The Great Split

Operation Enduring Unity Serial #4

By Richard Peters

Copyright 2014 Richard Allen Peters

Kindle First Edition

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. I pray this always remains fiction.

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Other complete novels by Richard Peters:

Power Games (Operation Enduring Unity I)

Shock and Awe (Operation Enduring Unity II)

The Surge (Operation Enduring Unity III) Available August 2014

The Unreasonable Man (Sci-Fi short story collection)

The Rooster (Adult Post-Apocalyptic Thriller)

Kindle First Edition, License Notes

The author has provided this e-book to you without Digital Rights Management software (DRM) applied so that you can enjoy reading it on your personal devices. This e-book is for your personal use only. You may not print or post this e-book, or make this e-book publicly available in any way. You may not copy, reproduce or upload this e-book, other than to read it on one of your personal devices.

Dedication

This novel is going out to all my brothers and sisters in every branch of the military. All those that answered the call to serve without ever asking, “What’s in it for me?” Especially to the families of those that never made it back. Dead but never forgotten!

To my endlessly patient wife: I really do love you more than my computer!

Table of Contents

Chapter 10

9 March

10 March

Huntington Beach, California

Daytona, Florida

Great Divide

Chapter 11

Nellis Air Force Base, Nevada

Fort Bliss, Texas

Bombing Vegas

Check

And Mate

Trouble

Chapter 12

20 March

22 March

New Game

Sacramento, California

Chapter 13

1 April

Fort Myers Beach

15 April

Part IV

“Society was cut in two: those who had nothing united in common envy; those who had anything united in common terror.”

– Alexis de Tocqueville, Recollections on the French Revolution

Chapter 10

9 March

Clearwater, Florida

Major Gorgas personally doubled checked the last truck’s cargo. There would be no load manifest for this trip, nor the hundreds like them. No paper trail at all and only the most trusted drivers. Men and women who’d proven themselves during the initial invasion. He had no idea where they were headed. The less he knew, the safer they were. Each driver and the guerilla cell they belonged to were responsible for hiding their own weapons cache.

Maybe some of them would turn around and sell it all on the black market. Maybe some would just park the truck, leave and wash their hands of the whole mess. Still, he was confident that most of the arms and ammo would be squirreled away somewhere. That’ll come in handy for the future resistance.

Satisfied that the last ammo dump was empty, he supervised burning all the paper records. The computers had already been scrubbed, just like all the state’s Guard records. The central data servers were also destroyed, courtesy of the enemy’s air superiority and paranoia. The personnel records, unfortunately, were centralized at the Pentagon. There was nothing he could do to keep the identities of his soldiers a secret. The best he could accomplish was slipping them into the new “underground” or somewhere out of the Feds’ reach.

That was getting much harder as the Federal Government tightened their no fly zone and naval blockade noose around Florida. He was pleased to get out just those few hundred guardsmen to safe havens out west. Over two thousand more were accepted by Cuba, and thank God for how many they were willing to take in, but that still left way too many rebels to hide easily.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t much chance someone higher in the command chain would be asking questions. The politicians were the first to disappear. General Cooper never recovered from his wounds and most of the rest of the senior staff hadn’t survived the relentless Air Force revenge campaign.

Revenge was the only way to describe it. After keeping such a low profile during the invasion, the White House turned them loose to do whatever they could to halt the much feared “rebel invasion.” They blasted apart anything of even remote military value. Everything from A-10 Warthogs to B-1 strategic bombers roamed the sunny skies above, looking for vengeance.

Which was the biggest overkill Gorgas had ever seen. They’d pulled off the stand in North Florida by the seat of their pants. A damn miracle the first time and it wasn’t something they could ever repeat. The regular Guard forces suffered around 70% equipment and 40% personnel losses. The irregulars were in nearly as bad a shape. There wasn’t a single flight worthy combat aircraft left in the inventory.

To make things even worse, most of what they still had left was tied down maintaining law and order. Armed, self-organized militias and gangs roamed more or less out of control from the Keys to St. Augustine–and not all of them were friendly. Not all of them seemed to have a goal either, outside of simple looting and pillaging. Many of them were preexisting self-styled militias that weren’t accepted into the FDF due to one crazy ideology or another.

The pro-Fed groups were frustrating, but the supposedly loyal ones were the deadliest. They were desperate and thought ferociousness could turn the tide. One of the Florida National Guard’s last combat operations was against an independent band of pro-rebel “white supremacists.”

These assholes didn’t have the balls to battle against the Feds directly, but when the fight was over, they had the guts to take over some small town. They went door to door one night shooting supposed “Federal collaborators,” i.e., anyone they felt like. Oh, the Guard shut them down before the sun rose. Not a single one of those bastards survived, but vengeance is a poor substitute for prevention.

The ranks of the state’s law enforcement agencies and security forces were seriously depleted. Whether from fear of federal retaliation, hopelessness of the cause or simply a desire to protect their families, more and more personnel disappeared every hour. Between the desertions and casualties, they could just barely keep chaos at bay during daylight hours. But the night belonged to the bandits. The once haughty Florida Defense Forces couldn’t even hold their own land. The idea of an offensive was a twisted joke.

The whole conflict was never personal for Gorgas until the unrestricted air campaign kicked off. Sure, he was angry in the early days; just like everyone else. The president was crazy, the governor was so passionate and everyone around him itched for a fight. War seemed natural. That terrible fever the only solution. They didn’t so much decide to start a fight as just stumbled into one.

The simple truth is he had been too busy being a professional doing his duty to examine why he was fighting. To wonder how far he was willing to go. That was just too complicated a thought to deal with. It was too easy to push down and ignore, what with all the other things he had to do. But when he saw his homeland being treated like some Third World shithole so that some asshole a 1,000 miles away could stay in power–well, it got personal.

Despite the partial social breakdown, he had to salvage what he could of his forces. Besides, that gargantuan federal force massing on the border, twice as large as the previous invasion, would be moving soon. They could clean up the mess. He had bigger battles for his enraged and now bloodied veterans.

He was officially deactivating the last Guard units and unofficially breaking them into small, hidden bands while the TV ran live footage of the second and final federal onslaught. He knew that this would not be the last fight. Not by a long shot. While the politicians in Washington, whether in suits or in uniform, jubilantly watched their soldiers storm through the state, Major Gorgas and millions like him decided that the real war had just begun.

***

10 March

The second invasion of Florida was the most watched program in television history. It was also probably the most disappointing for action junkies. The whole “battle” fit easily inside the three-hour primetime slot, including commercials. In typical government fashion, this time they were ready for anything…just as the enemy gave up. Almost no resistance was offered against the enormous and carefully advancing federal force. The rare exceptions were met by such overwhelming firepower, employed with such flexible ROE, that the Taliban would think they had it light.

While domestic news outlets reached new heights of biasness and speculation disconnected from any remote sense of reality, the foreign news channels were bewildered. The First Battle of North Florida was dreadful enough. Why would there be another one? From London to Tokyo, the deaths of 7,000 Americans in a single day–a Pearl Harbor, September 11 and a couple dozen mass shootings combined–blew their minds. Everyone outside the US just knew that after such dreadful violence no one could possibly be interested in any more fighting.

Surely such horrific losses would catapult moderates to center stage. Cooler heads must prevail and this dive into collective insanity would be short lived. The naïve Europeans only knew war through the lens of pointless futility that the history books gave it. Most Asians were more practical minded and lamented how bad for business the fighting was. Much of the Muslim world was excited, either to see the price of oil skyrocket or to see the Great Satan tearing itself apart. They only prayed that the US wouldn’t blame them somehow. It seemed only Africa and some parts of South America could understand and sympathize with the American outrage.

They were the only ones personally familiar with the fact that people haven’t improved much from the Stone Age. Only the conditions we live in have changed. All our enlightened ideals are just the products of idle time and not of a new environment. The peace and security of civilization allows people the chance to indulge in such luxuries as liberalism, humanism, tolerance and compassion.

They knew too well from painful experience how weak that house of illusions really was. The chill of fear, fire of revenge, stink of paranoia and winds of opportunism are the real natural environment of our species. When threatened, the artificial constructs of society were easily jettisoned for the tried and murderously true ancient instincts. Men might fight and die for those postponed lofty ideals, but the causes of wars are much less complex.

You tell the grieving parents, the shattered spouse, the abandoned children, the devastated siblings or the shocked friends of a fallen soldier that they died in vain. That it was time to put this childish foolishness behind them and just let everything go. Hurry up and get back to normal. You try to shove that terrible genie back in the bottle. Good luck. To the ancient Greeks, it wasn’t the wrath of the gods that would be released by Pandora’s Box, but the collective anger of humanity–a far deadlier curse than any supernatural being.

Once upon a time, the US waged total war against Japan. Eventually nuking two cities and leveling dozens more with traditional ordinance, all as payback for their killing of 3,000 Americans at Pearl Harbor. For almost the same causalities as on September 11th the US waged a worldwide, intensely bloody, generation spanning war to prevent another attack. God alone knew how much death would be needed to calm America’s insecurity and assuage their bloodlust this time.

Politicians gave their speeches. Businesses ran their political advertisements. Celebrities and religious leaders endorsed one plan or another. But that was just background noise. The families of the dead were center stage. It was the hysterical wailing from the mother of a slain National Guard fighter and the tear clotted face of his stoic father that provoked action. The heart wrenching pleading with God from the widowed wife of a federal soldier, with two terrified young kids in her arms, aroused just as much rage.

Once you ignore the rhetoric from supposed leaders and listen to the people, the question of why war was inevitable isn’t so mysterious. Wars can be pursued scientifically, but their causes are rarely so rational.

***

11 March

Huntington Beach, California

Elections aren’t won by convincing your opposition they’re wrong. Elections are won by getting your people out to vote, by firing up your base more than the other guy’s. Of course, the corollary means keeping the other side’s supporters from the polls is just as effective a strategy.

This was the primary rationale behind founding the Freedom Brigades in the first place. The extremely tenuous legal status of these armed vigilantes rested with the fear of other armed vigilantes interfering with the democratic process. In practice, they were mainly used to keep the democratically elected Federal Government from stopping California’s statewide Freedom referendum.

The country’s most populous state had a long history of passing legislation directly at odds with federal law. Usually Washington looked the other way while the district courts sidestepped the issue and avoided making landmark decisions. Not this time. This was no minor squabble over legalizing pot. This unmistakable and dangerous challenge to central authority could not be ignored. It also would require a gentle approach and extremely delicate handling. So, with typical government finesse, they sent in the Marines.

Sophie didn’t feel at home in her new tactical vest or body armor. She no longer sported bruises when she took the heavy gear off, but the weight still felt strange. These new boots weren’t even broken in either. The strange Israeli made TAR-21 assault rifle also felt off. With magazine and bolt assembly built into the butt stock, pointy parts of this bullpup design weapon always jabbed into the side of her breast. Not for the first time she was glad they weren’t bustier. Comfortable or not, at least she looked impressive.

She assumed that’s why these FBI agents kept glaring at her. Some obviously worried, some clearly angry, but all showed respect. To her and her team protecting the polling station, at least. They were far less deferential to the local police blocking their way inside. Had the policemen been alone, yeah, they would have caved into the official pressure. Let the Feds shut the place down. With a dozen soldier look-a-likes backing them up, they were emboldened enough to tell the federal cops to “fuck off.”

California’s leadership would not tolerate a repeat of the street violence back in February. The Guard stayed on alert, but ordered to stay put in their bases. No sense in inflaming the situation further–might as well give these auxiliaries a chance to shine.

For his part, the president had decided on the soft approach this time to interrupt the plebiscite. He sent whatever federal law enforcement personnel they had in California, from FBI agents to Park Rangers, to try to put a stop to this nonsense. That gentle touch in the face of prepared, armed resistance only showed the weakness of the president’s dictatorial gamble. In politics, as in the jungle, weakness was an invitation for trouble.

Sophie had no way to know why these agents were backing off. Not all of these confrontations around the state were such bullshit stunts like this one. While the cops and Feds traded insults and threats here, in other parts of town they traded shots. A mile away, her sister militia group gunned down a trio of ATF agents trying to arrest them. These might be the first federal causalities of the day, but they wouldn’t be the last.

These FBI men received a call from someone. After a quick huddle, they just hopped back in their cars and sped off. Not another word spoken. Their abrupt departure even took the gusto out of the small cluster of pro-government protestors across the street.

Sophie’s group leader, they weren’t yet properly organized into hierarchical units, whistled. “That was damn easy. Look at them run! Talk about voting with your feet!”

Sophie laughed as well. Despite their success, disappointment gnawed on her imagination. Her lust for action, to put all this new training to use, rivaled any longing for a lost lover. How would she react when things got real? That sweet mix of anticipation and fear over her first time only heightened her desire.

When she finally found the chance, about an hour later, to go all the way she had no time to worry. Let alone savor it. Survival was her great orgasm. The rumble of Humvees filled the street, echoing off the apartment complexes around them as if she were in a giant concrete cave.

Those FBI cars came back leading two Humvees full of marines. No one blustered, threatened or tried to negotiate. Time for all that had long since passed.

Voters ran every which way to get out from between these groups. Some of the running civilians briefly blocked Sophie’s line of fire. She didn’t get the honor of shooting first. Who did is a little unclear. Her battle buddy up in their Humvee’s turret let rip his machine gun more or less at the same time as the marines. Didn’t matter. This was it!

Sophie took cover behind the engine block of some Mazda sedan. She leaned around the fender, keeping her head below the hood, and lined up on the last of a group of bounding camouflaged men. Noticing his body armor, she dropped her aim to his hips and led him just a bit. Sophie took as steady a breath as possible and lightly squeezed the trigger on her exhale, repeating a heartbeat later. The marine’s momentum kept him going several strides before his shattered pelvis locked up his legs.

She tried to line up on his crawling head for a finishing shot, but too many rounds ripped up the car around her. A bit distracting. Sophie waved at a couple of her buddies firing blindly over the hood of their Humvee down the street. “Action right! Three dismounts in the Walgreens!”

With a more concrete target to strive for, her teammates lit up the storefront and suppressed the hell out of the men inside. She took advantage of the opportunity and dashed to a better firing position. All the while shouting out more target ID’s.

Sophie spent the rest of the afternoon far too busy to think about anything but shooting, moving and communicating... and maybe the occasional smile.

Daytona, Florida

Brown and his little gang parked their stolen car in a strip mall inside Daytona. The “social breakdown” the radio harped on was difficult to find. Practically all of Florida’s cell phone networks were down, for example, but life was still normal on the streets. While Congressman Eliot used one of the few remaining paid phone booths in the free world to call home, Jessica and Brown went searching for something to eat.

No one in the grocery store gave his uniform a second glance as they swooped down on the deli. Brown practically salivated when he beheld the smorgasbord ahead. Not the variety found under normal circumstances, what with the embargo and all, but hardly a Third World pantry.

“Alright. No more damn MRE’s tonight! What would you–holy shit! 20 dollars for a box of fried chicken?”

The aproned clerk smiled and shrugged. “Supply and demand, sugar.”

A clucking sound brought his attention back to the store’s entrance. Some denim clad good ole boy pushed two buggies full of chicken cages towards the customer service desk. A trail of shit and feathers followed on the well-polished floor. “Evenin’. Heard ya’ll paying 10 bucks a chicky. Got me a whole mess ah eggs too, if yah ‘ant ‘em.”

Some guy wearing a white polo shirt with corporate logo and a Glock 17 in a shoulder holster strolled up, both thumbs in his belt. While an armed guard in a supermarket might be normal in some big cities, around these parts it was surreal. Just part of the new cost of doing business.

“Local sourcing is around back in the loading dock. Please take your wares there, sir.”

Jessica laughed and eased closer to Brown. “I guess demand was just supplied. So, what about a few Cuban sandwiches for our first date.”

He cut his eyes at her, suddenly alert. Before he put his foot in his mouth she gently squeezed his arm. “Relax, big boy. I’m just teasing. Let me pay. I’m on an expense account.”

The middle-aged lady behind the glass counter shook her head and waved at a sign. “Sorry, darling. It’s cash only. Barter’s available for large purchases. The boss is all worried about the banks and whatnot.”

