Power Games: Operation Enduring Unity I (19 page)

That job fell to the three advancing cavalry Troops now moving from column formation and spreading out over a mile front. Like a well-oiled machine, the battalion moved as one. The mortars, accurately directed by a pair of forward observers, began softening up the enemy’s position. Most of the tanks, centered along the highway, set up a base of fire to pin down and distract the rebel defenders. They carefully covered the rest stop and surrounding woods and farms in overlapping fields of fire.

All the while, the federal infantry, out of sight to the defenders, swung wide to the east to flank the enemy’s position. There were some dry-ish swamps and a small stream to wade through before they could take the enemy in enfilade fire. The ever-present Kiowa’s protected the attacker’s flanks and rear, as well as kept an overwatch out for any enemy surprises. No West Point professor could’ve dreamed up a more textbook perfect deliberate attack.

That’s why it was so shocking when things stopped going by the book. The lead federal Abrams disappeared in a cloud of asphalt and black smoke. When it cleared, the 72-ton vehicle looked fine, except for the flames pouring out of all three hatches the crew should’ve used to escape. Another one crossing through the grass parking lot of some tiny deep woods church lost the left track and the exposed commander’s arm to another mine blast. A third explosion on a side road broke another tank open, as well as two of her crew.

Simultaneously, enemy artillery, not mortars but real life 155mm howitzers, started counter battering the hell out of the federal mortar platoon. All four mortar carriers, caught in the open, were destroyed or otherwise knocked out of the fight in the first two volleys. Thankfully, the enemy guns moved on to some more important and distant target soon after.

The speed and accuracy of this shit storm implied the rebels had an artillery locating radar involved. Somewhere out there it detected their outgoing rounds, backtracked them to the source of origin and fed that grid to the enemy’s hungry guns. All in 25 seconds. One hell of a useful tool that the Feds also possessed…way up north in Lake City.

Oh well. You didn’t become a cavalry trooper by being the dithering type. Without any higher-level guidance, each Troop rammed their vehicles off the crowded roads and into cover. Crushing quite a few pine trees, farm fences and the occasional armadillo in the process. Finally, with a little maneuver room and partial concealment, they could pick out targets. Of which there was no shortage. Rebel Javelin and TOW antitank missiles blossomed from behind every rooftop and parked car ahead.

Now, tankers enjoy the protective cover of friendly artillery as much as the next soldier does. They just don’t stress so much when it’s not available. If the enemy is in sight, a tank’s 120mm smoothbore cannon is fire support enough. The radio world became deathly quiet as up and down the line each vehicle commander, regardless of rank, “fought his track.” From the Squadron commander to the most junior NCO, they were all busy shouting targets and directions to their gunners and fine tuning movements to their drivers.

The dividends of countless hours practicing and drilling spoke for themselves. In less than 10 minutes, the Feds had systematically disabled every exposed enemy vehicle and set every building on fire, including both gas stations in a series of beautiful explosions. For good measure, any potential rebel firing positions also received bursts of .50 Cal and 25mm fire to discourage resistance.

The squadron’s flanking force finally got around Olustee Creek and began pouring their fire into the surprised enemy. Well, not nearly as surprised and disoriented as the Squadron commander hoped. Either way, with the main infantry force engaged, it was time for the base of fire to get in closer. The federal Cav colonel calmly received the slant reports from his subordinates and dispassionately adjusted his line accordingly. From long training, he didn’t dwell on how few of his men were still able to move forward.

He left his sergeant major to organize the casualty evacuation and let his gunner engage at his own discretion. Fun as the colonel had getting his hands dirty, someone still must lead the unit. He checked up with his Troop commanders. Two of whom were only a few minutes into the job. Cavalry leaders led from the front, but what an expensive motivator.

No time to worry about that now. He made another fruitless call for close air support and was told to, “Wait, out.” Knowing the only air assets around were running low on fuel and would have to leave station soon, he committed the five remaining Kiowa’s to provide direct fire support for his dismounts and accompanying Brads flanking the enemy.

The colonel dropped the radio when he heard that sudden, fast ripple of artillery and mortar fire. The Cav. lieutenant colonel knew exactly what that meant. He should, because it was standard doctrine for a US Army unit being overrun.

Final Protective Fire.

“Shit! All elements: move in fast!” As a basic component of any defensive line, FPF missions were simply a last ditch wall of artillery fire. A pre-planned line covering each side of a unit at skin-scorching range.

