Power Games: Operation Enduring Unity I (6 page)

Southeast Georgia

24 January: 0230

“Colonel Anderson, I gotta tell you one more again. In my 15 years in uniform, from Afghanistan to Syria and everywhere in between, I ain’t never seen a more half-assed, hare-brained operation than this. Sir, this is hands-down the dumbest mission I’ve ever been sent on.”

Not many people could talk to the battalion commander like that and even fewer would try, but Command Sergeant Major Brown wasn’t most men. The lieutenant colonel sighed. “I’m not terribly excited about this myself, John, but at least we have the element of surprise.”

The Mississippian spit the last of his dip into an empty Dr. Pepper bottle. “Fuck surprise, sir. I’d rather have artillery! I mean, I’ve seen some political shit, but that pencil dick from the White House staff telling me which weapons I can bring on a mission takes the cake! Rifles only. No heavy weapons? Good God! Well, I couldn’t do anything about the big explosive gear, but we were pretty selective about defining the rest of the weapons.”

The big man gave his boss a sly wink. The colonel tried not to grimace. A smile from Brown was never a good sign. “Don’t worry, sir. I followed those orders to the letter. No ‘heavy weapons’ came with us.”

Brown turned to the side and shouted down the rows of tightly packed paratroopers. “Ain’t that right, boys! Who’s got a weapon that’s too heavy?” A dozen machine guns and grenade launchers pumped in the air. Twice as many young men grabbed their crotches and cracked dick jokes.

The colonel, quite used to these excessively macho displays of self-affirming aggression among the yeomen class of landed freeman infantry, simply ignored them. He fiddled with his VMI class ring and frowned at his senior enlisted advisor. “Sergeant Major, that’s why I leave the details to you. Frankly, you are correct in your assessment of the tactical situation. We have no air support, no organic fire support of any kind in fact, and at least four hours lead-time until the rest of the brigade conducts a movement-to-contact. Not to mention that the, ah, less than transparent rules of engagement will present many command and control challenges. It is my intent–”

The sergeant major slapped him on the back. “You
must
be nervous, sir, if you’re getting all technical War College on me. Don’t you worry none. We’ll secure that airfield and ammo dump right quick and then curl up like a masturbating porcupine until reinforcements get there. That’ll make the rules of engagement pretty simple: Stay out of our way or pay.”

The last was delivered as a yell and rapidly picked up in a “Hooah” chant from the rest of the company. The pilot’s “20 minutes till drop zone” announcement only heightened the war whooping.

*

Fifteen miles behind them and a couple higher up, two much more subdued Florida Air National Guard pilots switched on their radar sets. This electronic equivalent of a warning flare from the F-15’s did not go unnoticed. Guided to their targets by ground-based radar, the interceptors surprised the hastily thrown together federal task force. Surprised or not, two pairs of F-22’s flying escort for the cumbersome transports peeled back and rocketed towards the interference.

Over the emergency Guard radio channel a Key West twang laid down the law.

“Unidentified aircraft, you are not authorized to enter Florida airspace. Return ‘mediately to the nearest federal airfield or you will be considered hass-tile.” In the face of all that high tech death racing towards him, the bluff sounded impotent to the Guard pilot. To the thousands of people listening into the unencrypted channel though, he came across as deadly serious.

*

The Air Force section leader racing towards the National Guard flight couldn’t believe just how far off the reservation these nutty Floridians had gone. His slow Texas drawl didn’t disguise the anger he felt.

“All Florida Air and Army National Guard forces have been federalized by order of the President of the U ‘nited States. As the senior federal officer on the scene, I order allll National Guard elements to immediately stand down and return to base.” Not without a dose of showmanship himself, he couldn’t resist tossing in a little white lie to up the stress factor. “This is your first, last and only warning. Lethal force has been authorized.”

Another thousand civilians tuned in just in time to catch his empty threat.

*

The National Guard flight leader never paid much attention to all the talk on the news about the president trying to play dictator. Politics wasn’t his thing, but he sure started to believe the rumors now.

With a combined closure rate of over one thousand knots, the two sides didn’t have much time to make up their minds, or even to bluster further. Years later, historians would passionately argue about why the threat receiver light began blinking on the lead Air Force F-22. Provocation or malfunction, it really made no difference. Even explicit orders on both sides to avoid firing go out the window when you believe your ass is on the line.