Brown yanked some dead presidents out of his shoulder pouch to get the ball rolling on the subs. “Looks like it’s on me then. So much for feminine independence!” He wished he could take back that careless remark as soon as he let it slip. Why is shit always so much wittier in your head? On the other hand, it was a good sign that she laughed at his stupid joke.

Jessica smiled and nibbled the corner of her lip. He wondered if he imagined her whisper. “Oh, don’t worry. I always wind up on top in the end.”

Her eyes held as much challenge as invitation. He took a chance. Slipping an arm around her waist, he pulled her closer. For a long millisecond she hesitated on that delicious cusp, only to cave in completely and push against him. Brown decided to go all in. He tipped her chin up and charged those puckered lips.

Just before contact, their baggage came bounding towards them while screaming like a kid on Christmas. For the second time that day Brown wanted to shoot the fool, and he had just met him.

“They’re on their way! Let’s go, come on, please! Let’s get the hell out of this hick town!”

“Relax hoss. Even if the Army crossed the border right now, it’ll take the lead elements a day or two to get here.” He smiled down at the contemplative woman in his arms. “Hopefully at least a night or two.”

“Are you crazy? The military has had a drone watching us ever since I first called. They’ve got helicopters coming from whatever Air Force base is next to Cape Canaveral. Come on, we’re behind enemy lines here.” He finally toned it down and lowered his voice, trying to act more natural. “Could you imagine if these hillbillies really knew you-know-what?” All the other shoppers politely ignored him and his rudeness. Rebellion or not, this was still the South.

Only then did Brown show nervousness. He hadn’t planned to go anywhere, too much unfinished business to attend to. Over the air conditioning and background country music he heard whumping outside. The three of them rushed to the storefront windows while everyone else ran to the back of the store. The search and rescue team was already here, with a pair of Super Cobras as escort. Brown weighed the impossible odds of taking them down with his rifle out in the stolen car while the other two cheered.

Jessica grabbed his face and pulled him close. Finishing what he started. They came up for air about 10 seconds later.

“Looks like it’s my place tonight…” she murmured.

After all this time, Brown was finally trapped.

*

Not only was Sergeant Major Brown welcomed back from the dead with open arms, he was even awarded a Distinguished Service Cross by a new command structure desperate for heroes.

His reluctance to talk about his experiences since escaping Camp Blanding was chalked up to PTSD. The Army intelligence types that debriefed him noticed many discrepancies in his story, but they had bigger things to worry about. Their consensus suspicion was he might have gone AWOL for a while, but after what he did for the congressman, best to let it lie. The official line was, “He’s a hero.” Why rock the boat?

The FBI team investigating the White House attack matched witnesses’ descriptions and some security camera footage to Brown long ago, but that line of investigation went cold when they learned he died at Camp Blanding. Thanks to typical bureaucratic efficiency, none of the investigators would ever learn that the rumors of his death were greatly exaggerated.

Even if they had, they probably wouldn’t have cared. By now, all their likely suspects were on the run Florida ex-Guardsmen. Besides, the FBI would be swamped with thousands of other major attacks over the coming years. One more unsolved mystery at the bottom of the stack.

***

Great Divide

It wasn’t stagnant wages or growing inflation that pissed people off. What’s new? That trend started in the 70’s. Ok, the youth of the land lucky enough to go to college were saddled with student debt and had bleak job prospects upon graduation. Frustrating, of course, but how’s war going to help? Retirees saw their financial safety blanket shrinking every year and the middle class were assaulted by all of these problems plus onerous taxation to boot. Well, so what? The exploitation of the elderly and the middle class was older than most of the world’s religions. Why would things reach a breaking point now?

No, the great divide in America wasn’t one over left or right wing politics, social issues or about the economy. It wasn’t even over what specific changes should be made, but whether real change was truly possible through the existing institutions of government. It was really a simple question of faith. Who had faith that a new government would screw things up less than the current one?

Oh, many people did believe the president was a wannabe dictator and despised him. Of course, others thought he was a great elder statesman trying to avert disaster. Those were powerful emotions, either way, but neither cause was strong enough for the average person to fight over.

Who was willing to kill and be killed over some damn politician they never met and who would never meet in a thousand years? No one planned on risking their life in combat either for or against the president. He pissed some people off and these unresolved social issues strained already high tensions, but that was all.

No matter how worked up people got, an elected politician wasn’t devilish enough to war against or hero enough to die following. While these broad social problems crushed the poor, they just weren’t powerful enough to cause the middle class to jeopardize their comfortable existence with revolution. And without middle class participation, no revolution is possible.

No, the fighters in this war weren’t trying to defend or oppose a particular person or some vague ideology. The broken system that put their backs against the wall was the enemy. The fallen, martyrs. Oh, eventually specific goals would be spelled out, but to start a war passion is, regrettably, enough. In the twisted logic of mass emotion, more blood needed to be shed to ensure that the blood already shed wasn’t shed in vain. That’s just how people tick.

One way or the other, something had to change. Whether someone believed our existing institutions just needed reforming or it was time to scrap the whole thing and start anew, there was no going back to normal. Too much passion had been aroused. Too many opportunities had been presented and far too much blood spilled simply to go back to the status quo.

From the unemployed to the upper middle class, a depressingly large portion of the population had simply lost faith in the current system. The most common belief held, regardless of your agenda, you had no chance to realize it unless you were either fabulously rich or otherwise “plugged in” to the system. Liberal or conservative, radical or moderate, country folk or city people, even gay or straight–the labels meant nothing nowadays. Money was power and the rest was bullshit.

The majority of the US population were actually on the same page, with respect to the fundamentals. They believed Congress was a nest of snakes and just in it for themselves. The president was an obtuse, ineffectual and perhaps dangerous figurehead, and God only knew what went through the minds of those nearly senile dinosaurs on the Supreme Court. Even the Fourth Estate focused solely on raising the share price of whatever media conglomerate owned them.

Too many people no longer believed the American Government worked for the little guy and gal. The idea itself wasn’t new. Just how many people believed it and couldn’t stand it anymore changed things. When a society reaches this critical mass, when peaceful petitions of redress are mocked and trampled on by deep-pocketed special interests, violence is the final option left. The only questions being in what form and how much. For better or worse, Americans aren’t known for doing things in moderation.

Chapter 11

15 March

Nellis Air Force Base, Nevada

Popular legend would have us believe “the Great Split” occurred overnight. In reality, the slow train wreck shocked no one at the time. It wasn’t surprising when the Freedom referendum passed by such a wide margin in California or that equivalent statewide votes passed in Washington and Oregon the next day. Even similar plebiscites being scheduled in the coming week in 12 more Western and Mid-Western states was hardly a startling development. After all, the opinion polls showed majority support in these states when California’s acting governor, after the federal assassination of her predecessor, first proposed the idea. That climbed close to 80% in the terrible wake of the first Battle of North Florida.

What shocked observers the most was how promptly the California legislature acted on the mandate to form a “legitimate Federal Government.” Within hours, they proposed and voted on a sheaf of new laws, requisitions and declarations over, well, everything. Just writing them all up alone should have consumed days. Of course, they did have a lot of help. Thousands of concerned lawyers, in the interest of patriotism and at the behest of the loose alliance of corporations they worked for, volunteered their time to assist with the great project.

Many of the laws were purely symbolic and unenforceable, an old problem for Californian legislatures. In this grand coalition of conservatives, liberals and silly moderates, who had no hard platform other than wanting to “see something change,” practicality and common sense were the first to be disenfranchised. With more power only came more ridiculousness.

Those laws were for the protestor’s consumption anyway. The real brokers behind the movement knew that money was the ultimate goal. Not for their own direct personal gain, but for the power cash gave. A few pessimistic visionaries were thinking about Cicero’s old saw: “The sinews of war are infinite money.” Most were only interested in the air of legitimacy deep coffers conferred upon this new government.

At any rate, within 24 hours of California’s legislature declaring themselves the acting, but sole legitimate government of the United States, the first federal payroll deductions were redirected from the IRS to temporary state stewardship accounts. The speed with which the state confiscated federal funds and institutions was in direct proportion to their profitability.

It was also surprising how many of the bureaucrats didn’t care who they worked for. Not just loyal to the new regime, but straight-up didn’t give a damn. Protecting their fiefdoms was all that mattered–war or not.

The IRS was the first to be “re-nationalized,” while the Department of Education came in last. No one wanted to touch the Postal Service. They quickly redirected Social Security taxes, but chalked up missed payouts to the illegitimate old government playing politics with the elderly and disabled. The excuses could hold for a while and hopefully direct anger back east, but what a dangerous line the politicians were tight roping.

The elected fools tearing the country apart were simply riding the wave of public opinion. The corporations assisting them just saw an opportunity to shortcut the middleman of lobbying and directly enshrine a few key principles of free enterprise into the revitalized government. And the regular folk celebrating in the streets were excited that someone was finally doing something. So many were giddy with innocent excitement that after years of legislative stagnation something new was happening.

Obsessed as they were with their own private agendas, few of these movers and shakers imagined themselves as secessionists. After they struck such a decisive political blow the Administration’s support would surely crumble. The disgraced Congress that supported him must disband and, after new elections, it would be business as usual. Better than usual, since everyone was busy carving out new fortunes and favors in this future America.

Now, before these utopian fantasies could be realized, there was one large element of the old government that needed to be dealt with purely for non-financial reasons. The vast military presence on the West Coast was the great wild card in the game.

The pro-Freedom media blitz of the past couple weeks likely didn’t have the intended effect on all those Service members that it had on the general populace. What might sway a civilian into voting one way or another wouldn’t convince a professional soldier to betray their comrades. All the advertising in the world couldn’t accomplish that.

In the First Civil War, regional identity was a clearly definable thing. The US was a smaller place back then. Not just in land area but in perspective. Most people, unless they were immigrants fresh off the boat or wealthy, had never travelled more than a few miles from their place of birth. You could count on, by and large, a soldier from New York being loyal to the North and one from Virginia, loyal to the South.

150 years later, things were more complicated. In such a highly mobile, deeply intertwined country, which views buying your groceries at Wal-Mart versus Whole Foods a significant cultural difference, something as deep as political allegiance is incredibly unpredictable. How do you gauge the regional loyalty of a soldier who grew up in some Midwest red-state, went to college in Florida but has been stationed in California for years? And has a spouse from New York to boot?

Hence, the delicate gloves they used with the military. Those troops in any base not willing to pledge allegiance to the new government were merely offered a special half-pay, reserve status and ordered to stay home. A gentle way to take them out of the equation.

Attempts to double the pay for those that signed loyalty oaths backfired. Far more personnel were insulted than tempted. Any group that wanted to move as a unit back east was allowed to, but without their arms and equipment. It was all such a logical plan on paper, but messy in practice.

Facilities and hardware were so easily absorbed by legislative fiat, in the politicians’ fantasies, but reality was a “no spin zone.” Occasionally, victories came cheap. Some bases and units with a large percentage of sympathetic staff simply integrated themselves into the local Guard command structure without incident. Sometimes there was more…push back. In such cases, it was safer to let the military work things out amongst themselves. Let the blood be on their heads. And every now and again, there were exceptional cases.

Just such a special problem brought Sophie to Las Vegas for the first time in her life. Of all the military facilities throughout the rapidly growing New American territories, Nellis Air Force Base on the east side of the city might be the most valuable. The base was best known for being one of the Air Force’s premier training schools. It was less famous for its primary value to the growing new American government: home to a major nuclear weapons stockpile. Any country can have tanks and ships, but only superpowers wielded nukes.

Technically, this little occupation force could be considered an invading army. Nevada only voted on their referendum today. Their polling stations were still open. It was almost assured to pass, but the results hadn’t yet been ratified when the California task force crossed the border. Of course, of all the quasi-legal and outright illegal acts ordered by the new Federal Government over the last 48 hours, the raid should be considered small potatoes. The prize was surely worth the bad press.

This wasn’t the first attempt by the new Feds to get their hands on part of the country’s nuclear arsenal. But they learned a hard lesson from the first try. As soon as the state of Washington joined the movement, a mixed team of guardsmen and State Police showed up at the sprawling naval base in Bangor, just across Puget Sound from Seattle. When the gate guards refused them access, the authorities forced their way in. That turned out to be a terrible mistake.

Security there was far tighter than at most installations, since the base was home to half the US strategic submarine force. That made it the single largest repository of nuclear weapons in the free world. The haphazard breach was not met, as expected, by a senior officer willing to discuss surrendering his command, but rather a Quick Reaction Force of well-armed marines. The loyalty of the defenders to the regime back east wasn’t terribly strong, but politics aside, they had a clear mission: Keep those weapons from falling into the wrong hands.

Needless to say, the entire rebel party was either killed or interned on base. Not only did they fail to secure any nukes, the outright aggression lost the support of most of the post. Solidarity with your comrades trumps politics. This well-armed, independently run base next to a major rebel population center was still a thorn in the side of the new republic. One that no one knew what the hell to do about.

This raid would be different. Key agents from the provisional capital in Sacramento, California contacted the brand new base commandant via back channels ahead of time. For a hefty fee, and the promise of a higher rank in the new Air Force, he handed over his base the moment Nevada looked like they would join the cause. The 300 Guard technical specialists and troops in the contingent were along just in case he or any of his personnel had a change of heart. The 50 handpicked militia fighters were along because nobody had the guts to tell them otherwise.

Those militia folk weren’t hastily raised and desperate volunteer forces like in Florida, either. These people were well funded, well equipped and well trained. Originally organized to fight against the state’s security forces, they were rapidly becoming an integral part of the budding nation’s security apparatus. As privately funded units, they were a hell of a lot cheaper than professional soldiers or overtime working police officers. Which was a great boon for the cash strapped new Federal Government.

The only real point of concern was that their reclusive, but well-connected financial backers insisted on maintaining a separate command and control structure. They had a parallel leadership hierarchy cooperating with, but not necessarily subservient to, the official chain of command. Curious and annoying, but hardly problematic. There were even historical precedents for such affiliated but private armies. These and more were some of the rationalizations the elected folks told themselves to pretend they weren’t so desperate.

The Californian Guard commander practiced tolerance, at least. He was firm that “no fucking civilian will get within 100 yards of a nuke,” but except for that he treated the volunteers as real auxiliaries. Sitting there guarding the outer perimeter around the ordinance bunkers, they felt like part of the mission and not merely a public relations stunt. Not just there to show the “grassroots” nature of the new republic.

Buck Sergeant Sophie snatched a lit cigarette from an older man in her squad and stubbed it out. “No smoking while on duty, Private. All those regular military types are watching us. Time to be professional.”

The man stared down his nose at her. Pretty easy to, since he was a good foot taller. “Damnit, girl! You know how expensive those things are? You get a tiny bit of rank and you think you’re better than me? I was a real specialist back in my Army days.” He yanked out his pack from a shoulder pocket to light another. Sophie ripped the case from his giant hand and tossed it into the truck. Laughing, he effortlessly pushed her out of the way and went to retrieve his precious.

With the black Humvee blocking the real soldiers’ view, she followed closely behind him. As soon as he turned around, she cupped a handful of his nuts and squeezed. Hard. She didn’t like to fight dirty, but he had body armor on over his solar plexus. While he wrestled with his stomach over not puking, she put a knife to his throat.

“I got these stripes by killing a marine during the street fighting. You don’t look tougher than a marine. This isn’t the regular Army, big boy. No enlistment contracts. You’re free to go whenever you’ve had enough. But while you’re here, you will respect my rank or I’ll bury you. Might piss off the Lieutenant, but the worst he could do is fire me. So, are we cool?” Only when his eyes showed sincerity did she release her grip and pull the blade back.

“This is stupid shit, Jamal. If you have a problem taking orders from a woman, then don’t think of me as a girl. Think of me as your worst fucking nightmare!” She slapped him on the back.

“You’re a stupid brute sometimes, but a good fighter most of the time. I respect that. Now, let this shit go. Let’s get back to work. We won’t talk about it again.” She turned her back on the suddenly quiet big mouth, just in time to see their militia lieutenant coming around the front of the vehicle.