An FPF fire mission has priority over all others and is considered a “net call order.” In other words, when an FPF fire mission is heard over the radio net, every receiving fire direction center in range drops whatever target package they have and lays in all available fires on that grid. The FPF can also include a “dead man’s switch.” If communication with the unit being overrun is lost and not recovered in the time allotted, the fire mission’s target is shifted to the unit’s last known location.

When you encounter that type of Steel Rain, the only logical solution is to push on hard, before a forward observer refines the fire plan more accurately. Get out of the kill zone and close with the enemy as fast as possible. Of course, that same WWI style charge is only slightly less suicidal than standing still and watching the firestorm waltz towards you.

Not an easy choice to make, but then again, that’s why it was an all-volunteer Army. Without hesitation, federal platoon leaders recalled their dismounts into the still firing Brads. Six dismounted eggs in one steel-clad basket had a better chance of survival than alone with the thin Kevlar eggshells they wore.

The Brads leapt forward at max speed through the shrapnel clouds, and surprisingly made it almost painlessly. One IFV was rocked by a near miss that threw a track off. The crew could only sit there helpless and praying as more rounds thumped around them. The only vehicle that took a direct hit was one that had hung back in “safety” to provide covering fire.

Seconds after kickoff, a 100 pound HE artillery round detonated against the weak turret armor of that overwatching vehicle. It didn’t so much blow the track up as simply disintegrate the Brad. What happened to the three men inside is… best not described. They at least died instantly, even if the bodies could only be ID’d by DNA testing.

By the time the infantry were through the “fire line,” they weren’t about to stop. Most of the rebel force had already extracted themselves, leaving a mixed company to cover their withdrawal. Without artillery or aircraft support, the cavalry had few options to catch the retreating enemy. So, they didn’t try. Instead, they focused all their energy into slaughtering that rear guard. Considering how many causalities they’d suffered, they were incredibly honorable by letting the wounded surrender, even if no one else.

When the shooting finally paused, only 10 federal Abrams and 20 Brads were still fully functional. All of the low flying Kiowa’s miraculously survived the artillery barrage, even if two were forced to land. They were so badly damaged they’d probably have to be blown in place. Almost 200 men dead or seriously wounded in just half an hour.

Every building around the intersection was either flattened or burning. Despite the damp air, a wildfire raged nearby. It would eventually consume hundreds of homes, since no fire departments would operate around here for days. One of the overpass spans had even collapsed and they would still be discovering bodies from both sides for hours. With the damage suffered to the cavalry unit, this would be their first and last combat operation of the campaign, but they jammed this peg into the grid square. Whatever that was worth.

5 March: 1345

Along a 50-mile front, the same scenes kept playing out. In order to feed General McDowell’s hunger to flush out the enemy as quickly as possible, the federal brigades split into individual battalions and, in some cases, operated independently down to the company level. The strategy sure covered a lot of ground astonishingly fast, but was the worst way to meet a concentrated enemy. While the media’s graphic departments pulled overtime churning out ever more outlandish holographs to spotlight every yard gained, the tiny rebel army was ignored.

At least until they stopped waiting around and began their own advance.

Despite being outnumbered three to one on paper, the Floridian Minuteman Brigade, fighting as one unit, easily gained the numerical edge against the scattered federal horde. A Fed platoon wiped out here, a company ground down there… the piecemeal slaughter adds up.

Of course, the going wasn’t so easy for all the rebel defenders. On at least one occasion, the Feds managed to consolidate their scattered units fast enough to surround a larger rebel force.

Of all the crazy battles in all the wars in all the world, Donaldson had to walk in to this one.

As Florida’s first “war hero,” Corporal Donaldson was one of the few regular soldiers assigned to the recently raised Minuteman battalions. Only a corporal, but his active National Guard status made him a de facto platoon leader among the militia folk. He scratched at the new stiches on his arm, courtesy of flirting with a Fed machine gun. The ricochet hadn’t punctured deep, but Donaldson never even saw the gunner. How was he supposed to be responsible for others when he couldn’t even cover his own ass?

Donaldson stood in the turret hatch and checked the spacing of his four Bradley’s. They all raced down the dirt backwater road exactly 50 meters apart. At least he hadn’t lost any of his guys yet.

Their counterattack against the Feds went great, at first, as disasters usually go. Donaldson’s mechanized infantry battalion stuck together and managed to slaughter one Fed scout platoon or company element after another. That success far exceeded their wildest dreams about simply repelling the invaders. Their excited battalion commander pursued the enemy far too intensely. As if he could somehow whip the whole Army singlehandedly.