Training, reflex and a dose of fear took over when the warning bulb flashed. Without any further confirmation of an attack, the Air Force flight leader uncovered his fire control safeguard and let a Sidewinder heat-seeking missile fly towards his Florida National Guard counterpart. His well-disciplined wingman followed suit without a second thought.

Barely two miles away was practically knife-fighting range for modern jets. At that speed, the missiles reached their targets in only three seconds. There wasn’t a point, or a chance, in evasive maneuvering. The National Guard pilots didn’t even have a moment to fear their oncoming death. They did have just enough time, at least, for one of the Floridian F-15 pilots to snapshot off a return missile before becoming a thousand flaming missiles his self.

All the US Air Force fighters passed easily out of the oncoming Sidewinder’s engagement envelope before it had a chance to arm. The five heavily loaded, slow C-130’s a few miles farther along were a different story. While ground controllers for both sides burned the airwaves up screaming about “deescalating” things, the fire-and-forget missile acquired a target and proceeded to avenge its atomized master.

*

Lieutenant Colonel Anderson stood straight and addressed his command team. Well, as near as possible for a man with 200 pounds of parachutes and gear hanging off him could. “It’s agreed then. After the complete loss of Charlie Company, we won’t physically occupy the ammunition holding area. Two platoons from Alpha Company will secure the entrances and engage anyone entering or leaving. The rest of the battalion sticks to the original plan to take and hold the airfield. Questions?”

Considering the situation, he was surprisingly calm. Of course, dealing with disaster is always easier than sitting around waiting for it. Especially from an officer’s point of view. Once things went to hell, screwing up further didn’t reflect so badly upon you. You didn’t have to strive to live up to some idealized standard. Simply pulling your unit through the ordeal makes you a hero.

Beside him, Command Sergeant Major Brown snarled. His focus was on much more prosaic concerns than his career. Ninety-two of his boys, not even counting the transport’s crew, just died without a chance to fight back. That was not something a man like him could shrug off to bad luck.

Pointing at the radioman, Brown clarified the only part of the plan that interested him.

“Screw all that political talk about a show of force. Those rebels have kicked things up to a whole new level. Consider Camp Blanding a hot landing zone. Ya’ make it damn clear that everyone knows the rules of engagement (
ROE
)
just changed. Positive ID is now all you need to engage. If they got a weapon, they’re free game. No complexities, no exceptions. I want every man briefed in the next five minutes and I want confirmation from each platoon sergeant.”

The young radio operator didn’t have the courage to defy the sergeant major by glancing at the colonel to confirm the order. The best he could muster was five seconds of hesitation to give his leader a chance to speak up. To give anyone a chance to speak up.

No one did.

So he followed his orders.

Northeast Florida

24 January: 0330

Private First Class Donaldson cursed as he soaked himself yet again with the supposed “deep woods” bug spray. “This shit’s about as useful as my Guard enlistment,” he murmured for the tenth time.

Just another big city boy from Michigan seduced by endless Miami Beach music videos, he convinced his parents that only the University of South Florida could provide that quality education they were always going on about. For the first couple of semesters the 19-year-old did manage to live the rap star life in bikini heaven while making, just barely, the grades needed to keep the folks off his back.

At least, that was before the interest rates doubled on his student loans thanks to some weird federal legislation. His father was “very proud” how he finally found a part-time job to help out, but that between his mother’s medical bills and the loan’s new costs, they had to “make some tough choices.”

Lucky to have found even a minimum wage job these days, Donaldson jumped at the instate tuition reimbursement incentive the National Guard offered. With the ink still wet on the papers, he called his father to tell him not to worry. For serving just one weekend a month and two weeks a year, the Guard would “pay for his future.”

Turned out, he lied. He wasn’t even out of basic training when, as part of some complicated “deficit reduction deal” in Washington, the state lost most of the federal contributions that helped fund the National Guard. Barely able to provide basic pay to their guardsmen, Florida wasn’t about to foot the bill for his education as well. Contractual obligation or not.

“Fuck!” He swatted, too late, at another stinging something. How could a swamp be so alive in January? Winter was just a word in Florida. It was cool getting sunburnt on New Year’s Eve, but this was ridiculous.

When that dumbass of a governor called up the Guard, Donaldson tried to weasel out, naturally. That’s when the stick-up-the-ass, ex-active duty NCO on the other end of the phone mentioned his contractual obligations. He saw now how sassing off about government contracts being binding only one way explained why he was spending all night guarding the access road entrance to a damn swamp.

“Son of a bitch!”