Like a good officer, he pretended not to have seen anything. “Hey Kampbell, we’ve got a new mission.”

“When and where, sir?” She kept one critical eye on her squad even while talking to him.

The LT grinned wide. He was ex-military and amazed at the quality of some of these amateurs. With a little time and proper coaching, she’d make a great leader. In a perfect world, the platoon sergeant would be responsible for developing her. In their far from perfect organization, the LT was both platoon leader and platoon sergeant. Similar to being a single parent. There just wasn’t the time to do everything that needed doing.

“Sacramento doesn’t like having all their eggs in one basket. They’re suddenly in a hurry to get these things scattered. We’re going to move some of the bombs back to secure homes in California.” He lowered his voice.

“I don’t want to freak anyone out, but I think it’s only a matter of time before the Air Force, the real one out East, levels this whole place. Despite the lies the base headquarters are feeding them they must be guessing by now that things aren’t kosher here.”

Sophie didn’t look worried, just curious. “Do you think they’d really do that, sir? How many hundreds of bombs are sitting around here? Wouldn’t an air strike cause the biggest nuclear explosion ever?”

“Nah, detonating a nuke accidentally is impossible. I was talking with one of the NBC specialists over there earlier. Fire, shock, explosions, etc…that just destroys the delicate arming mechanisms. The rougher you are on a nuclear device, the less likely it is to go off. They’ve had bombs on planes that had mid-air collisions without a problem. Even had one in a bomber back in the Cold War days that crashed into the side of a fucking mountain without a detonation. No, it’s not the nukes I’m worried about. It’s our fragile little asses that aren’t so hardy.”

He looked up as if he expected to see B-52’s at any moment. The sight of four friendly F-16’s circling high above should have been reassuring. The protective cover only reminded him why they needed it. Well, it was an officer’s job to worry like an old woman and a sergeant’s to get things done.

“So, we’ll be escorting the packages? There never was much time for convoy training, but we’ll do the best we can, sir.” Sophie didn’t wonder about planes and strategy, just about who would make the best driver.

The LT shrugged. “Even easier than that. They’re moving out in three convoys. Heading north, south and west. We got lucky. Our platoon goes with the westbound team, the quickest way home.

The Guard will carry the weapons in their 5-ton trucks. They’ll provide the real security with those light armored cars of theirs. Our job is simply traffic control. We’ll move in two sections. One ahead and one behind the convoy. We’re responsible for blocking intersections and clearing lanes through traffic jams; that type of stuff.”

He tossed her a short-ranged, encrypted, military issue squad radio. The militia’s privately bought models were better, but she pretended to be appropriately impressed. “Here’s a gift from our Guard partners. I’ll take the first section and you’ll be leading the second. If there’s anything wrong you can talk straight to the regular troops. I know it’s a major responsibility, but you’re the best I’ve got for this mission.” He searched her young face for any hint of uncertainty or self-doubt. How frightening that he found none.

“Ok, Sophie. But we need to be on the same page. Nothing can slow this party down. Our orders are to make sure we don’t stop for any reason until we’re at, well, wherever we’re going. They won’t even tell me the final destination.” He waved at all the armed people around them. “Sometimes I think there’s no more trust left in the world!”

Thirty miles away and almost ten high, a Global Hawk launched from Texas loitered in lazy circles. Even at that distance, the $120 million drone’s classified sensors could still read the nametags of the specks crawling around the desert base below. Positively identifying the slick, 12-foot long silver bullets they were cramming into the back of trucks was child’s play.

*

Joint Task Force North

Fort Bliss, Texas

“Without a doubt, sir. They’re preparing to move ‘em. All our HUMINT and SIGINT are in agreement.”

The White House liaison staffer shook his head and stole some random colonel’s chair. “You have to call off the strike, General. If the B-61’s are outside the bunkers, God knows how much radiation would be released. We’ll have to try something else.”

The Air Force general still struggled to fathom just how far discipline had broken down. An entire wing going over to the enemy…nothing like it had ever happened in Air Force history.

“Negative. The bombers will stick to the plan and sanitize the area. Even if it only slows them down, that’s enough. I’ve got a Special Forces task force en route to retake the base. Delta Force and Green Berets will secure the bunkers, and a battalion of Army Rangers will take care of the rest. We just need to hold these bastards in place until then.”

This suit was the same one the president sent to keep an eye on the doomed Florida airborne operation back in January. He was here now because of his “extensive experience” coordinating with the military. The general hated him almost as much as he did the rebels. This kid who couldn’t tell the difference between a Bradley and an Abrams was the president’s eyes, ears and mouth to the Armed Forces. It’s a crazy world.

“General Lyon, did you not hear me? I understand these things can’t detonate; you people have been talking about that for hours. Still, it’s about the public relations damage of playing with such fire. The president cannot run the risk of even trace amounts of radioactive material being spread about the base.”

“Listen up, son. We know what we’re doing. The big HE bombs will hit specific command and control facilities far from the nukes. The cluster bombs will blanket the ammo area, true, but they are small explosive devices. Dangerous to people working around there, but most unlikely to damage one of those warheads. We’ll carry on as planned.” He turned his back on the civilian and focused on receiving updates from subordinates.

The bureaucrat couldn’t wrap his mind around this insubordination. In his world, political connections equaled rank. “General, you are out of line. I gave you a direct order. This is an extremely important operation. If you aren’t going to cooperate, then I will relieve you and find someone else that will. Damnit, man. Don’t you have any honor?”

The suit was the type that thought having his chauffeur hit the brakes too hard a violent altercation. A wet stain spread down the front of his pants when the general grabbed him by his $500 tie and dragged him out of his chair. The general waved his free hand at the security detail.

“Airman! Get this fucking little shit off of my base, right now! Honor? What the hell do you know about that? I was dodging flak over Baghdad while you were having your diapers changed by the maid. I will obey a direct order from the president personally, but no longer from any of the vampires he surrounds himself with. No wonder these rebels prefer to fight than serve you people.”

***

Bombing Vegas

Jamming a GPS signal is disturbingly easy. The satellites might have been high tech, but they communicate via old-fashioned radio waves. Since, even at their closest, the sats orbit 22,000 miles away from the receiver, that signal is not terribly strong. Even a weak transmitter broadcasting on the same frequency only a few miles from the target can effortlessly drown them out. Car thieves have been using cheap handheld jammers, bought anonymously over the internet, to outwit expensive GPS based antitheft devices for years. It was scandalous how long it took the military to copy them.

Except for the circling friendly fighters, nothing showed on the radar screens up in the Nellis control tower. Nothing at all. Not a single civilian plane, big or small, was airborne within a 50-mile radius. A quick call to their counterpart civilian air controllers at the international airport scared them the most. The FAA had grounded all flights in or out of the city and set up a no fly zone around the base. Without any explanation given. Just a firm order with no expiration time. No one from the government bothered calling the base to inform them. Not a good sign.

The base commander fidgeted. He was always the decisive type, for a senior officer. There wasn’t any point in scrambling more fighters. The only four pilots he could positively count on were already airborne. The tolerance of his people was, to put it mildly, nearing its limits. Sending up the rest of the squadron might just be giving the enemy reinforcements. He paused at the E-word thought. So strange, but it felt right.

He still had one card up his sleeve though. Some of his staff had an interesting plan to jam all GPS signals in a 20-mile radius. Normally, he never would have considered the idea, since it was such a huge threat to all the civilian aircraft around. Thanks to the Feds, they now had an opportunity…and the desperate need to try it.

He had a space operations team at the base; primarily staffed by contractors. As long as their paychecks kept coming, their loyalty wasn’t such an open question. They were pretty motivated about the idea of reprogramming some of the airfield’s powerful radio transmitters to override all military and civilian GPS bands in the vicinity. The job was theoretically straightforward, since they had all the hardware, software and codes necessary, but it had never been tried before.

The chance to do something truly new, to turn a radio antennae and computer into a weapon, guaranteed the loyalty of the civilian technicians more than the promised bonuses. Forcing them to stay on duty at the base during the eventual airstrikes helped guarantee high quality work as well.

This jamming could be overcome, of course. The military sinks a lot of money into R&D every year. Not all of it is siphoned off by unscrupulous, overbilling contractors. Every now and again, all that money spent yields useful products. Each of the $2 billion B-2 bombers closing in on Nellis was equipped with state of the art anti-jamming equipment. All the electronic firepower aimed at the aircraft had little effect on their instruments. That’s why they didn’t have the slightest idea what the enemy was trying to do.

While the bulk of the Air Force’s aircraft were properly shielded, no one ever thought to protect the GPS guided bombs they dropped. Putting $50k electronic countermeasures onto something you were going to blow up anyway was an expense that even those extremely generous congressmen on the Armed Services Budget Committee thought a tad wasteful.

After the infamous Nevada strike, the Air Force would get all the funding they needed to upgrade their ordinance. But that came later. It wouldn’t do much to save the citizens of North Las Vegas today.

The great thing about GPS guided weapons isn’t how accurately they can be dropped–a 2,000 lb. bomb gives a lot of room for error. What is revolutionary is how far away they could be deployed from. You can stand off miles and, thanks to GPS controlled canards on the rear of the death sausages, still be sure the package will hit within five meters of the target.

Somewhere over the Hoover Dam, four stealth bombers unleashed their payloads from 50,000 feet high and almost 15 miles away. A mix of 24 large HE and cluster bombs arched towards the rebellious base below. With their GPS guidance shut off, the suddenly “iron bombs” made no corrections for atmospheric conditions or ballistic wobbling. In short, with every mile they fell, they missed their programmed targets by hundreds, sometimes thousands, of meters.

Cold War-era air raid sirens screeched all over the base. The rebels scurried to shelter in the sturdiest structures they could find: the partially buried ordinance bunkers. None appreciated the humor of hiding in a bunker packed with explosives to survive the bombs coming towards them. At first. Once they heard faint blasts safely in the distance did they start joking again. The comedy respite ended abruptly when somebody pointed out they came from the west. In town. For some reason, out here in the middle of a sprawling desert, this military base jutted right up against civilian areas.

One great big bomb slammed into a Wal-Mart less than half a mile from the base’s main gate. The cheap corrugated tin roof of the sprawling shopping Mecca wasn’t sturdy enough to trigger the point fuse. The bomb didn’t detonate until it struck a shelf full of flat screen TV’s. 2,000 pounds of high explosive turned the entire electronics department into a crater and destroyed the building from inside out. Scores of satisfied shoppers and minimum wage earning associates were either vaporized or shredded apart by millions of cheap Chinese made chunks of plastic shrapnel.

A bit to the north, a cluster bomb sprayed hundreds of ball bearing packed death canisters over an elementary school. With class being out and all the kids at home, due to the self-imposed national crisis, that hit should have counted as a lucky break. Would have been too, if the school wasn’t also being used as a polling station for the referendum. In typical monkey fashion, dozens of people rushed out into the parking lot to see what all the booms in town were about…just as hundreds of small booms erupted around them. Even worse, this polling location had a number of reporters doing exit interviews. Some survived with their cameras intact.

Across the country pundits, politicians and other crazy people had their self-righteous rants interrupted with “breaking news” from out West. Washington maintained an impressively firm “no comment” line, hoping to avoid any mention of loose nukes. Their silence was far more incendiary than any rhetoric.

The first network to seize the initiative in this information vacuum got to define the narrative–that of a preemptive airstrike on a potentially rebellious state. Anti-Fed talking heads hopped up and down in their seats at the live footage of unarmed rebels being slaughtered, regardless of which way they were voting. Pro-Fed commentators, already a sinking majority, found themselves even further divided. That dwindling minority still preaching calmness and negotiation pretty much realized it was time to shut up and pick a side.

*

Check

“What a fucking joke!” General Lyon threw down his binoculars only to quickly snatch them up again. A battalion of Army Rangers waited helplessly in C-130’s on the Briggs Army Airfield because of a handful of Texas Rangers. Black and white SUV’s blocked their runways and kept 400 of his best men out of the fight. Of all the problems he had, this was the easiest to fix. Or should have been, at any rate.

Even after kicking out the president’s pet idiot, the Pentagon, under obviously intense White House pressure, demanded he do nothing to engage these intruders. Something about a political solution in the works. Politics, at a time like this! Couldn’t those fucks in Washington see the country was at war?

They had a couple of months to work out a political solution. Negotiation now should be confined to prisoner exchanges. The most important Special Forces operation since the Syrian chemical weapons seizure–derailed by some cowboy hat wearing amateurs! He could, and should, sweep these dozen or so poorly armed civilians aside without breaking a sweat.

He gripped the radio mike, keyed to the Ranger commander, so tight his knuckles turned white. Discipline and obedience to orders made a last stand against the massed forces of common sense and outrage. Just before he unilaterally declared war on Texas, one of his intelligence officers reported.

“Sir, we have some new developments. It looks like they are changing their plans.” He redirected the general’s attention back to the digital map screens.

“SIGINT believes, and two friendly human sources on the base have corroborated, that Sacramento charted some commercial flight out of the private airport in Vegas. The Hawk also clearly shows the rebels preparing to move out with several truckloads of nukes in one big convoy. Looks like the airstrike spooked them, even if we didn’t hurt them much.” He recovered from the shock caused by the unprecedented airstrike failure enough to be embarrassed.

The Rangers were suddenly irrelevant. Even if he got them airborne now, it’ll take at least two hours before they could hit the base. He reviewed what assets he had handy. Dicey as it was, he only had one logical option to choose.

“Redirect the SF boys to the airport. First and foremost, we need to get physical control over those nukes. Then we’ll figure out a way to extract them. We have to work with what we have, for now.”

This isn’t the mission to retake Nellis they ran through so many mockups and trained all morning for, but whatever. That mixed SF team were real pros and damn good at adapting on the fly. The only serious worry was air cover, or the lack of it, to be precise. Only a few F-15’s escorted the strike team. Every Air Force base in Nevada’s neighboring states either no longer responded to orders or were under siege. The planned reinforcements in Texas were also apparently out of the equation, thanks to the fucking politicians. For obvious reasons, no Air National Guard unit in a thousand miles of Nellis could be trusted.

“Find those guys some air support from somewhere as fast as possible, but send them in anyway.”

His operations officer said a silent prayer as he sent America’s finest on practically a suicide mission.

Two states west, and just a few miles short of the Nevada border, four specially modified Blackhawk helicopters finished their midair refueling at the same time the new orders came in. Their four plane fighter escort roared ahead to find and distract their rebel counterparts.

The troops in the slow moving choppers hashed out some quick changes to their plan, but other than that, they didn’t worry. Most grabbed a catnap. It might be a long night. Command always wet their pants over these “Big Missions,” but it was just another job to these guys.

*

And Mate

The president clearly learned from his previous mistakes. When the governor of Texas called his office he was put straight through. Never mind that the ultra-conservative show horse on the other end was an old political foe. Right now he longed for the days when a political fight meant just name-calling. Back when “blood on the floor” was cute hyperbole.

“What can I do for you, Governor Berry? I hope there is a rational explanation for these peculiar reports I’m receiving.” The president’s voice managed the right balance of stern authority but willing tolerance. It must’ve had some effect, since the other man’s deep drawl nearly disappeared as he so carefully tried to articulate his hastily prepared speech.

“Mr. President, it is my duty to inform you that the Texas Legislature is meeting in an emergency session in response to the Federal Government’s recent combat operations in Nevada. With the imminent threat to Texas civilians so great, I have been forced to take action to defend our citizens. As long as the military situation remains fluid, we cannot allow federal forces to stage offensive operations from Texas soil. The risk of involving our state in open conflict with other states’ militaries is too great.”

The president listened to enough of that nonsense. “What do you mean, ‘Texas soil,’ Governor? Last time I checked, Texas was a part of the United States. I’m warning you, now is the wrong time to play that old secessionist stunt card of yours.”

“Mr. President, I assure you, we stand behind the Stars and Stripes and loyal to her constitutionally chosen government. But with that being said, you’re rushing headlong into civil war and Texas is on the front lines. This may seem like a minor strategic problem way over there in Washington, but it sure looks like the end of the world from where we’re sittin’.”

