Power Games: Operation Enduring Unity I (7 page)

Two kilometers southeast of the Ammunition Holding Area

24 January: 0430

Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump!

The barrage in the distance hit all at once, but you could hear the distinct explosions if you listened carefully. Alpha Company’s CO was not easy to make out on the radio over all the small arms fire and shelling.

“Roger. That was 155mm art…casualties…enemy…about company strength, over.”

Lieutenant Colonel Anderson’s tone held the calm and clarity that only someone not under fire could. “Gator 6, this is Eagle 6. In your assessment, can you disengage and fall back into cover in the AHA, over?” Silence from the radio, but the steady stream of semi and full auto fire in the distance told the story.

Sergeant Major Brown practically hopped up and down. “Damn it sir, we’ve rounded up enough loose vehicles here and no one has made a move to retake the airfield. We could get a company over there to help fast.”

Lieutenant Colonel Anderson frowned. “They’re almost two kilometers away. Our lines of communication are far too tenuous, even with mobile resources. Our force is spread thin enough as it is. I can’t risk dividing it further. Doctrine calls for fire support…XO, keep pestering higher for that close air support! No more excuses from them. Make our situation crystal clear.”

To his credit, the colonel didn’t waste time with “might have been’s.” Nor did the sergeant major bother with “I told you so’s.”

The radio came back to life before either could speak. A new voice called this time.

“Eagle 6, this is Gator 3-7, over.”

A platoon sergeant? The colonel knew the answer even before he asked. “This is Eagle 6. Where’s Alpha 6 actual, over?”

“Gator 6, he’s KIA, break…near as I can tell, I’m Alpha 6 now, over.”

“Gator, Eagle. Can you disengage, over?”

There wasn’t any hesitation. “Negative, Eagle 6. Too many wounded to move and too much open ground to cross anyway, over.” The firing appeared to die down somewhat.

“Gator, Eagle. Can you hold your position, over?”

Again, no hesitation. “Not for long, break…they’ve already flanked us and are in the AHA in large numbers, over.”

Colonel Anderson gritted his teeth and threw a glance at the sergeant major. Brown looked contemplative for a change.

“Eagle 6, they’re keeping us pinned down until they get the
Bradley
armored vehicles loaded with ammo. It won’t be too much longer until they’re done. When they come, we got nothing to stop them, over.” The colonel chewed on that for a long time, all while fiddling with his VMI class ring.

“Eagle 6, this is Gator 6. Did you copy my last, over?”

The radio operator clicked the mike on and tried to answer. Anderson grabbed it back. “Roger, Gator 6. I copy…break…break…the surrender of your command is at your discretion, over.”

Brown snatched the mike away from his commander. “Wait one, Gator 6.”

Voice barely above a whisper, he growled at the enlisted men. “Let me talk with the Colonel alone.” The two enlisted soldiers melted away fast. Even the XO found somewhere else to go.

“Don’t you fucking dare, sir! You make a command decision right now. Don’t force a junior NCO to make that type of call to save your reputation. Man up and tell them to…” he had to spit the word out, “surrender, or tell them to die to the last man, but it’s
your
responsibility, not his.”

Someone burst away with a
SAW
light machine gun on the far side of the perimeter, towards the highway ringing the field.
M4
rifles joined in a second later…not all as outgoing fire.

The battalion executive officer came back to their huddle. “The Guard’s just probing the perimeter, sir. Trying to define the battle space. Don’t worry. We have tight 360 degree security.”

Anderson finally spoke up. “Little good it does us when they have armor and artillery.”

The XO finally stopped his perpetual scowling. “We’re working on that, sir. Brigade promised to scramble a few F/A-18 fighters. It’ll take them nearly an hour to get on station here and you’ll have to personally approve every strike, but it’s something.”

The sergeant major needlessly kept pushing the forward assist button on his M-4, an old nervous tick of his. “They don’t have an hour. Minutes, tops. Make a call, sir. I’ll back you either way.”

Anderson stretched out his hand. “Am I allowed to communicate with my command now, Sergeant Major? If you don’t mind, I’d like to be in charge of this unit for a minute.”

“Hooah, sir.”

The colonel never broke eye contact with him as he took the mike. “Gator 6, Eagle 6, over.”

“Gator 6, over.”

“You are authorized, correction, you are
ordered
to surrender your element to the enemy, over.”