The older specialist in the guard shack glanced up from his porn magazine, chuckling at the stressed out skinny kid hovering around him. “What the hell, man?”

Donaldson ground his teeth and reached into his shoulder pocket. “Just thinking about shit. Here, I’m going to burn one. Keep an eye out, Hough.”

“Ok, but do it back in the tree line. If the on-duty NCO catches you, it’s both of our asses.”

About 10 yards away, in a slight depression surrounded by high scrub palms, Donaldson finally felt safe from his real enemy: Goddamn sergeants.

It wouldn’t be the last time smoking saved his life. No sooner was he out of sight than Specialist Hough heard something moving around in the dark. He naturally assumed the worst. That the NCO of the guard force was trying to sneak up on them as part of some “gotcha” game.

Specialist Hough sprang into textbook action. He shut off the shack’s interior light, swung his M16 to the high ready and lit the road up with his pivot-mounted halogen searchlight. He expected to hear a shout of, “Well done, soldier!” At worst, “What took you so fucking long?”

“Contact, 11 O’clock!” surprised him as much as the two controlled pairs coming right on its heels. The ceramic ballistic plate in his vest was designed to stop one hit, maybe two if lucky. With so many rounds striking him center mass at close range, the body armor shattered like so much porcelain.

Ten yards over in the brush, PFC Donaldson’s heart stopped at the burst of fire. Training told him to take advantage of his lucky position and engage the enemy in flanking fire. His gut told him to run like hell. Some small, rarely used part of his brain spoke up with much more practical advice.
Keep calm, don’t move, you’re vastly outnumbered!

With all the noise around, the crickets suddenly halted their incessant orgy. He noticed for the first time how dangerously quiet it got at night without the bugs. Convenient, since he couldn’t see much from his scrub palm redoubt anyway. The new voices clarified the situation just as good as seeing it.

“Clear!”

“Only one of them on duty? Fucking National Guard amateurs!”

“Does he need a medic? Maybe he’s not–”

“Ha! Way too late for that. Shit, he had a weapon, man. I mean you saw it, right? What was I supposed to do? The ROE are clear, he had a weapon…”

An older voice cut in. “Enough of that shit. You did well, but now the whole fucking camp knows we’re here. We need to get back to the ambush site at the other gate before their Quick Reaction Force (QRF) gets moving. Police this mess up and let’s go!”

Donaldson waited a good five minutes after it was dead quiet again before going back to the guard shack. His buddy’s body lay untouched. Well, almost. Someone emptied his ammo pouches and his rifle was missing. So was the shack’s radio.

At least they’d forgotten the backup phone. The warning light exploded. Thank God it had no ringer.

For the first time ever, he was glad to hear his sergeant’s voice.

“Rock on! You’re still alive. Listen up, Private. Things just got real. Enemy airborne came in about 15 minutes ago and they’re crawling all over the place. We’ve lost contact with the airstrip and the bastards are picking people off left and right. You hear anything, shoot first and ask questions later. QRF is heading your way, so don’t fire at the Humvees! They’ll reinforce your position. We need to defend the Ammunition Holding Area (AHA) until we can get the ammo and heavy weapons out, is that–”

“Sergeant, look, they’ve already taken the AHA. They hit us here a few minutes ago.” Donaldson finally admitted it to himself.

“Hough’s dead and they got our radio. I’m alive. I, uh, I got lucky.”

The NCO on the other end didn’t miss a beat. “No time for that now. You made it; that’s all that’s important. What is the enemy up to?”

Donaldson brought up the 4-power ACOG scope on his rifle. He couldn’t make out detailed shapes in the dark, but movement was clear enough. “I think they’re setting up an ambush site between the north and east gates. They can hit anyone entering either entrance from there plus cover the main road.”

“Are they now? Want to ambush my QRF?” Donaldson could have sworn he heard a purr over the phone. “You know, there’s an artillery battery that was out doing some night fire training earlier. I wonder if they still got a few rounds left. Where is the enemy
exactly,
Private?”

“Um, along the reverse slope of the safety berm. Straddling the access road about 300 meters northwest of my position, maybe a 100-200 meter front.” The fear in his voice finally gave way to adrenaline. “At least two platoons, but not a full company. I think they’re trying to dig in.”

“Do you remember how to call in an artillery fire mission, Private?”

Donaldson went pale thinking about this latest failure. “Ah, not really, Sergeant.”

“Don’t worry about it, kid. You just did. Find some cover. Danger close!”