Donaldson’s commander ignored the carefully crafted strategy of bleeding the enemy dry. In his wild hunt for more low hanging fruit, he wound up getting the whole battalion surrounded and trapped in some sleepy little town east of Gainesville.

Donaldson pried his eyes from his map and scanned the dense Spanish moss rushing past. They were in old school Florida, little changed from the frontier days. Donaldson expected to see a cowboy riding a gator at any moment. How many of these ancient locals witnessed the last time Yankees and Rebs squared off?

Worst of all, to Donaldson’s admittedly narrow point of view, was how his precious ass needed to be sacrificed to get the battalion out of danger. That was just the type of crap people expected from a hero.

His driver clicked in over the Bradley’s internal net. “How much longer, boss? Kinda creepy being so deep behind enemy lines without seeing anyone.”

In the commander’s desperation, he sent Donaldson to probe the tightening federal noose around them. To find a weak link in that lethal chain. Unfortunately, they found one. Donaldson half hoped they’d hit a solid wall and be forced to fall back immediately. Then someone else could do this bullshit. No such luck. They hadn’t bumped into a single soul during their five mile recon.

Corporal Donaldson clicked his radio and addressed his crack platoon of…well, anyone willing to follow him.

“Stay alert, everyone. ETA to our perimeter is two minutes, if we keep this pace-”

A double
whoosh
,
whoosh
from ahead stopped his heart. Donaldson stuck his head out of the turret and stared like an idiot. Even 50 meters back, he felt the concussion as two AT-4’s ripped into his lead Bradley.

Thank God his gunner wasn’t so mesmerized. While Donaldson hesitated, the gunner below laid their coax machine gun on the source of the smoke trails and suppressed the hell out of them. Some other vehicle’s gunner hit another unseen enemy rocket man just as he squeezed a third anti-tank round off towards Donaldson’s track. Being shot at the same time you’re firing tends to throw off your aim a little. Donaldson felt the heat on his face as the rocket missed his turret by two feet and kept on flying.

The close call snapped him out of his dithering. Time to nut up and do something.

“Dismount! Action, right!” Donaldson left his capable crew to handle the vehicle while he dived out the back ramp to fight with his men. He wasn’t a great leader, he was way too junior for his post, but he had one fundamental down: always lead from the front. That alone made him at least an okay leader. When he was on the street he waved at his dismounts and gave that ancient, magic infantry motto: “Follow me!”

As Donaldson plunged headlong into the thick pinewoods along the road, he didn’t look back to see what they were doing. No need to, since everyone was behind him. They jogged in a loose skirmish line for about two hundred meters before he called a halt. Taking only a few seconds to determine that his rapid firing vehicles back on the street still had the enemy pinned down, he organized the men around him.

The Florida Guardsmen bounded towards the federal dismounts, which, judging from sound, were still 400-500 meters ahead. By an incredible stroke of luck, Donaldson and his men somehow surprised the enemy. Just a few minutes more and they’d pay. He only had three fire teams, 12 men total, but showing up uninvited on the enemy’s flank is always a “force multiplier.”

They were just about to make contact when a series of explosions back on the street shoved Donaldson’s stomach into his throat. Through the trees, he couldn’t see anything. He tried to raise any of his vehicle crews on the radio. You didn’t have to be fucking Napoleon to realize that without a base of fire, a flanking attack against an enemy of unknown size is a mistake. Blessedly still unnoticed by the enemy, he called back his guys.

The mission, his mission, was a failure. To his credit, Donaldson adapted to the situation quickly and without too much self-recrimination. He wasn’t an officer; he didn’t try to salvage his reputation with unnecessary aggressiveness. He did the best he could to sidestep the enemy and slowly work their way back to friendly lines. About 10 minutes later, friendly’s made it to them.

You can imagine his delirious relief to hear a Brad clanking in from the north. He ordered the survivors of his unit to hold their position while he hopped out of the bushes to welcome their reinforcements. He slowed just as he emerged from the tree line and saw the smoke column up the road marking the remains of his unit. The guilt and shame of losing most of his platoon so easily slowed him down. He paused to light a smoke and shake the shame off.

*

The federal troops in the track a few feet away were curious as hell who this new dude was. Not one of their guys. All their dismounts had taken off in the other direction. You had to be careful since the enemy wore the exact same uniforms and, for the first time in over 150 years, spoke the same language. Well, anyone that’s shouldering his weapon can’t be that much of a threat.