The president turned his back on the room full of advisors. “I can see your point, sir, but now you must understand mine. You need to remove your people from federal property with all haste. Refusing to fully support federal forces in limited circumstances is one thing…actively hindering our troops is an act of treason.” He wondered if he’d pushed too hard.

Instead of cursing or denials or even threats, he just heard a long pause in response. Eventually, his longtime critic surprised him.

“Sir, look, I respect what you’re doing. These people want to destroy America as we know it and rebuild it in their image. They need to be stomped out, and the sooner the better, before they gain any further traction. Heck, if I was in your shoes, I’d be just as aggressive. But I’m not in Washington trying to hold the country together. I’m down here in Austin trying to keep my state in the Union. That’s hard enough to do. You know that you personally, and the Federal Government in general, don’t have a lot of supporters in the Lone Star State.

People down here are terrified. We’re trying to stay as neutral as possible, but everyone’s convinced California and company will hit back against us for your action. The legislature can’t allow that. If I stand in the way, I’ll be impeached by the end of the day. Who knows what type of nut would take over in the current political climate? Please understand my position, sir.”

The president was far from understanding, but with the most populous state in the Union going AWOL and the third most populated under martial law, he needed to walk a thin line to keep the second largest state on his side. He shook his head trying to wrap his mind around this whole “sides” thing. Way too late for “might have been’s.”

“What do you propose then, Sir? Your people are putting American soldiers in jeopardy by standing in our way. This isn’t politics as usual–you need to pick a side. The hottest places in hell are reserved for those who, in times of great moral crisis, maintain their neutrality.”

A bit of the governor’s drawl crept back. “Now you’re quotin’ the Bible to me?”

The president could only laugh with frustration. “Dante actually–not important. Look then; what do you propose to do? You have five minutes to convince me with hard actions, not just talk, that Texas is part of the solution and not part of the problem.”

“Sir, I wouldn’t have called ya’ up if we didn’t have a plan. We’re still polishing the details, but here’s what we know will pass both state houses here and in Oklahoma. First–”

The president’s voice held a razor edge, but he kept any worry out. “Why do you assume they will follow your lead? The Oklahomans had the sense to reject the referendum. I don’t see them signing a suicide pact with Texas. Don’t take me for a fool, Governor.”

The Texan tried not to gloat about the card up his sleeve. Tried and failed. “The vote missed by less than a one percent margin; if you’ll remember. Mr. President, perhaps you should check on Tinker Air Force Base. The Sooners threw in their lot with their cultural kin, not with some East Coast elites.”

The President bit off a sharp rebuttal. Several of the uniforms around him hung up their phones and nodded. This insanity is even more contagious than he assumed. He let the cowboy finish. Buy some time to think.

“As I was saying, sir, Texas and Oklahoma have no desire to war with anyone. However, we are not so naïve as to ignore the conflict around us. We will continue our membership in the Union–we are still Americans, after all. But there are two major caveats.

First, no federal forces will be allowed to originate combat operations against so-called rebels from our lands. So much as a single bullet fired across our border and it’s a deal breaker.

Second, all Texas and Oklahoma military forces, both Guard and irregulars, will be independently commanded. We will comply with your Federalization order and our troops will fight with honor and distinction to defend the borders of the United States from internal or external threats. However, to make things clear from the start, none of our people will participate in offensive operations into any ‘rebellious’ state.

In short, sir, we will defend the United States against any armed aggression, but will not help you wage a war in order to expand your powerbase. The formal declarations will be sent to Congress tomorrow but, out of respect, I wanted to give you a summary ahead of time.”

“Respect you say…sir, I don’t know where to begin pointing out all the fallacies in your position. You are not leaving me many peaceful options to mitigate this crisis. I am finished threatening and warning. This game ends now. Maybe we should take our chances with a new governor.”

Fear edged the governor’s voice as much as outrage, but all the president heard was his anger. “Sir, with all due respect, you don’t have a leg to stand on. These threats don’t hold any water. Don’t bite off more than ya’ can chew. If we’re going to be on the front lines, by God, then it’ll be on our terms. And on our eastern border, if need be! You wanna’ play a cowboy, Mr. President? That’s fine, but we aren’t going to be the Indians!”

Yet another state leader hung up on the President of the United States.

*

Trouble

“I just don’t understand why all the fuss over these Goddamn nukes! We can’t use them anyway. One of the Air Force guys told me they’ve all been deactivated remotely. Washington flipped a switch and poof! The insides are dead. Now they’re so much expensive, radioactive scrap metal. He called it a Permissive Action Link or something. There’s just no point to all this crap anymore.”

Nobody liked that perspective. This was The Big Mission. Everyone was counting on them. The driver gave his two cents.

“Maybe, but once we get these things back to Cali them lab coat wearing types will figure out a way to fix ‘em. Once we got a real deterrent the East will have to back off and quit fucking with us.” Most of the crew nodded at his more hopeful prediction.

Mr. Know-it-all, with a flourish of borrowed knowledge, had a response even to that.

“I doubt it. They say bypassing one of these PAL’s is like performing a tonsillectomy while entering the patient from the wrong end. We’d have been better off sneaking into Texas and stealing a bunch of tanks. We could put them to a lot better use than these damn bombs.

“Here, for the sake of argument, let’s say you’re right. Somehow, the bright boys figure out a way to rearm these things. What then? We aren’t crazy enough to use them in America, inside either border, I mean. Washington knows that. We’d look ridiculous and desperate threatening to nuke the East Coast over which government you should pay taxes to. As for those East Coast assholes, they want to take over the country, not destroy it. You know what I’m saying? Who the hell is cold blooded enough to ever fire a nuke in this so-called war?”

Jamal reached into the front passenger seat and clapped the quiet woman on her shoulder. “I bet Sophie would! She’d nuke ‘em all and have the war over by dinner. This gal has got more balls than all the brass in Sacramento combined!” Either from fear or respect, or both, but ever since their “wall to wall” counseling session he’d been loyal as a puppy.

Sophie kept her poker face on. She had her own ideas, but now wasn’t the time. It was time to be a buzz kill NCO. “Nukes or guns, the tools don’t matter. There’s still plenty of killing left to do. Plenty of Feds and sympathizers willing to dish it out our way too. So, quit the gossiping and scan your lanes. Those Fedefucks want their toys back real bad. You saw what they did in town. Imagine what they’d do if they knew exactly where we were.”

With the escort mission almost over everyone was too relaxed. Not a good thing. She reached for the radio mike and reminded the other two Humvee crews in her section to, “Cut the damn chatter. Stay alert and watch your sectors.” The men in the other vehicles marveled at how she could possibly know they were screwing off. Uncanny, that woman.

Her gut had better timing and more tactical awareness than any of the professional soldiers around the FedEx cargo plane behind them on the tarmac.

Special Forces operate in small groups well behind enemy lines. To pull off the crazy things they do, surprise is their biggest advantage. Once surprise is gone, shock is their next most powerful weapon. When all else fails, overwhelming firepower is used to steamroll the enemy into rapid submission. In this case, the federal SF team descending on McCarran International Airport had all of the above advantages.

The National Guard element was nearly finished loading the last of one hundred 12-foot long nuclear bombs into the chartered freight plane. Even though all other flights were temporarily grounded, no one paid much attention to the sound of helicopter blades whooping closer. After all, an airport is a big and loud place. Everyone sure heard the four armored M1117’s suddenly explode, however.

The Californian brigadier general in charge of this nearly successful operation stood in the cargo bay of the plane, personally overseeing the loading. He dashed from window to window to watch his armored outer cordon disappear under a deluge of Hellfire missiles. He caught quick glimpses of the Blackhawk helicopters making high-speed, low altitude passes around him.

These weren’t the boring utility model either. Those apparitions of death were the so-called “Battle Hawk” mod. A dreadful hybrid of a transport and attack helicopter. Every few seconds a salvo of 70mm rockets or a hundred rounds from the 7.62mm mini-guns would ripple out…from each bird. And there were four of them running a deadly circle around him.

He hollered into his squad radio for all elements to return fire or get into cover in the nearby hangers. He had nearly a company out there, but only static answered him. In the 30 seconds it took for him to comprehend the situation, every man farther than 10 yards away from the transport was killed.

Sophie and her section, pulling the far outer cordon several hundred yards away, stared open mouthed at the devastation. This was, suddenly, their first real combat mission and it wasn’t like anything they had ever heard or imagined. Nearly a hundred well-armed, professional soldiers and some 16 vehicles were not just destroyed…but simply erased from existence.

Impressively, the cargo plane in the middle of the inferno was completely unscathed. By the time the amateurs could comprehend what was going on and wondered what they should do about it, the choppers began deploying their primary weapons–riflemen.

Eighteen Delta Force operators fast-roped down from two hovering helicopters. One team dropping on each side of the plane. In the next 49 seconds, they would neutralize the crew and any surviving guardsmen without taking a single casualty. Including the pilots, since one unwisely picked up a weapon. No big deal. A couple of the Fed troopers were rated to fly this simple freight job, if need be. The other two choppers dropped their loads on the large hangers and warehouses just to the west of the tarmac. Eighteen more high-speed, low-drag, “regular” Special Forces cleared those structures in less than two minutes.

Sophie’s LT figured it out quicker than most. Over the radio came his stern, but reassuring voice, “Alright everybody. Things just got real. We have zero chance to retake that plane. There’s no point in even trying to stop them. Stay well away from them and the choppers might not notice you. Looks like they won this round, ladies and gentlemen. Let these people do whatever they want. I repeat, do not engage. Do not do anything to hinder their escape. There’s nothing more we can accomplish here. All stations acknowledge, over.”

Even as he briefed the platoon, he forgot that not everyone was listening into that radio frequency. His own gunner, for example, didn’t hear a word. He was too focused on the enemy helicopters. Those were dangerous machines, all right, equipped with expensive anti-missile countermeasures and flown by some of the best pilots in the world.

On the other hand, when hovering in place less than a hundred feet over the ground, they were sitting ducks to his .50 caliber machine gun. He sighted one in and depressed both fire buttons, grinning as smoke poured out of the machine. He was positively laughing when that smoke became fire and the bird spun several times before finally crashing just to the side of the big transport.

He wasn’t laughing when another Battle hawk almost instantly identified him, acquired his vehicle in the heads up display and blasted off a laser guided Hellfire. The missile, intended to kill 72 ton super-armored tanks, didn’t leave much left of the 2-ton fiberglass and aluminum Humvee. Nor of the five flesh and bone men inside.

Sophie wasn’t the most senior or even the most experienced surviving militia NCO after the LT was cremated. But, she was the only person in the platoon with a plan. That gave her all the authority needed.

“All vehicles, dismount, now! Everyone rally at the Reno Avenue business park gate. We’ll take these fuckers on foot! Leave your trucks and rally on me!”

*

The only thing more impressive than the whole platoon rallying on her position in less than 10 minutes, without attracting the helicopters’ deadly attention, was that they even followed her lead. At least until they were all in one location. When she explained her plan of breaching the warehouses, clearing out the enemy and then besieging the plane, fear quickly overtook discipline.

One of her fellow squad leaders balked first. “Are you fucking crazy? Those are Navy Seals or whatever over there. We don’t stand a chance. You heard the LT. I’m not going to throw my life away over this shit.” Sophie stepped closer to him and tried to give a pep talk. “No, not another word from you, Kampbell. You’re trying to get everyone killed and I’m sure as hell not going to be a part of that.”

Jamal came up on the guy from behind with murder in his eyes, but Sophie delivered the fatal blow. She wrenched his rifle straight out of his surprised hands and pointed away from the field. “I will not have you shitting on the memory of our people. Get out of my face, you fucking coward. Move, now! You just resigned. The rest of us have work to do.” He stormed off, shaking his head and muttering under his breath.

She probably could have gotten away with shooting him, but the example she set held her fighters in place far better than violence. Punishing the cowardly just wasn’t an efficient motivator. A warrior who fears death as much from his own side as the enemy will do his best to avoid contact with either. Eventually, they become as much a liability to friendly’s as a threat to the enemy.

Shame, on the other hand, was incredibly effective. The fear of letting down your comrades, of losing that hard won respect, held the fighters firmly in place and guaranteed they wouldn’t be following that other guy. Common sense had now been equated to cowardice. It was an ancient trick to spur soldiers into overcoming that paralyzing fear of death. But old tricks are the best tricks.

The Special Forces fellows occupying the warehouse closest to the plane were mildly curious who these new actors were. They wore old style BDU’s and not modern digital ACU’s, but were decked out in the coolest looking tactical gear money could buy. They rocked the latest super-duper tactical vests and belts with more modular pouches than you could imagine.

Those fancy foreign rifles were brand spanking new as well. Oh boy, did they also have all sorts of expensive optics, laser designators, halogen lights and God knows what else filling up the rail systems! Each one was a “tacticool” running advertisement for Ranger Joe’s shop. They sure must have felt high speed.

Oh, they looked the part, no doubt. But they didn’t act it. Their movements as they worked their way towards the building were an imitation of tactical action. Someone had shown them how to bound and stack on entry, and obviously they must’ve even practiced somewhat, but they clearly weren’t professionals.

There was just too much communicating going on. Not just how they kept shouting at each other instead of giving hand signals, but why they felt they needed to. It was evident they didn’t have real trust in each other yet. A somewhat organized group, but not really a team yet.

Unfortunately, for these young braves and their insurance carriers, the men they attacked were an elite team. A team that had worked, trained and fought intimately together for over three years. Each member instinctively knew exactly what their partner would be doing, without looking. They shared targeting information effortlessly and without excitement.

Sophie and most of the platoon crouched among maintenance vehicles in the parking lot and provided over watch. Her best squad stacked on a side maintenance door in the middle of that aluminum sided warehouse. How eerie the quietness. She expected, and hoped, the enemy inside would engage as they approached. With her greater numbers and firepower the enemy shouldn’t last long–if they could just find them.

Instead, she had to wait for this team to gain a foothold inside before sending in the rest. Her people were trying their best, but motivation is a poor substitute for experience. They spent too long organizing themselves before finally kicking in the door and surging inside…in a tight cluster. Had they lived, they might have learned. Unfortunately, combat doesn’t work that way. The first test is often the final exam. Where an F grade stands for being “fucked.”

A mini hurricane of gunfire broke loose as soon as the last fighter disappeared inside. Two distinct sets of fire could be heard. One set of disciplined, rapid short bursts and several long video-game style automatic rips. Sophie prayed that at least some of the disciplined fire came from her people. In less than 30 seconds, all was quiet again. She would wait five minutes for a situation report or any other sound from her team. No one ever came outside.

There wasn’t much that she could do. Sending in another squad was insane, despite every instinct telling her to attack. Letting these fucks escape after losing so many of her teammates was likewise out of the equation. Her equally pissed off surviving fighters were angry when she pulled them back under cover. The hunting fever raged through them all.

Sophie could tell she didn’t have much time. Her tenuous hold on authority was at stake here. If she didn’t think of something quick, her people would either commit collective suicide through charging in there or simply give up and walk away from the whole damn thing.

Maybe they could breach the building. She did have one Humvee handy. The big jet’s turbofans whining to life cut short her internal strategy session. Without warning, the rear guard in the warehouse laid down hellish suppressive fire in every direction. One of her people 200 yards away returned fire from behind the corner of a CONEX shipping container. The enemy casually shot through the aluminum siding and silenced him permanently.

The Battle Hawks that were standing off suddenly came back with a vengeance. They’d taken the time to acquire targets. Luckily, they focused their rockets first against the confused but massing police forces at the gate. She had a brief window.

Sophie slid her helmet back and wiped some of the sweat off. This scorching pavement in the desert baked her mind. What was left of her platoon begged her for a plan without saying a word. What the hell could they do? She was seconds away from ordering a retreat when something changed the equation. “The ramp’s down! They’re leaving!”

Sure enough, the plane crept slowly along the tarmac towards the airfield. Several SF troops from the warehouse sprinted to catch up. The helicopters overhead went wild, expending the last of their impressive ammo load in burning everything within 500 yards. Now or never.

“Jamal! Let’s go! I’ll drive the Humvee; you gun. Everyone else, cover us!”