“Say again, over?”

“This is Eagle 6, you heard me. You’ve all done a fine job, but there’s nothing more to accomplish there. This is not Afghanistan. I’m not going to throw any more lives away over this crap, over.” The radio was silent so long the colonel thought he’d lost another leader. The curt reply spoke volumes.

“
WILCO
, out.”

The colonel bristled at the shorthand for “will comply.” He’d been around long enough to know it also served as polite enlisted code for, “Fine, I’ll do it, you jackass.”

The livid executive officer ran back to their huddle and waved the Sat phone in disgust. “They called them back, sir! Straight from the president! He overruled headquarters. Only explanation was some bullshit about not wanting to ‘escalate’ things. That fucker even relieved General Jacobi for refusing to comply.”

Brown dropped back on a knee. “So? I knew that promise of close air support was too good to be true. Fuck it; we didn’t have the fast movers before. We haven’t lost nothing.”

“No, Sergeant Major. I don’t mean just them. I’m talking about the rest of the brigade! Our follow on relief, the Tallahassee task force…everyone! They cut us off. We’re ordered to hold in place until further orders. Oh, and avoid taking or inflicting casualties!” To the open-mouthed faces gathered around he added, “I swear, you can’t make this shit up!”

A familiar, clanking whine far too close cut off the bitch fest. A short salvo of 25mm high-explosive rounds landed harmlessly in the middle of the airfield. Things just went from bad to worse beyond belief.

Some nearby soldier, valiantly but comically warding off the hulking Infantry Fighting Vehicle with his under-barrel mounted grenade launcher shouted, “Sir, the lead Bradley’s waving a white flag.”

The colonel clasped his hands behind his back so no one could see them shake. “About time! I thought they would never give up!” What an amazing effect one lame joke could have on so many men with so little hope. By the time Anderson stood in the middle of “no man’s land” and saluted his full bird Florida colonel counterpart, the quote had been passed everywhere along the 300 man line. Growing more defiant with every retelling.

*

“Sir, that proposal is unacceptable.” Lieutenant Colonel Anderson took off his
K-Pod
helmet as well. More for the opportunity to slide out of the oven for a moment than as a show of trust. Even a winter night in Florida was hot for a Maine man. The armor and helmet added a good 15 degrees, easily.

“I grant you our present situation is unfavorable, but if necessary, the gloves can come off. I will designate this entire base a Free Fire Area and call in the full weight of my air support. We have accomplished our primary objective of occupying this airfield to prevent additional atrocities. We haven’t advanced farther out of concern for inflicting unnecessary casualties, but we–”

Florida’s newly famous Colonel Beauregard, who hadn’t even bothered to put on his
IBA
body armor, slapped his knee and laughed.

“You’re something else, all right! I wish I had you on my staff back in Afghanistan negotiating with those assholes!” He paused to savor his opposite number’s sour look.

“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. We’re all using the same radio frequencies and the same
COMSEC
encryption codes. I’ve really enjoyed your XO’s pleading with your headquarters. You don’t have any mortars, no anti-armor ability, no reinforcements coming and sure as hell no air support.” His smirk disappeared as iron crept into his voice.

“All you’ve got is blood on your hands, a president who abandoned you and 300 outgunned, outnumbered and surrounded men. Internment is the best deal you’re going to get. You have one hour to talk to your officers and see what your superiors think. If they’ll even bother communicating. They seem quite willing to wash their hands of you all. Remember, that hour ceasefire is a gift. Professional courtesy. Dismissed, Colonel.”

Anderson didn’t even offer a half-assed salute in reply.

24 January: 0445

Florida’s Attorney General Francis Pickens hung up the phone in confused disgust. Half an hour wasted arguing with various staffers at the White House and all he could get was a promise that “someone will call you back.” They still didn’t believe the governor was really in the hospital and incommunicado. They were like a dog with a bone, trying to get back in touch with him. It was even harder for them to believe that the dithering moron of a lieutenant governor wasn’t interested in stepping up.

Pickens sure didn’t have a problem believing either. About the only thing surprising with the governor’s stroke was that it hadn’t dropped him years ago. The heart of anyone who drinks and smokes that much was essentially a ticking time bomb. His number two was just the high school dropout, hillbilly brother of some major campaign contributor. His hardest assignment to date centered on representing the governor at monster truck rallies. They only stuck him on that China trade trip to give time for the sexual harassment allegations to blow over.

