set up a perimeter.

  “Crap!” thought George. “I need to make it past that perimeter before they get it set or I’m screwed.”

  Several dozen police cars suddenly descended on the crowd maybe a block ahead of him. Looking up in the sky, he saw a police helicopter and several of those new tiltrotor helicopters he had seen on the news c
ircling above them. George darted to the left down a side alley when he spotted several teenagers veer off that direction. He sprinted with all his might, trying to keep up with them as they did their best to find another way past the police. Huffing and puffing to keep up with them, he called, “Wait up, guys! I’ll pay you each a hundred dollars if you can help me get past the police.”

  As they stopped to catch their own breath, the teenagers looked at him suspiciously as he pulled out five one-hundred-dollar bills. “Look, I’m on probation,” he said, “and the last thing I need is to get stopped by the police. My probation officer will have my ass. Can you guys help me?” he asked, hoping his cover story might be enough.

  The kid with red hair just nodded as he reached over and took the money from George’s hand. “My brother has a PO who’s a real piece of work. I understand. Follow us this way. Bill here works for a pizza joint, and we can walk through it to get to the other side of the police roadblock, but only if we hurry.” They took off down the side street toward the road the police were cordoning off.

  A half hour later, George had made it past the police roadblock and was waiting at the bus stop for the next available bus. When it arrived, he paid cash for three stops and then got off. Activating the new smartphone he’d purchased the day before, he opened up the Lyft app and called for a ride. When the driver showed up, he ducked inside and was on his way out of the city to a friend’s house, where he’d be able to hide and lie low for a while until he figured out what to do next.

  *******

  Erma Henderson Park

  “Shots fired!” shouted Major Natal. He immediately lifted his binoculars to his eyes and scanned the building just beyond the park. His eyes quickly settled on the most likely position of an enemy shooter, a thirty-story building nearly opposite of the stage where the President had been speaking. While Secret Service agents were swarming the stage, Major Natal scanned the building, making his way up each floor. Then a second shot rang out, followed by more screams.