Jamal didn’t have a clue what she had planned. Not that it mattered. Her desperate confidence was all he needed. Her team stepped up and did a hell of a job keeping the enemy occupied. Some militia fighter dropped a Delta operator covering his running buddies from the back ramp with a hip shot. They even put a few holes into one of the whirly birds. Didn’t crash it, but wounded the copilot/gunner, limiting its effectiveness. The smoke clouds from all the burning vehicles and buildings hindered the target acquisition of the other two choppers.

In all this confusion, Sophie floored her Humvee to catch the fleeing plane. Less than a hundred yards away, she attracted the full attention of the rear guards. They slowly raised the ramp and picked up speed as their last guy jumped aboard. Four more soldiers kneeled on the rising slope and blazed away exclusively at them. She thanked God and her not-cheap paymasters for splurging on the armored windshield.

Still, even that tough bulletproof glass had limits. One tight three round shot group after another smashed the see-through armor a foot in front of her face. She could barely see through the kaleidoscope of cracks. Engineering has it limits. Only a matter of time before something got through. The right front tire was already flat and black smoke billowed from under the hood. The engine knocked terribly. 100 yards to go…they weren’t going to make it.

“Jamal, get up there and suppressive them! Don’t worry about the nukes.”

Her gunner unhesitatingly popped his head out of the turret. Insane or not, Sophie had a plan. About 15 rounds rattled off before he stopped; likely a jam. All of the enemy’s shooters threw themselves prone. One wouldn’t get up again…the guy that had been raising the ramp.

“Great job, Jamal! Keep it up!” Out the corner of her eye, she caught him resting on the hammock-like strap serving as a gunner’s seat for long hauls. She reached over and slapped his knee hard. “Quit fucking off and get on that gun!”

Her slap dropped his body back into the cabin. His face made a squishing sound rather than a thud when it struck the radio mount. Several enemy rounds had already split it open. She didn’t cry or scream, just gritted her teeth, dropped into the lowest gear and hit the ramp ahead. When it was obvious she’d breached the plane, she didn’t hit the brakes.

Instead, she hit the gas.

Her war whoop could be heard even over the grinding and screeching as 190 horsepower shoved her nearly 20 feet into the cargo bay before the dying Humvee finally gave up the ghost. Her mad driving knocked over two pallets of nuclear bombs and crushed at least one Special Forces operator. Instead of diving out the door, she did the last thing they expected. She lobbed fragmentation grenades out from inside the turret. One to the rear and one to the front.

Then she reached up, with one hand, and blindly fired the remainder of the M240’s belt in the general direction of the flight cabin and passenger seating area. She’d hoped to distract them, maybe disable the plane. She had no way to know she just killed or seriously wounded seven people up there in that packed compartment. As busy as Sophie was, she didn’t notice the taxing plane pick up speed but also gently curve to the right…away from the runway.

Somebody opened the right side passenger door. She gave him three rounds to the neck and face as a hello. Only after his body crumpled did Sophie dismount. With the armored door shielding her back, she stood on the corpse she just made to get a better view. Six more hostiles were behind her. Well, back there, but not in good shape. Fragmentation grenades, while not terribly powerful in the open, are impressive in confined spaces. Every one of those shooters squirming back to their feet had a shrapnel injury and often bleeding ears. They weren’t exactly in top form.

Sophie didn’t worry about the why or how as she calmly finished them off with aimed pairs. She ducked back into the Humvee to reload when someone opened the door from the other side. Shit. There were just too many of them for her to give full 360° security. She leapt forward and gave the stone-faced Delta guy a banshee scream as her final resistance. Instead of a muzzle flash, the whole roof of the plane came apart.

The cargo bay lights went out as an ear-splitting screech filled her head. God’s fist punched the Humvee and somehow flipped her face down and butt up into the backseat floorboard. It took a few moments for her brain to pull itself mostly together again. Something had ripped the open armored doors on both sides straight off. Nearly the first two feet of the Humvee’s roof was pealed open like a sardine can. Some massive yellow crane stuck in its place.

Sophie’s helmet was nowhere to be found. The girl popped her bare, pony-tailed head out of the hole and took a peek into hell. All the shooters that were next to or in front of her were now gone. Well, not a hundred percent true. She could see an arm or leg sticking out of the rubble here and there. Both fuel-packed wings were still intact, but the plane’s upper fuselage looked like some giant took an ice cream scoop to it. The miracle of her survival would haunt her for years.

A few SF fellows also survived, for a while. Sophie’s quick responding team took out some before she stopped them. “Keep one or two alive. I’m sure the Guard’s intelligence guys could learn a lot from them.”

Even the choppers above were running. Their fighter escort had finally been finished off. Rebel interceptors from all over Nevada now prowled the area, looking for payback. None of the Battle Hawks would make it back to base.

More friendly Guard troops would arrive within minutes to police up the damaged, but non-leaking nukes. In all the excitement, Sophie had completely forgotten about them. She hugged her survivors, straddled one nuke and flipped a bird in the direction the helicopters flew off.

Miles away, a Global Hawk banked slightly and zoomed in with 128-power intensity. The hideously expensive machine would be shot down by Nevada’s air defenses within minutes, but for the moment, she streamed back east chilling images. The president was, by now, personally observing the operation in real time. His face held no expression as this girl, only a few years older than his own daughters, tossed all their strategic calculus on its head.

The rebels were now a nuclear power.

A superpower.

Chapter 12

20 March

Capital Building, Tallahassee, Florida

“Mr. Speaker!” The latest congressman to hold that title fielded the question from a reporter his staff already thoroughly screened. “Does this blanket amnesty also apply to the renegade Supreme Court Justices hiding in California?”

There was a good reason the veteran politician was selected for this role. His down home shrug and easy going, youthful grin belied the gravity of the situation.

“It doesn’t apply, because they haven’t done anything wrong. It is the position of the president and this Congress that they have simply resigned their posts. The Senate has already approved the president’s new appointees. We even sent out the old Justices’ final paychecks. At least the post office is still loyal out west!” No one laughed at his joke. He quickly changed the subject by answering an unasked question.

“No, of course we do not recognize the legitimacy of this ridiculous, fantasy government in certain states. Nonetheless, the Healing Act is valid nationwide, not just here in Florida. Everyone is being given a second chance.”

The same reporter surprised the politico’s handlers with a follow up question. “Does that mean, in fact, that you are willing to let people get away with murder?”

He was ready for the trap question. It was the single most divisive issue in Congress today. “Of course not. A soldier fighting for their homeland is not murder. We will evaluate every case individually, but you’re missing the key point.

Anyone willing to lay down their weapons and pledge an oath of allegiance to the legitimate Federal authorities will be pardoned for any crime committed in the misguided attempt to overthrow the legally chosen government of the United States.”

The poorly vetted reporter lost her professionalism. “I thought the pledge of allegiance was to the Flag, the Constitution, and to liberty and justice for all. When the hell did the Feds get inserted?”

Some of the other reporters laughed nervously, others applauded and a few shouted at the provocative woman to shut up. The Speaker was a real pro, though. Heckling didn’t throw him off stride. He kept going as if he hadn’t heard a thing.

“That includes everyone who voted for these so-called ‘freedom referendums.’ Even any member of the military, or civilian government employee, who has taken up arms against our country or otherwise acted against us. It’s time to end this senseless fighting. We are all Americans. Let our differences strengthen our land and not tear it apart.” With proper dramatic flair, he stopped grinning and stared unflinchingly at the camera cluster.

“With that said, this generous plan is also a limited time offer. Do not test the resolve or patience of the US people. You have 72 hours to come to your senses. After that deadline, any secessionist or terrorist activity will be met with overwhelming military force. Guantanamo Bay has been reactivated for domestic terrorists–don’t make us fill it up again.”

Gathered behind him on the state’s capital steps, a couple dozen stone faced senators, congressmen, generals and admirals solemnly nodded. The cameras panned out for an impressive panorama of the core architects behind the Great Reconciliation Plan presenting a united front. Conspicuously absent were the most hawkish politicians and officers.

It was thought prudent that those opposed to immediate reconciliation be left out of the photo op. If people saw the grinning faces of leaders that advocated nationwide martial law and waging total war against rebel held areas suddenly supporting the Act, its credibility might just be undermined. In this war, imagery and news spinning were as effective as guns and bombs.

On the plus side, zooming out gave the cameras an incredible view of hell on earth. From behind the Capitol, a buzzing grew incessantly louder. The reporters thought the large remote controlled plane cresting the dome and then circling ominously was part of some elaborate power demonstration. The thick cordon of soldiers ringing the perimeter didn’t recognize it as part of their inventory. Must be some special model used by all those Secret Service agents protecting the big wigs. The suit wearing bodyguard detail assumed it must be some experimental military job–they’d never seen anything like it before. Novelty alone was enough to worry them.

Even though the drone thing seemed to be slowly gaining altitude and not kamikazing into the crowd, the lead agent decided to get his principals inside anyway. It took a few seconds for him to decide, but before too long the old “stranger, danger” reaction won out.

Had he not hesitated, they probably still would have died. Just as he took the Speaker by the arm, a weak bang came from above. He threw himself on the politician, drew his pistol and searched for the threat. The toy plane broke apart in a small explosion about 40 feet in the air. A silvery smoke cloud expanded outwards. Not falling, but spreading almost 60 feet in diameter. A faint wisp of propane filled the gawking onlooker’s nostrils a split second before the air itself literally exploded.

Fuel air explosives work differently than the more traditional type. The oxygen in the air is the real explosive. The propane and fluoridated aluminum merely a booster charge. The explosion is also relatively slow, more like a movie. You can briefly see the blast wave coming towards you. Unfortunately, that won’t help much to save your life.

The real killer isn’t that impressive fireball, but the sledgehammer wave of overpressure ahead of it. That’s why so many body armor clad soldiers, standing a hundred yards away, had some of their internal organs punctured. Dead without a single outward sign of injury. Closer into the hellfire, all the air is sucked away to feed the devil’s toy. Air is evacuated so fast the lungs are immediately ruptured.

The dignitaries directly underneath the blast spent their last moments alive suffocating from the sudden vacuum around them, even as they were being incinerated alive. The few survivors were so badly burnt and permanently disfigured they’d wish they weren’t so “lucky.” For the first time in their careers, these statesmen and generals were getting a taste of the shit storm they so easily threw young soldiers into. The stench of overcooked, high-fat human meat and that gut wrenching scorched hair smell would hang over the square days after the bodies were removed.

With the video feed to the drone no longer available, Marcus had to get his after action report streamed over the internet like everyone else. He fleetingly felt regret for the reporters caught in the slaughter, but his sympathy didn’t last so long for those ghouls. Where were they when his world ended? His family’s lives apparently weren’t worth the airtime. But these asshole generals and politicians deserve wall-to-wall breaking news coverage?

He felt worse about the loss of the grad student designed remote control drone. What a marvelous machine they whipped up. Reliable and able to carry his 700-pound homemade thermobaric bomb almost a mile from the city park to the capitol building. He honestly felt shame for stealing and destroying it. He’d have to find those young people and make it up to them somehow.

Which would be a little more difficult now. He couldn’t imagine himself ever going back to work at the university. The authorities would surely put the pieces together eventually and find out who did this. A distinguished fifteen-year career as a respected chemistry professor flushed down the drain. Compared to what he’d lost already, it was of small concern. His revenge wasn’t as fulfilling as he’d expected, though. That could only mean he hadn’t gotten enough.

On his way back from the state capitol, he drove by his old home in Gainesville. The debris was left exactly as it had been that terrible day. Or almost. Someone had removed the aircraft wreckage. The anger at the only monument his wife and daughter would ever have being hauled away like so much trash brought the hate back.

He wasn’t even with them that dark, sunny day during the initial invasion of Florida. He was across the street, talking to a pro-Fed neighbor about keeping an eye on the house while they were gone. He’d waited way too long to evacuate his family. Who could’ve imagined that the fighting would reach so far south? Everyone knew it was supposed to be more or less symbolic resistance. Maybe a short firefight, but then one side or the other must cave in. Instead, the whole world collapsed.

He only remembered his neighbor’s open mouth, a bone-rattling roar and then the heat. When he managed to roll over after the explosion, he crawled aimlessly through the black fog so thick you needed a knife to cut through it. Eventually, he reached a clearish space and his heart stopped.

Only the tail fin of an F-22 jutted into the sky from where his garage had stood. Maybe if, by some miracle, Rachel and Jessie had stopped packing the car and were back in the house…it wouldn’t have made a difference. The whole property and the neighbors on both sides were one solid wall of flames. The only thing not burning was the tail assembly of that damn jet. A marker from God to show where his family had been taken.

He didn’t waste any more time crying down memory lane. The school’s ROTC instructor was missing. Supposedly, gone underground and joined the rumored resistance. Through a friend of a friend, he made a date for tonight to grab a beer and discuss politics. The way his seatbelt dug into his gut, maybe the middle-aged professor wasn’t in the best shape. Nor had he ever even touched a gun in his entire life. Not a promising career change.

On the other hand, the insurgents might just be able to find use for someone that could safely make bombs from a thousand everyday ingredients. And he wasn’t just a chemist…he was a damn good teacher.

Shortly before the government announced their humane amnesty plan, an alphabet soup of federal agencies swarmed over the state and hauled off thousands. Rubber-stamped warrants or not, it was an old-fashioned purge of dangerous characters. Well, they missed the most dangerous person with their lettres de cachet: the intelligent man with nothing left to live for except revenge.

***

22 March

DC

“Damnit David, we’ve been on opposite sides for years, but this isn’t some budget showdown. You people can’t keep playing these games. You offer blanket amnesty one day, total war the next. We need a concentric and consistent plan to put this country together again. It’s time to quit screwing around. We’re talking about the future of the Union–the future of democracy!” The president subconsciously avoided the windows in the refurbished Oval Office.

The new Speaker of the House, the hastily appointed replacement to that unlucky post, held up his hand. “For once, you’re correct. That’s why we can’t afford new elections right now. Probably not for a long time to come. You’re the best man to handle this crisis. Your resignation will not be accepted.” They both pretended like that mattered.

“Meaning I’m the sacrificial lamb? What did I ever do to you? Seriously, you’re taking this in the wrong direction. We’ve lost control. One side has to give in or this division will be permanent. Elections allow everyone to save a little face, as well.”

“Damnit, Mr. President! You were right; we were wrong. There, are you happy? When’s the last time some Representative sat in your office and told you that? Your term has already been extended for one year by a near unanimous vote, something unprecedented in US history, and now you want to back down?”

After fighting uphill for so long, the president struggled to grasp that other politicians could believe in him. As much as he tried to rationalize it, he knew that things had moved way beyond who was sitting in the Oval Office. Too much had changed, and too many people liked the changes. Whether the East or the West or whatever side won didn’t matter much. Either way, peace would only be found on the other side of war. Maybe he could speed up that process and make it as painless as possible.

“Ok, but if you’re going to stick me with all this responsibility, you’re going to give me the necessary authority. No standing around acting innocent and self-righteous when I send American soldiers to fight against other American soldiers. No pretending you had nothing to do with it.”

The Speaker didn’t even try to act as if he had no idea what the president meant. “I understand. That’s the main issue I wanted to talk about today.” He delved into his bag and tossed the president a binder. There were no aides or advisors in this meeting. “Here’s what we’ve been working on since California went off the deep end. The vote’s in the morning.”

It didn’t take him long to read it all. The resolution was short and vague for a reason.

“My God. I’m surprised this even got out of committee. Maybe you can swing the votes, but the Senate will never accept this. It’ll take so much watering down to pass as to be meaningless.”

“Give us some credit, Mr. President. This draft was written by a bicameral, bipartisan committee. This is no political game. Its passage is a mere formality.” The congressman grinned wide, crossed his legs and threw a flabby arm over the sofa’s back.

“Sir, I don’t think you really appreciate the new political landscape we’re working in. Just like in the Civil War,” the president grimaced at the comparison, “our colleagues from belligerent states in both houses have been expelled. Well, they’re still physically here in Washington and some of these sad souls wander into session. They aren’t recognized to speak and their votes don’t count, but they try anyway. You should see how irate they get. The Capitol Police have to kick someone out almost every day! Which is a hell of a funny sight to see.” He laughed a little at this one bright spot in the whole disaster.