Florida sure needed some strong leadership in this vacuum and that’s what he was trying to give. Pickens had made the tough decision to expand the Guard call up to protect every federal building and he personally ordered those senior federal workers to be placed in protective custody. In some cases, they were saved straight from the hands of lynch mobs. Somehow though, this all came off as provocative to DC. “Escalations,” that idiot White House staffer called them.

Pickens had even held a press conference explaining it all. Tried to, at any rate. Never before had he seen such a polarized press corps. They kept shouting him down trying to outdo each other with ever more outlandish accusatory questions.

He couldn’t even secure the attention of that egotistical dipshit in charge of the FNG force at Camp Blanding. While the attorney general was nominally the commanding officer of the state guard, during times of crisis the senior professional military officer on the scene took over. At least he would return Pickens’ calls, even if he then ignored all the orders merely to contain the paratroopers and try to avoid any further bloodshed.

Pickens wanted to sack the man so badly and had the authority to (probably), but wouldn’t that create its own set of problems? Would firing the most senior officer willing to stand up to the Feds destroy the Guard’s cohesion? Thereby removing the only real bargaining chip he had, or would those strange military people ignore him and carry on with their business, in effect staging a coup? Would Washington interpret the action as a peace overture or weakness? There were too many damn unknowns and things kept happening way too fast. If only he could have a little time to think!

Pickens weighed whether to fly out to Blanding and personally oversee the operation or not, when the former governor’s chief of staff interrupted and let himself into the office. It was the first time Pickens had seen a smile on that jowly face all day. Now the staffer laid it on pretty thick.

“Hey, Picky, I’ve got some good news for a change.” The attorney general bristled at the nickname. For years there wasn’t anything he could do about it since the fat man was an old college roommate and hunting buddy of the governor. Well, he also couldn’t do anything about him now. It was a shame that this prick’s expertise and inside knowledge were needed during this crisis.

As soon as things settled down, oh would this Bubba be out on his ass fast. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out, type of out. The chief of staff assumed Pickens’ smile was because he enjoyed the nickname. He took a seat, unoffered.

“I just got off the phone with Senator Dimone’s campaign manager. They want to set up shop down here. In Orlando, to be exact. Well, fleeing for his life from the mad dictator or some such craziness is how they’re spinning it. I’ve already chartered a plane to pick him up and promised on your behalf to grant, get this, ‘asylum!’ ” He couldn’t get enough of his own wit.

“The senator’s staff will be calling any second to hammer out more details. I wanted to be the first to congratulate you.”

“On what? This just complicates everything even worse. I’m doing all I can to keep things from falling apart here, and now this asshole wants to use the anarchy in the streets to score a few publicity points against the president. He’s one more headache I don’t need.”

The staffer looked shocked. “I guess…you haven’t had time to think this through. Step back a second. You just got bumped up to the big leagues. That was the governor’s whole plan and you’ve succeeded where he failed. We’re no longer a chess piece in this game between the Washington elites. We’ve picked a side! We’re no longer a prize they both have to compete for; we can tip the scales in the senator’s favor. In anyone’s favor, for that matter. We’re both the audience and judge!”

He threw up his hands as Pickens just frowned.

“Think about it. Previously, you had the senator up against a corrupt Congress and tyrannical president but backed by the Supreme Court. The quintessential ‘People’s Champ,’ but before you came along, he was just an idea without a host.”

“Like a parasite,” chimed Pickens dryly.

“That’s what I like about you, Picky. Even throughout all this you can keep a sense of humor. Well, call him whatever you want, but they’ll call you the People’s Champion. If we can convince a few of the Justices to ‘flee’ as well, the opposition’s public support will collapse lick split. Take a look at the polls, man! The Supreme Court’s opinion ratings are higher than the president’s and Congress’s numbers combined! Which horse are you going to back?”

The attorney general hated to admit it, even to himself, but that was a damn good point. What a huge chance he had here. They both forgot the fact that this wonderful opportunity was made possible only through the unwilling sacrifice of so many lives. Well, they didn’t completely forget. It was just that their egos were so large as to assume they could fully manage the situation and prevent any further bloodshed, while somehow still orchestrating victory.

Like so many “great men” throughout history, they were terribly wrong.