The flick of his cigarette lighter finally calmed the crew down and made the gunner relax his grip on the coax machine gun. Who would attack them with a cigarette in hand? The battlefield here happened to sit exactly on the boundary between three separate companies, so there were a lot of friendly strangers running about. The track’s commander dropped down into the cabin to open the rear ramp and meet the new fellow.

Donaldson was pleased to see a regular guard platoon leader when he slipped through the ramp door. Thank God, their main body must have finally linked up with them. That meant his mission was no longer needed. He excitedly explained where the rest of his unit was hiding and what little he knew about the enemy’s location. Donaldson idly wondered why the guy looked so confused.

If it was strange how the LT’s eyes widened when he looked closely at the unit insignia on Donaldson’s shoulder, it was downright insane when he whipped out his 9mm. The frightened corporal grabbed the man’s gun hand while telling him to calm down and take a breath. There was no reason to worry. It will all be over soon. The LT was, by this point, freaking the hell out. He fired fast and wild at this rebel psychopath who’d infiltrated his track and wanted him to accept death calmly.

Donaldson fell to the floor with this shooting nutjob on top of him. The LT’s body, while doing everything it could to kill him saved his life by shielding him. Blasting away with a high velocity weapon inside of a sealed metal container is a dangerous game. Each of the dozen rounds ricocheted multiple times off the deck or ceiling. Donaldson couldn’t hear when the rattling finally ended. It would be several minutes before his ringing ears would stop hurting and any sound came back. He only noticed it was over when the guy on top of him mostly stopped moving.

Shoving the twitching body away, he wound up puking into the cavity that used to be the back of the LT’s head. The sight of so much vomit mixed with brains and blood only made him heave harder. He spun around to take his eyes off that horror, only to see the driver’s cleaved open face grinning back at him. The poor bastard must’ve crawled into the crew compartment to see what all the fuss was about. Dry heaving by this point, Donaldson dashed up the turret to try and get some fresh air.

The gunner’s riddled body blocked his way. The poor guy had taken his IBA off to move more freely about the cramped turret. Sitting behind several inches of sloped armor, he must’ve felt safe. The gunner died so fast he barely had time to regret that call. The man’s body slouched over both the fire control switch and turret traverse lever in that tightly packed turret compartment. Donaldson didn’t need to hear anything in order to feel the 25mm auto cannon blasting away uncontrollably. He yanked the gunner off the controls and finally got his head out of that hellhole.

And right into a new hellscape. The other three tracks in the platoon were shredded. They had taken up firing positions in a rough circle around their commander and weren’t ready for their own platoon leader to open fire on them. Not one member of the other crews managed to get out of the flaming death traps in time. The rest of Donaldson’s men swarmed in and mopped up the shocked dismounted survivors.

Donaldson’s previously dejected troops could not have been more gung ho and motivated after an example like that. Watching their skinny young leader calmly waltz into the mist of the enemy, fucking cigarette in hand, slaughter an entire track’s crew and then wipe out the rest of the platoon’s vehicles singlehandedly was the most badass, Audie Murphy-style shit they’d ever seen. They weren’t just going to sit back and watch. No, the Guardsmen wanted a piece of the action.

For his part, Donaldson still didn’t know what the hell was going on. It was hard to wrap his mind around the idea that some of his brothers in arms could turn traitor. He didn’t mention it when he grabbed the radio mike. Who would believe him? Instead, he called for fire support on a large enemy force moving towards them from the south. He switched the radio to preset channel four, his battalion command frequency. As luck would have it, on the captured federal radio, those settings happened to be the Fires net…the direct line to the artillery.

Several miles away a thoroughly confused fire direction center busily plotted a fire mission. The terrified young soldier calling for support was using an unknown radio call sign and had an odd reference point to the target… well, the map had these particular grid coordinates free of friendly forces at the moment.

Since the Department of Defense had temporarily shut off the GPS network just a few minutes ago, to deny its access to these surprisingly high-tech rebels, the artillery were forced to rely on more old fashioned methods to keep track of friendly forces. In this swirling, running fight even a few minutes delay in updating a unit’s location could falsely show a unit miles from its real position.

In normal circumstances, they would have double-checked with the appropriate battalion headquarters. Of course, these were far from routine times. Besides, the artillerymen weren’t immune to the desire for action. This unknown unit was one of the few in range to receive fire support. The chance to save a platoon about to be overrun by this surprise enemy force was overpowering. The mission was approved and rounds flew downrange in record time.

Needless to say, with the federal artillery busy shelling their own side, the Florida breakout went relatively smoothly. A perplexed Corporal Donaldson received the first battlefield commission since Vietnam on the spot by his grateful colonel.