“Anyway, the net effect of all the chaos recently is 142 representatives and 36 senators have been banned, killed or in the hospital. Since all the rest are terrified, it’s breathtaking what we can accomplish. A painful weeding process, to be sure, but incredibly effective.”

The president wasn’t so excited. “This thing is essentially a domestic War Powers Act. You are authorizing me in advance to do anything I want. Or as you so loosely state it: ‘to approve and confirm any necessary acts of the President of the United States, for suppressing insurrection, rebellion and domestic terrorism.’ What’s the catch?”

“None whatsoever…as long as you win this war.”

“So, you all would make me a dictator just to avoid the responsibility of making decisions on your own?” The president shook his head in resignation, not in refusal.

The congressman didn’t look half as embarrassed as he should have. “Come on, you know wars can’t be led by a committee. We are in dire need of true leadership. Someone to do the dirty, grey area of the Constitution work–the type of terrible decisions that no politician worrying about reelection can make. Plus, let’s face it, you are either the most beloved or hated man in this country. No one alive today, for better or worse, can shrug you off as a weakling.”

The president said nothing as he wandered away from the sofa and towards his desk. He produced a pack of Newport Menthols from a bottom drawer, took one out and tapped the tobacco far longer than necessary. There was a lighter in there too, but he didn’t touch it. He hadn’t had a cigarette since the reelection over four years ago. Sure, he made a promise to his wife, his kids and to himself, but come the hell on! That was all before this shit popped up. Twirling the cancer stick, he bought some time.

“Let’s make it clear from the start, Mr. Speaker, so there are no false illusions. You realize that I’ll have to slap Florida under martial law, right? It may even be necessary to suspend Habeas Corpus temporarily and the right to bear arms in much of the country. Hell, for rebel held and occupied lands, the Constitution will be an extremely flexible document. I don’t want to do it, God help me I’ve tried everything to avoid getting this far, but I won’t hesitate to use every ounce of power that you give me.”

The congressman barely hesitated before answering. “We all know that. It’s not something we relish either, but somebody has to assume that role. You’re now that somebody.”

The president was astonished and disgusted by how easily they were willing to sale out democracy. How effortlessly they put the delicate virtue of a 240-year-old republic into the hands of a dictator. All to avoid assuming a little responsibility. Well, it had to be someone. Ending the war quickly and with minimum destruction was going to be tricky, but just maybe he could pull it off. The real challenge was to give that power up when finished.

The President snatched the lighter from the drawer. He sucked deeply on that delicious, minty tar air. He prayed he was strong enough to give up at least one of these vices eventually.

***

New Game

Donaldson basked in herodom and sunshine on a Cuban beach with thousands of other runaway Florida fighters. They all tried to avoid watching television. They also tried to ignore their leaders always walking around in deep conversation with their Cuban counterparts and some wild-eyed man in a Hawaiian shirt.

Out West, the population and their leaders slowly woke up to the novel idea that the Federal Government wasn’t even close to falling. Despite all the hopeful rhetoric they told themselves. All those fence sitters were finally forced to pick a side. That helped the fledging new government more than the old. Every day brought new regular military desertions to their cause. Often in whole bases with much of their equipment and most of their personnel. Most of the staff, but never all.

More civilians were also migrating west than east. That was far more important than the raw numbers suggested. Someone willing to leave their home and strike out for something new is the most loyal and motivated type of citizen you could find. Or fanatical, as some critics pointed out.

So many people, both in America and America 2.0, wondered when the other shoe would drop. The weakness of the central government was a driving force behind the referendums in the first place, but when they didn’t fold people got worried. Why weren’t they stomping on the West? Crushing these people they so vehemently called rebels?

The baby new government consisted of just 14 states: Alaska, Washington, Oregon, California, Nevada, Arizona, New Mexico, Utah, Idaho, Wyoming, Montana, Colorado, Kansas and Nebraska. Barely a third of the population of the United States, and that was only paper strength. Here in the early stages of the separation, the reality was less impressive. In every state loyal to the new nation there existed vocal and sometimes militant minorities threatening the new system. Some towns and whole counties, especially along the nebulously defined border, were more hostile than the real USA.

Not that the Feds were in much better shape. Their sweeping military advantage existed only in the media’s imagination. A large chunk of the Armed Forces, especially air and naval assets, were still deployed overseas. To redeploy them stateside would take weeks. Large losses, particularly in equipment, during the “low intensity domestic operations” in Florida took yet another big bite out of immediately available resources. Garrisoning a tropical land of 19 million hostiles drained even more.

Concerns, well, panic over the loyalty of the various state reserves and National Guard forces ensured they would not be committed to battle any time soon. This paranoia, arguably justified, nevertheless resulted in the United States voluntarily removing half their army from the equation. When you consider the gargantuan defections to the west, from individual soldiers going AWOL to whole brigades assimilating into the new rebel command structure, the military balance between the two sides approached equality.

Besides the lack of military options, the single biggest concern holding back both US governments was political. Or more accurately, no one had a clue what the hell to do. This stuff was all so damn new. Breaking away from the crumbling old government was one thing; figuring out what to do next was something else. Not to mention that, so far, military action hadn’t paid off so well. Something the Feds could attest to.

The two sides continually cast about for quick solutions to this incredibly difficult strategic situation, but kept coming up short. Neither leadership camp could accept that the only way to win this fight was to launch a long, protracted land war to subdue and occupy the enemy. A massive, continent spanning war appeared necessary, but also impossible. The politicians couldn’t imagine the population of either side stomaching such a war. Of course, a negotiated peace settlement was even more unimaginable.

Unlike the Florida fiasco, the two sides would not stumble into this fight. They’d have to approach the slaughter with their eyes wide open. Every day of political inaction strengthened the cohesiveness of the new nation’s military and government while sapping the power of the old. Well, draining power, but not resolve.

The West represented 40% of the American land mass, not something that could be blitzed even if the US military was at full strength. They were no banana republic to be steamrolled in a day’s campaigning. A gargantuan buildup would be needed. A generation defining type of expansion to the Armed Forces not seen since the Second World War.

So, with surprisingly little reluctance, that’s what the leadership on both sides set out to do. What needs to be done must be done. If it just so happens that billions could be made in the process, well, there’s no reason that patriotism can’t be profitable.

And it was. Shortly after the new nation’s foundation, thousands of Preppers “bugged out.” They were ready for the widespread disruption to the financial institutions and trade infrastructure. But civilization did not implode; it was more a sizzle. Sure, for a time, luxury goods were in terribly short supply. New smartphones, fancy cars and overpriced sports jerseys were hard to find at any price. To quite a few Americans, that alone was a sign of the Apocalypse.

But production of the necessary things in life actually increased. When supply is crimped, prices soar. When prices jump, everyone becomes an entrepreneur and tries to make a quick buck from the disruption. Before you know it, supply will flood demand. Just like after a devastating hurricane, for example. Bottled water, canned food and fuel for generators are in short supply for a while, but not too long.

When someone in trouble is willing to pay a 300% premium for a gallon of gas, well, then you can’t argue the efficiency of a free market. Out of the goodness of their hearts, everyone and their mother fills up a car with whatever aid supplies have the highest profit potential and rushes in from out of state. Those first to market reap the rewards. Those coming later find an oversaturated market.

The Preppers were right about inflation though, but it was distributed fairly evenly. Everything went up in price, especially when, in a boldly populist move, both governments indexed minimum wage to inflation. Despite the government’s rampant money printing, wage increases nearly matched the price spikes. The Federal Reserve pumped an unprecedented, some would say unholy, stream of new dollars into the economy to calm the commodity markets. All they succeeded in accomplishing was fueling the fear more. At least they created bubbles across the board, rather than in any one asset class. They could get away with this without crashing the dollar mainly because of the economic wildfires consuming the rest of the world.

With heavy manufacturing slowly, but steadily returning stateside to take advantage of revitalized military spending, the Chinese Yuan became practically junk. You could forget the Euro. Those Europeans responded to the crisis with their typical wishful thinking. Cut government spending even further, except for welfare of course, while drastically hiking the already oppressive taxes.

It didn’t take long for the core Eurozone economies, France and Germany, to consume 60% of their gross domestic product with taxes. De facto communism, without at least partially effective central planning. It was impossible for the private sector to expand faster than the tax burden. They’d chewed their legs off to get out of a trap, only to bleed to death later.

By the time populist anti-austerity, anti-globalization politicians took over power, things were beyond repair. In Germany, a distant grand cousin of a once frightening Austrian celebrity would soon be addressing dem deutschen Volke as their latest chancellor. He had some interesting ideas about who was to blame for the disaster and what to do about it. The European Union experiment wouldn’t survive the year. That left the US the only safe harbor for vulnerable cash in this worldwide Tsunami, war or no war. The foreign money poured in. Stocks, bonds, real estate–all prospered. But the hottest investments were new arms manufacturer startups.

Making economic recovery even easier, the militarized border existed only on maps. It was just too long and far too new for any side to “secure the border.” With all the money to be made, cross-border trade continued the same as always. Sometimes overzealous customs agents made it necessary for trucks to take county roads and avoid the major interstate crossing points, but not always. Most of these “smugglers” operated in plain sight since they had no problem spreading a little of the wealth around to local custom officials and soldiers.

Regardless of the particular arrangements, the sealed border might be the most lucrative in the world. Wheat, corn, soybeans, potatoes–you name it, all these foodstuffs found their way from the wide-open fields of the URA to the grocers of New York. There were also no shortages of coal or manufactured goods coming west in exchange. By the truck or trainload, you couldn’t stop people from making money. That’s the thing in America: Political passion runs deep…but capitalism runs deeper.

*

29 March

Sacramento, California

“Pray tell, General, how did the Feds just waltz into Alaska without a fight? What are we paying you for? One week into the job and you’ve already lost an entire state! I can’t wait to see what you’ll do next week.”

The head general in charge of the “free” US Armed Forces withered under the fire of this tiny woman. California’s Governor Salazar, or the Provisional President of the United Republics of America as she called herself, was not the quiet type. This short, slightly chubby woman had more ambition and drive in her little finger than most of her advisors had in their whole families. Unfortunately, her military experience did not match that passion.

“Well, Ms. President, except for a small contingent in Anchorage, they’ve only reoccupied the military bases. Bases that we stripped of personnel and equipment to reinforce the border, at your request.”

“Spare me the excuses. You’re missing the big picture. From a propaganda standpoint, with the capital in their hands, they own the whole place. Do you realize how much work went into getting Alaska on board? All that politicking pissed away by raw military force. Damn if there’s not a lesson to be learned there. What are you going to do to retake it?”

“Ma’am, we don’t really have any options at the moment. After the surprise federal assault Canada began enforcing their declared neutrality. They’ve ordered their borders closed to military traffic from both sides. With the Feds having such naval superiority in the Pacific, I don’t see how we can risk an amphibious operation either. For the time being, we just have to move on.”

“And what about our navy? I thought we captured something like 100 ships. I saw two aircraft carriers just the other day in San Diego. Surely that’s more than what the Feds have in Hawaii.”

“The paper strength is misleading, ma’am. Combat power is not simply the sum of our weapons and delivery systems. These ships require a vast number of highly trained technical specialists. With our extreme manpower shortages, we can sortie only about 50 major vessels. Maybe including one carrier, with a reduced crew complement, if we accept lower overall combat efficiency. Even that small force would strain our limited resources. No ma’am, at best we can scrounge up half the naval assets we believe the Feds could muster.”

She wasn’t terribly interested in the details. “Fine, then. Alaska will have to wait. What about that scheme in Florida? Have we made any progress?”

The general couldn’t help but sigh as he sourly answered, “Mr. Esterline can best field that question, ma’am.”

The fledging new government didn’t have an official intelligence service yet. The few professional spies and analysts that “came over” were obviously a little suspect. The best they had was this freelancer. You couldn’t tell by that expensive suit and slowly graying hair, but this ex-Green Beret had trained and advised paramilitary forces in a half-dozen exotic locales. And that wasn’t even the primary qualification on his impressive resume.

Back in his CIA days, they called him a top-notch strategic operations officer. Hell, one referral claimed he was the acknowledged master at waging proxy wars. He manipulated or outright bribed God knew how many Arab and African dictators into launching seemingly random military interventions against extremists. While the official records are sealed for 70 more years, legend has it that with a single well-timed drone strike he once sparked a short but deadly power-struggle war between the original Al Qaida group and their affiliate branch in Yemen.

After abruptly leaving civil service, he joined the private sector as “a troubleshooter, of sorts.” Since he was fired in an embarrassing manner back before The Split, and had an obvious axe to grind with his former employers, his loyalty wasn’t such a mystery. His sanity was an entirely different question.

“Yes, ma’am. We’ve rearmed the exiled Florida guardsmen in Cuba. Our negotiations with the People’s Republic there have paid off handsomely. The Reconquista will handily liberate Miami. Those few thousand fighters will lead a People’s uprising of millions well beyond just Florida. Within a week, I will raise for you fresh armies inside the walls of Rome! Despite the general’s skepticism, success is assured.”

General Stewart smacked his palm on the polished mahogany round table. He had everyone’s undivided attention. “What the hell are you talking about? Ma’am, please tell me you’re not actually considering this fantasy? As we’ve discussed, we need to focus all our energy on building a viable defensive force. That’s your only chance to negotiate peace from a position of strength. The last thing we can afford is to escalate things. Especially not with such off the wall stunts like this.”

President Salazar appeared genuinely surprised. “General, we are way beyond finding ‘a peace we can live with.’ I’m in this to win it, and you can bet that the Washington crowd is as well. I want to make sure you’re not laboring under any false pretenses–we’re at war!

“And in this war, Mr. Esterline has so far gathered us much more success than your dawdling. His maneuverings brought Kansas and Nebraska on board, without even holding referendums. He’s why our soldiers are facing off with the Feds across the Missouri River and not in the streets of Denver! With that record, when he speaks, he will be listened to.”

For his part, Esterline wasn’t smug about the public dressing down the boss gave his uniformed rival. He was so self-assured he didn’t need any external validation. Those puckered lips held pity and not spite for the poor general who lacked his brilliance.

Esterline jumped up and buzzed about the room with his usual intensity, shoving printouts into everyone’s hand. “As I was saying, there’s more combat power over there than you think. Here are the details. I’ve worked everything out with the Cubans. In exchange for most favored nation trade status and some other direct aid, they will support the liberators with the full weight of the Revolutionary Armed Forces.”

Another military man took over for the smarting general. “Um, I’m not seeing much in the way of weight here. A few dozen obsolete planes and even older warships. Where are the troops?”

Esterline grinned knowingly. Or psychopathically, as some critics worried. “That’s where our brave Floridian Freedom fighters come in. Come now, we will use the barbarians, but we won’t repeat Rome’s mistake. No foreign fighters on our soil! But we can take advantage of their support to get our people into Miami.”

With a flourish, he produced his own digital projector and computer. The leadership crowd stared awestruck at the fabulous projections on screen. Crazy or not, you have to admit he believed every word he said. Sincerity always lends a certain credibility.

“If we launch a diversionary attack along the border, where they’re expecting us anyway, the Gaul’s–I mean Feds–will leave Florida totally exposed. Their occupation forces are scattered all over the state. They aren’t ready to meet an external invasion. Practically all of the Air Force and Navy are deployed along the border or in transit to blockade our coast. They are naked. We need to hit now! While they’re still weak and disorganized.”

More heads nodded than at the beginning. President Salazar carefully studied their expressions. Even a few of the military ones were in grudging agreement.

“Ok, I think we have plan. This is a low risk, high payoff proposition. Unless we come up with something better, it’s time to set a date. Can we be ready by next Monday?”

The general knew when he was beaten. Well, at least they’d have the element of surprise. Who in the USA would guess they’d do something so reckless? “Yes, ma’am. We can be. On 17 April, we’ll launch our offensive.”

Esterline’s face held no sense of triumph. He didn’t feel any obstacle had been overcome. The outcome of this meeting was never in doubt. His scheme was the best way to go; anyone could see that. He refilled his water glass yet again and let his mind run loose with the million little details to be worked out. No matter who ran the operation, this was still his war.

Chapter 13

1 April

Where the name United Republics of America came from is still shrouded in historical uncertainty. The favorite story claims it was first used in a heated exchange between Ms. Salazar and the president shortly after his emergency term extension. During one of the last conference calls, just before reunification negotiations broke down for the last time, her assistants and their federal counterparts were at each other’s throats. She and her rival president ignored the insults and teenager-like threats their staffs traded–mostly.

The president’s staffers mocked the concept of a rival government and in particular her status as the legitimate president. In response to the remark that, sure, there were two Americas, the USA and the United Sociopaths of America, she stepped into the debate and coined a new term.

“The first President of the United Republics of America would like to speak to the last President of the United States of America privately.” The legitimate sounding URA silenced the president’s men. She drew a solid and dangerous line in the sand by showing that they’d moved well beyond legal squabbling and headline grabbing.

The least favorite, though most likely story, claimed the name was a product of some LA advertising agency. The well-crafted result of countless focus groups. It’s also possible that both versions hold a little truth.

Origins aside, a name was finally necessary if they were ever going to achieve complete legitimacy. It was getting confusing every time so-called federal officials warned of the dangers from other people calling themselves federal officials. URA authorities vehemently denied they were in any way, shape or form seceding from the Union, even as they redesigned the flag. Those early days were confusing, to say the least.

One unintended consequence of the title adoption is that it gave foreign powers a government to recognize. Not that anyone in Sacramento had sought such recognition. Some back channel feelers were put out, but the initial feedback wasn’t reassuring. Formal requests were not sent out to foreign governments over fear of the political embarrassment rejection could cause.

But this didn’t keep some traditional enemies of the US from immediately recognizing the newly minted URA as a legitimate nation. Iran and North Korea issued friendly press releases the same day California passed the Freedom referendum. The compliments were accepted by Sacramento with awkwardness. Unsure of the appropriate response to this unwelcomed support, URA politicians did the same as their USA counterparts–they ignored it.

One nation no one could ignore, however, was the People’s Republic of China. In a tongue in cheek mocking of the USA’s long standing quasi-recognition of Taiwan, they announced their own “One America” policy shortly after the name adoption. While publically stating that there was only one America and one legitimate American government, they chose to remain neutral and not oppose either claimant. This roundabout granting of legal status to the new regime from someone actually important opened the diplomatic floodgates.

Within weeks, most non-NATO members accepted some variation of China’s policy. And China didn’t offer just moral support, either. Apparently, in the diplomatic world, there is a huge difference between “not opposing” and “not supporting” something. In less than two weeks, a private, nonprofit “Chinese Institute of America” opened in Sacramento.

This new nongovernmental organization graciously offered to perform citizen and consular services, as well as serve as a point-of-contact for trade issues in America. Not in the USA or URA, but simply in “America,” according to their website. That this company employed double the staff in their sprawling office park as the official embassy in DC surprised no one.

That the onsite manager of this firm was not a high-ranking Chinese bureaucrat, but a senior Chinese military officer was surprising, though. Oh, the general resigned his post to work “in the private sector,” but the deputy operations officer of the Chengdu Military Region Special Forces doesn’t walk off the job without official sanction. In fact, the company had a strange habit of recruiting almost exclusively from ex-military, intelligence and foreign ministry workers in the PRC. All mundane administrative details were outsourced to some local US company.

Washington’s reasoned response to this insult was to return the PRC ambassador’s passport. At the urging of Congress, the president reluctantly ordered all PRC missions in loyal areas closed. Two weeks later, a terrified Taiwan received the official recognition from a spiteful US Senate they always wanted…just as all US military forces were being withdrawn from the Pacific. Mainland China’s outrage was epic. But who cares, what could they do way over there?

The greatest annoyance for the California led republic was how helpful the PRC’s were. In Beijing’s eyes, the only thing better than one giant export market like the US were two markets. They were supposedly the communists, but man oh man, did they have a lot of ideas on how to profit from the crisis.

From day one, they’d been proposing one scheme after another to increase military cooperation between the two countries, in order to strengthen “mutual defense.” Proposals to trade military technology fell through when it was clear they had little to offer. Their hopes to sell arms to the provisional government likewise fell on deaf ears.

Never mind that there were good reasons the Chinese government stole weapon designs from the US and not the other way around. The big driver behind the growing military buildup in the URA was as much economic as political or strategic. Too many jobs had already been lost in the economic devastation of the last few months. Sacramento officials tactfully, but firmly made it clear that these new defense contracts would go to domestic sources.

Undaunted, their representatives persevered with one creative scheme after another. The solution they pushed the hardest, though politely rejected every time, involved getting Chinese troops stationed in the new country. With foreign peacekeepers on hand, the USA would never dare attack for fear of starting World War 3. The Chinese seemed genuinely interested in the security of the new government. They were even surprisingly frank about their rationale. A hot war would be a disaster…but an inter-American Cold War would be pretty damn good for business.

To be fair, that last point was echoed by many movers and shakers throughout both Americas.

***

3 April

Fort Myers Beach

Three federal MRAP 4x4 trucks coasted lazily along Estero Blvd. Thirteen soldiers on board scanned their sectors just as casually. Between the stunning view of the Gulf Coast a hundred yards away and the bikini-clad girls playing volleyball, they were far from alert. Their “patrol” was more in an armed Baywatch style than the expected wet version of Iraq. Which suited the men just fine.

The lead truck’s gunner enjoyed the best view. “Dude, all these years I bitched about the Army sending me to shitty, dusty places. I always hoped we’d invade somewhere with a beach! I just joined the Service too soon.”

His driver was equally impressed, but less enthused. “Except that these are fucking Americans, man. I got an aunt who lives in some retirement village around here. How crazy is this shit?”

“What ain’t crazy about the military? At least this time the craziness is hot…” Their sergeant lost track of his thought as he admired some hot pants wearing chicks rollerblading past them and waving.

Seemed a lot of people around here had respect for the US Army. Just as many flashed thumbs up at them everywhere they went as glared with unshielded hatred. Of course, the majority in this town didn’t give a damn one way or the other. Things were way different farther north, where the real combat took place, but down here, you felt on vacation rather than on duty.

The gunner stuck his head into the truck. “No bullshit, Sergeant, how long you think we can milk this? How long until they send us to the front?”

“Hell if I know. I am but a mushroom. Same as you. Kept in the dark and fed shit.”

The know-it-all driver already had everything worked out. “As soon as they figure out where the ‘front’ is. Remember Kansas? They were staging a whole shitload of gear and troops there when the state just upped and joined this ‘New America’ thing. No referendum, no speech making, just called out their Guard and closed the border to everyone except those Western militias.

Most of the armored vehicles and heavy equipment were surrendered in exchange for allowing the trapped troops to leave unharmed. It was a huge disaster, and all over the real news. We lost, like, a division or so of gear without hardly firing a shot. How do you invade a country that has no fixed border?”

“Yeah, I heard about that. But you forgot about all the guys that didn’t leave. Even the liberal news outlets admitted that thousands stayed behind and joined the enemy.”

The sergeant’s voice cut in with deadly seriousness. “It’s best to forget about them. Nothing good can come from discussing this. You hear about these desertions all over the country…but they’ll start cracking down on them at some point. I don’t mean a slap on the wrist either; I’m talking real bad shit.”

The new specialist in the back finally pitched into the conversation. “I know what you mean, Sergeant. In my last unit, they were chaptering people out of the Army left and right. Make one joke that some officer takes the wrong way and you’re gone.” He snapped his fingers and laughed. “I’ve never seen anything like it. There used to be no way out of the military once you raised your right arm, and now people have to fight tooth and nail to stay in!”

He suddenly stopped laughing. “At first, I mean, that’s all they did. Just kick you out. The day before I was transferred here I heard about some rough shit going down.”

Everyone was all ears. “A bunch of guys being kicked out hit up the armory on their last night. Made off with most of a company’s worth of small arms and machine guns. No one knows if they went out west or what. Several guys still on active duty were arrested for ‘aiding and abetting the enemy.’ The colonel even talked about executing the highest-ranking one! I transferred out the next day, but I hear the whole base is on lockdown still. No one can trust anyone there.”

The driver’s voice oozed skepticism. “I didn’t hear about that and I read every issue of the Army Times cover to cover.”

The sergeant threw up both hands. “A lot of stuff gets conveniently left out of the Times. It used to be pretty good, mostly independent, even if cheesy. In the last couple of weeks though, Christ, it’s like some propaganda piece out of World War 2.”

“How fucking old are you, Sergeant?”

The NCO bit off a comment about being old enough to knock up the driver’s mother. He had to get these dumbasses to pay attention. As usual, they weren’t taking things seriously enough.

“Listen, I believe him. All the higher ups are nervous as hell and suspicious of every damn little thing. As I said, you should watch what you say. Speak your mind around me; I don’t give a shit. I think you’re all idiots anyway, but remember, these are ultra-sensitive issues with the officer folk.”

The driver spit out the window. “You are what you lead, boss!”

The NCO reached over the radio mount between them and playfully punched his helmet. “Shit, they’re wasting too much money with these new loyalty tests nowadays. What we really need are IQ tests!”

The driver flipped him the bird. “Seriously, Sergeant. Think about it. What they’re doing is stupid, even by the Army’s low standards. Just let these bitches go if they want to puss out.”

The new guy was the thoughtful type. “Most of them aren’t chicken, really. I know at least one of them pretty good. He was a real badass–got a Silver Star back in Helmand. Just went AWOL and drove back home to Idaho the day they joined California’s stunt. He emailed me after he enlisted in their ‘Army.’ They gave him an immediate promotion to staff sergeant and now he’s a damn drill instructor. He has a class of a hundred civilians that he’s turning into soldiers. Say what you will about his politics, but he’s got guts. That’s no pussy.”

The gunner hollered down the hatch. “Speaking of pussy, when are we going to get a chance to mingle with the locals, hmm? Try to win some hearts and ass.”

“It’s hearts and minds, dipshit.”

“Believe me bro–I ain’t picky about her mind!” Even the uptight new guy laughed.

Their NCO took one last look around the peaceful, idyllic beach island. “Maybe we ought to mosey our way back to the FOB.” He radioed the rest of the section.

“Alright, boys, let’s head on back to Naples.” The horny soldier above him moaned. The NCO grinned and added a quick FRAGO. “On second thought, let’s grab a bite to eat along the way and do some ‘relationship building’ with the natives.” The gunner clapped him on the back and hooted.

It didn’t take long for the hulking armored trucks to get off the island. After the dense beach district traffic, the two-lane causeway heading towards the mainland felt wide open. The convoy crossed a bridge and roared onto an even smaller sandbar called Lovers Key State Park. What a beautiful name for such a terrible place.

A few seconds after crossing the bridge they saw something that made them slam their breaks hard. A 10-foot gator lay sunning itself in the middle of the road. None of these fellows had ever seen one before. This was Florida after all, but still…

Novelty spooks a professional soldier like a break in routine puts a dog on edge. The NCO barked immediately over the radio. “Watch your spacing. Crew served’s: give me 360°. Dismounts out and do your 5 x 25’s, over.”

The convoy took up defensive positions without further discussion. Those soldiers that weren’t driving or manning a “crew served” machine gun got out in pairs and began searching for threats. The “5x25” system is, by now, a basic counter-insurgency tactic. One soldier would take a knee and cover his partner. The other man advanced in five-meter increments, scanning intently his immediate vicinity for signs of IED’s, until he got 25 meters away from the vehicle. The whole effort seemed incredibly out of place in this vacation retreat, but SOP was SOP. No matter how ridiculous.

Even after each element reported clear and any possible moment of surprise had clearly passed, their section leader still felt uneasy. He personally approached the gator and cleared the surroundings. No telltale signs of anything. Only after his gunner scanned the full perimeter twice with the vehicle mounted thermal set did he begin to relax. The hi-resolution imaging equipment was top of the line. Even in broad daylight it could penetrate through the thick bush on both sides of the road and find anything lurking nearby. No one was around for at least a hundred meters.

“Is the Warlock still on?” shouted the section leader.

His gunner back in the truck made a quick check of the vehicle’s electronic signals jammer. The manufacturer claimed that this big green box created an impenetrable “bubble” of electronic jamming within a 300-meter radius. The entire electromagnetic spectrum, except for those bands used by friendly radios, was thoroughly denied to the enemy and any radio-frequency command detonated IED’s. From cell phones to garage door openers, nothing was supposed to get through. It even worked, more often than not. What more could you hope for with technology?

“Roger. Full strength and not actively intercepting anything.”

Maybe he was overreacting. This wasn’t freaking Afghanistan, after all. Let the dumbasses take a few pics with the gator. “Alright, get your damn photos, but stay alert.”

Despite his standard issue gruffness, the sergeant figured it was pretty damn cool too. He took photos for his guys while still throwing one eye on the Mangrove trees around them. He couldn’t quite put his finger on the problem, but something puckered his asshole. A car horn honked behind the convoy.

“Keep them back! No one passes us until we’re done. You know the drill.”

At that point, something clicked. The whole time they were playing there, not a single vehicle had come from the opposite direction. They were just so used to the traffic parting for them that no one thought twice about why no oncoming cars came their way. After so long stopped here…that couldn’t be an accident.

The gunner who swept the entire area with his thermal sight paid no attention to the heat signature from the gator. It never crossed his Minnesotan mind to wonder why a cold-blooded reptile would have a warm belly.

One of the soldiers, the bravest, if not the brightest, poked the mini-dinosaur with his rifle. “This gator is dead,” he announced with authority as he also lifted the tail.

“Contact 12 o’clock–get down!” The explosion drowned out everything the NCO screamed after “contact.” Not that hitting the deck does much good when a 50 pound artillery shell, surrounded by hundreds of BB’s packed in a bag inside the gator’s belly, blasts off at your feet. It took hours to police up all the tiny pieces of the two guys that stood over the gator.

The bomb even shredded the NCO diving to the ground five meters away. His body parts were mixed in a bag with his men. They would need DNA testing to sort it all out.

The troops in the high speed “Mine Resistant, Ambush Protected” armored trucks were unscathed. But all that advanced armor did little good if you were dismounted. They’d always feel a little survivor’s guilt after nearly every man outside the vehicles were killed or to some degree wounded.

Several hundred yards away, blocking the other bridge on the far end of the island, a couple of exceptionally well-armed policemen didn’t jump when they heard the blast. Instead, they hopped back into their squad car and tore off back to the mainland, away from the explosion. The piled up traffic could finally go ahead.

A few minutes later, a report reached the occupation headquarters in Orlando. An aide stuck a black flag pin into a wall map of Florida. The colored pin represented location and type of lethal insurgent attack. This was the first entry on the map, but far from the last. The board would be full by the end of the month.

***

15 April

A hot spring

So many politicians on both sides accepted the arms buildup as an end in and of itself. In their world, power and influence are products of your perceived strength. Wasn’t a large and well-equipped military the same thing as having strong poll numbers? Holding strategic points surely the same thing as having powerful political connections.

You weren’t expected ever to use those muscles; just having huge biceps should keep you from ever getting into a fight. Your impressive appearance alone should be able to bend people to your will. Most of the time, things worked out like that. However, if you look too tough, then people get worried. And scared people aren’t the most rational.

Never mind the psychological nonsense involved–the arms race was good for business. So many people were poised to make a hell of a lot of money by tripling the size of the current military. A lot of people needing jobs, a lot of arms makers needing more business and a lot of politicians needing campaign contributions. All of this led to a lot of bullshit.

From the West to East Coasts, dying manufacturing hubs found a new lease on life. Maybe pumping out more tanks and artillery than trucks and industrial machinery, but hey, it’s all still capital goods. Most importantly, it’s all solid profit on the balance sheets.

*

The economic disruptions of the last few months removed the most important safety valve in US/China relations: being major business partners. Competing nationalistic and ideological differences could be held at bay and defy the historic odds, so long as both sides worked towards a shared purpose. Without the common goal of making a quick buck, these two extremely ambitious peoples were inevitably going to butt heads. The only thing surprising is that it didn’t happen earlier.

China had their back against the wall. Their biggest export market was trying its hardest to rebuild a real manufacturing base at the same time demand from the rest of the world slumped in the worldwide economic crisis. A young, new Chinese middle class watched their jobs disappear as fast as their hopes for a better future. After getting a taste of the high life, of all the luxuries and security a bit of money could provide, they’d be damned if they’ll meekly go back to sustenance farming.

One foreign firm after another closed their Chinese operations and reinvested back in America. Starting in the 70’s, this economic realignment took two generations in the US before an entire middle class lost their jobs to China. Imagine if those fundamental changes all happened in just one year? And that the good jobs weren’t being replaced with at least low paying positions in a bourgeoning service industry. If the good (ish) life was simply yanked away and sent overseas almost overnight? Millions of Chinese workers didn’t need to use their imaginations; they witnessed the painful tragedy destroying their lives in real time…and they were pissed off. Naturally, the people looked to their leaders for salvation.

To call the Politburo of the People’s Republic of China communists is not accurate. They have one belief, only one goal to strive for: staying in power. They are pragmatists first and foremost. Communism, capitalism, democracy, etc…these labels mean little to them. To the leadership caste, all these ideologies are mere fashions to be either embraced or crushed, depending on the mood of the masses. If the majority of the population were to convert to Scientology, then Tom Cruise would be installed as premier overnight. They’d do whatever it takes to protect their comfortable place in the world

So, when facing the greatest internal unrest since Tiananmen Square, it was no surprise they looked outward for options. When the US snatched Alaska back into the Union with a lighting airborne strike, Chinese outrage rivaled that of the URA. More importantly, the PLA was in a position to back up their rhetoric with hard action. The oil and abundant natural resources in Alaska were merely bonuses. The real prize would be the fighting itself. Nothing pulls the people together like an external war. The threat from “the others” is always good for a lot of mileage.

Similar logic dictated the forcefulness of the US response to any foreign intervention, but they had an additional factor in their strategic calculus. Everyone kept sticking their nose into the US’s problems. The whole world thought they were entitled to a say in America’s future. The most forceful of which were France and Russia. Both pushed hard to set up UN peacekeepers along the URA/USA border. The Administrations on each coast pretty much decided how they would respond to any direct foreign interference ahead of time. The only question was who would be the test subject?

Despite all the secrecy the Chinese tried to maintain, mainly out of habit, there was little surprise when their fleet finally sailed out of Guangzhou late at night. In the age of satellite surveillance, they didn’t waste time trying to obfuscate their route once at sea. Watched by the world, they made a beeline for the Bearing Straight. One sternly worded diplomatic protest after another by the United States was either stalled or simply ignored.

Logic backed up that Chinese arrogance. All USN ships and aircraft had long since been pulled out of the Western Pacific. They also presumed far too much on their solid relations with the URA. Not once did anyone in Beijing try to coordinate with them, but just assumed they would help distract the US defenders. The enemy of my enemy is my friend, right?

Never before had the PLA projected so much power so far from the mainland. Indeed, just to assemble and place the flotilla steaming non-stop towards the Gulf of Alaska took nearly everything the country could muster. Thirty of their best transport and support ships, including a few commercial ones pressed into service, were escorted by thirty of their most modern warships. Only thirty escorts because they were all the somewhat advanced long-range combat vessels seaworthy in the entire fleet.

Despite major logistical challenges, the Chinese put together an impressive show. The centerpiece of the armada was the Liaoning short-deck carrier–China’s only real aircraft carrier, bought cheaply from the Ukraine years ago. They’d spent a fortune renovating and modernizing her. If not carrying any helicopters and loaded down exclusively with fixed-wing aircraft, she could launch all 46 J-11 multi-role fighter bombers China owned, some of the best jets in their inventory.

In addition, all 24 ultra-modern SU-35 fighters China had bought from Russia, flown by the best pilots in the PLAF, circled directly overhead to furnish even more air cover. It took every single midair refueling tanker in their inventory to keep them on station, but it was worth it to make the USAF think twice about interfering in their business.

Nearby, two commercial freighters, converted at great cost to serve as amphibious assault ships, rounded out the mobile air wing. Between them, they could sortie 60 helicopters for the initial attacks to augment the scores of hovercraft and old-fashioned landing ships. It was no D-Day armada, but still more than enough firepower to get the job done.

The whole point of all this heavy metal was to deliver the fleet’s human cargo: 18,000 of China’s best marines, Special Forces and airborne troops. The cherry on top of the cream of the crop. According to their intelligence, they would easily outnumber US occupation forces by at least 3 to 1, and probably match them in quality. Between Canada’s diplomatic stubbornness and URA forces tying the USA down, once the airfields in Alaska were secured, they could likely reinforce their bridgehead faster than the Americans.

Those ships, planes and troops here represented a tiny fraction of China’s complete strength, but the forces involved came from the only fraction that mattered. On paper, the People’s Liberation Army was a two million-man behemoth. But not all men are created equally. The vast majority of that military consisted of poorly trained and educated conscripts armed with obsolete equipment. Worthless in a modern war against a foreign power, but dangerous internally.

Merely a fraction of that horde were a qualitative match for Western militaries. Only a small core of loyal professionals were properly trained and armed with the nation’s most modern weapons. It was this same irreplaceable elite the PRC committed to their little game of Risk. “Never gamble with more than you can afford to lose,” sounds like a Chinese proverb.

The ships in the fleet packed themselves together much closer than necessary for modern naval combat. All their surface-to-air missiles and fighter escorts were compacted as densely as possible, in order to provide maximum protection from US airstrikes. That was the only real threat, since what was still loyal of the US Pacific Fleet operated much farther south, trying to blockade the West Coast.

According to their satellite intel, not a single US naval vessel patrolled within 400 miles. It’s possible a US submarine or two lurked undetected nearby. They could hurt the force, but had no real chance of stopping them. Against all odds, they caught the US with their pants down.

The Chinese admiral commanding the invasion drank in the freezing air from the bridge. His historic mission cruised 800 miles northeast of Attu Island, which the Japanese briefly overran during the early days of WW2. The Gulf of Alaska still beckoned 100 miles east, and their target even farther, but he could barely suppress his excitement. Even the Japanese, at their most powerful, weren’t able to get so much combat power so close to the US mainland. He checked his watch again.

They’d begin launching their first softening up airstrikes in just a couple of hours, as soon as dark finally set in. These 14 hours of sunlight up here in the Arctic Circle were a pain in the ass. In the meantime, he wanted to enjoy his fighters swatting this incoming American reconnaissance flight out of the sky. He raised his field glasses along the azimuth his radar people suggested. How unbelievably arrogant of the round eyes to toss just two small fighters against his fleet. Well, time to educate the barbarians.

Despite his vantage point, he didn’t see much of what happened. The initial sunbursts from both cruise missiles blinded him before he could comprehend what hell was being unleashed upon them. A few moments later, as he nearly had things puzzled out, the blast wave reached his carrier.

He dived inside the armored bridge reflexively, not that it helped. A freight train of overpressure tore away the entire top-heavy control castle of the ship and chucked it playfully into the sea. Only a few twisted girders remained. Dozens of expensive aluminum planes and hundreds of highly trained personnel on the flight deck were simply erased from existence.

The flashes from the twin 176-kiloton nukes, exploding exactly three miles apart and 25,000 feet high, were seen all the way across the Bering Strait in Russia. Partly because they were looking for them. Moscow, like every other nuclear capable nation on earth, received about five minutes advance notice of the attack. Never a good idea to spook your nuclear equipped neighbors.

Both nukes were intentionally detonated at high altitude, so called “air bursts,” in order to reduce fallout. Every hi-tech plane orbiting the fleet either disintegrated or was forced to ditch in the frigid blue below. However, only 5 of those 60 ships were actually sunk outright. An AEGIS knock-off cruiser and a giant roll-on/roll-off transport full of marines directly beneath the blasts were practically vaporized. Three small destroyers not too far away also capsized, but everything else stayed afloat. Seaworthiness aside, the fleet was utterly destroyed. Forty more ships, including both aircraft carriers, were so badly damaged above the waterline as to be left floating derelicts. The few lightly damaged vessels and the even rarer unscathed ones, such as submarines, rushed in to pick up survivors. A noble but fruitless gesture.

Modern warships are not the steel-clad floating fortresses of old. Such ships might have given some protection from the radiation. The thin aluminum vessels employed nowadays provided little more safety from the gamma and neutron rays than the skin of the crew inside.

Any of those sailors, airmen or troops in the core of the fleet blessed enough to survive the twin nuclear detonations already received lethal doses of neutron radiation in the initial brief pulse and God knew how many gamma rays from the intense local fallout. It might take minutes or it might take days, depending on how well shielded they were, for the radiation poisoning to overcome them, but their end was never in doubt. They were dead men walking.

Deadly men walking, when they were rescued by the relatively “clean” ships farther from ground zero.

Radiation poisoning is rarely incurred immediately. It’s the regular exposure to non-lethal doses that adds up to painful death. Most of the rescue ships pumped in thousands of gallons of radioactive seawater and sprayed it all over the place in self-destructive attempts to put out the fires. Others received their final dosage of contamination by immediately throwing those they saved into the ship’s showers. Flushing radioactive ash into the ship’s water system did not help things.

The Chinese naval command never bothered performing extensive NBC training before. Let alone invest in advanced decontamination equipment. Such a scenario was pure fantasy; they had far more pressing threats to address. During the long trip back to port, thousands would die because of this oversight.

By the time the remnants of the armada eventually limped back to within sight of the mainland only five packed ships were still afloat. All the others had been loaded with the daily wave of fatalities and scuttled. After 10 days of unfathomable hell, the scabby and mostly hairless survivors cheered weakly to gaze on home again. Constantly updating higher command of their plight paid off. The first rescue ships approached them still 50 miles from the coast.

Those coastal defense vessels launched two Silkworm ship-to-ship missiles into each contaminated vessel without so much as a “good bye” over the radio. Several helicopters thudded overhead to machine gun any survivors in the water. From the perspective of what was left of the Chinese government, this embarrassing little incident was finally over. Time to move on with their much bigger problems.

Once committed to repelling any foreign invasion with nuclear weapons, the US planned to go whole hog. Forces were staged to follow up the attack on the fleet with a first strike on China’s small nuclear arsenal. Many heated debates were held in the White House and Pentagon over that issue. The traditional wisdom made it clear that, with nuclear arms, there was no room to half ass things. Nuclear war has no scalable options. Either don’t employ the strategic weapons in the first place, or hit first and hit hard against all of the enemy’s counterattack ability. Anything less is naïve and dangerous.

Of course, in typical fashion, the USA decided on a compromise. Nuke the invasion fleet and eliminate China’s only nuclear equipped ballistic missile submarine with a conventional strike–all as a warning. An American P-3 patrol plane casually took care of that last task off the coast of the Philippines seconds after the detonations. The Chinese boat operated 500 feet deep; her captain convinced they slipped out of the South China Sea undetected. At least until their sonar reported splashes from two air dropped torpedoes.

The final touch to this strategic compromise, tacked on almost as an afterthought, involved punishing some of China’s senior leadership. Synchronized with the nuclear strike, the East China Sea suddenly gave birth to 36 cruise missiles. A North Korean patrol ship spotted the smoke trails originating from the open ocean, but since they were all heading northwest, it wasn’t their problem. They didn’t even report the incident. Who wanted to be the bearer of bad news in a dictatorship?

None of the three American attack submarines would ever be caught, though everyone knew they were operating in the area. A fourth sub, which lobbed twelve more missiles towards a target in Shanghai, likewise escaped. With the best of the PLAN deployed out of theater, the Chinese had limited options to hunt them all down. Their second string naval forces weren’t exactly chomping at the bit to take on the best of the US Navy.

Shanghai had little to do with the overall campaign, but one target in the suburbs represented an opportunity Washington couldn’t pass up. If you’re already hitting the Chinese mainland, why not the headquarters and main support facilities of China’s frustratingly effective cyber warfare unit?

The US wasn’t so stupid as to believe they could destroy the internet with bombs. It was just that they had no equivalent response to China’s thousands of organized hackers and cyber terrorists. In line with America’s standard operating procedure, they proceeded to bomb the shit out of anything they didn’t understand. You could argue the attack was crude and totally out of proportion, but you can’t argue its effectiveness.

The rest of the Tomahawks soared at wave and then tree top height nearly 500 miles towards Beijing. Almost an hour later, cruise missiles slammed through the roofs of more than thirty targets. Each penetrator warhead violated the upper floors of the doomed structure and spurted its 1,000 lb. HE load deep inside the packed buildings.

Only two of the targets, a senior PLA leadership bunker and an admin building, were clearly military targets. The others wrecked seemingly random political offices, private residences and a few commercial sites. Regardless of how the attack looked, the US just killed or severely wounded more than 50 of the PRC’s top bureaucrats, generals and businessmen (in China, the last two were often the same).

The blast wiped out a hundred more faceless, but valuable assistants and advisors, further hampering the effectiveness of the surviving leadership. Not a single elected PRC official was harmed. The goal was to decapitate China’s real leadership, not to kill symbolic targets. Only three out of seven members of the Politburo Standing Committee were killed though. The rest weren’t where intelligence claimed. As things turned out, that was okay. Those three deaths opened up more than enough opportunity for ambitious younger men.

Before ambulances and fire trucks even arrived on scene, the NSA briefly took over all digital radio and television stations across the country. Most devastatingly, they managed to hack every ISP’s filters and unblock all internet sites in China. Millions of young, educated Chinese read Western news and history uncensored for the first time in their lives.

Adding yet more fuel onto the fire, the US president’s pre-recorded short speech went out to millions across the People’s paradise to explain what happened. His popular persona, even overseas, patiently detailed why the US struck back and promised to end all hostilities, as long as no PLA personnel crossed the International Date Line. Millions in China, who bought into their country’s propaganda about how incredibly dangerous that American president was, found his proposal reasonable and generous.

In the People’s Republic, you can’t just “write your congressperson” or sign a petition. There was only way to get the attention of their insulated leadership: on the streets. Not by protesting, but by dragging those old men out into the open.

His speech was deadlier than any nuke. With the most loyal and dangerous core of their military gone, dozens of their most dynamic leaders killed and the already restless masses taking to the streets, the country’s ultra-centralized government imploded. Succession of leadership is always the Achilles heel of authoritarian regimes.

The People’s masters might have handled an orderly transition of power better if they weren’t under such unprecedented pressure. Within hours, a military coup brought some order to the political chaos. Until it was followed by a populist counter-coup, which then sparked a counter, counter-coup from the Ministry for State Security and…well, things were confusing for a while.

Historical records from this early anarchistic period are skimpy and unreliable, but what’s certain is that within weeks this cycle of violence plunged China into a full-fledged civil war. If you can call a war between at least six different sides civil. The conflict with the US petered out almost immediately since neither side could effectively hurt the other without resorting to nuclear weapons–and the mutually assured destruction that would entail. Eventually, a snobbish Russia helped broker an armistice.

The domestic effects of this mini-war on Americans were also striking. Some hardliners in Washington hoped that the slaughtered Chinese would serve as a terrifying example to these URA fanatics. They were half-right. The moderates did get scared. Scared right into the arms of the extremists who’d been warning about the Feds’ insanity all along. What little support the president still enjoyed in the West was permanently undermined.

On the other hand, except for providing a few more converts to the “freedom fighters” in the insurrectionist South, the victorious and bloodless (to America) war strengthened the president’s support among his base in the East. Americans love a winner. US news/propaganda networks relentlessly hyped up the silent role the URA played. Eastern television spun their inaction as culpability in allowing a foreign power to attack the US mainland. What more proof do you need that these people wanted to destroy America?

One unspinable result of the nuclear strikes was eliminating any chance of further foreign interference in the American conflict. All talk of deploying UN peacekeepers, or any type of unilateral or multilateral military intervention, abruptly stopped. Not even America’s allies were willing to get too deeply involved with these nuclear cowboys.

For better or worse, the Second Civil War would remain a purely American disaster…or opportunity.

The Beginning

“Shock and Awe,” Book 2 in the Operation Enduring Unity Series is available as a complete novel from Amazon.

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