GWOT VI - Order of Battle

GWOT VI - Order of Battle

"From little towns in a far land we came,
To save our honour and a world aflame.
By little towns in a far land we sleep;
And trust that world we won for you to keep!"
-- R. Kipling, 1918

There's a certain self consciousness about the California Republic.

We stand on the ruins of the past. But we stand.

The Capitol is not the old statehouse, nor is the Governor's Mansion in use. The state house will be put back into service when the Legislature is reconvened. The emergency census for redistricting is in progress, a necessary prelude to elections. Until then, it is offices. The Governor's Mansion is an overcrowded refugee shelter.

The bureaucracy necessary to run the California Republic sprawls across Old Town Sacramento.

In this maze of buildings, new and old, there is a compound that belongs to the California Military Department.

In it, I am meeting with a Major Rodriguez in Operations. It was slightly awkward; he'd been a Major for years, I'd been a Major for a day -- and yet outranked him by a lot. Politics.

"You've studied the situation in Iowa. What do you need?"

"What is the mission?"

"To stop the genocide."

"I can't use Bear Force."

"No. Ordinary troops."

"I need a brigade. But logistically I can't support one. The best I can do, the very best, is about six hundred troops. Even then it will be a strain on the stated UN logistics."

"Can you do it with six hundred?"

"Can I burn my boats?"

"Excuse me?"

"The old story about Cortez and the Americas. His men fought hard because they could not retreat."

And, when the UN screwed up my logistics, we could live off the land. Meaning the enemy.

"Let's talk force mix. Do you want any armor?"

"No. Too fragile."

"Huh?"

"Look at Homeland's experience with MRAPs. I don't want armor. I will want heavy weapons, and a lot of mobility. But not armor. If it comes to tanks I'm doing it wrong."

I started carving out the mix. About fifty-fifty, logistics troops and combat troops.

A vehicle maintenance company. A mess ("food") platoon. A POL ("petroleum oil lubricants") platoon. A medical platoon, surgeon heavy. A weapons _maintenance_ platoon. A transportation company, personnel but not their trucks. An intelligence cell. A drone section. A communications section, ELINT and jammer capable.

Two task forces of gun trucks. A company of military police. A platoon of heavy infantry, doubled on heavy machine guns. A triple-A missile section. A mortar section. A scout platoon. Attached countersnipers. A demolition cell.

Allegedly the UN would have their own artillery support. I would believe it when I saw it. So I didn't need a FIST team. I would call my own fire, if I did.

I needed three shit-hot captains: a MP captain, an infantry captain and a trucker.

Major Rodriguez and I started horse trading. He had to carve out what I wanted from what was available. And knowing how we were going to travel, I knew that we could take a bare minimum of vehicles - and that simply had to be the gun trucks. No way around it.

And an enormous amount of snivel gear. We would be a self contained expeditionary force. It would all have to be drawn from stocks and bundled up, and fit on the same cargo planes that took the rest of us. Ideally the heavy stuff cross loaded across the six trucks, too. For what happens when you lose one. Or two. Or four.

We would buy, borrow, beg or steal more transport. And my mechanics would keep them running, my fuelers would pump the gas.

Halfway through the meeting, we weren't done, the Major got a phone call. He hit 'PRINT' on our draft, waited only briefly for it to pop out of the printer, grabbed it and escorted me down the street, past the outer layer of secretaries, and to a conference room.

The Governor of California is a civilian. However, Pat is the commander and chief of all California's armed forces, and therefore rates a salute.

I saluted when I saw Pat sitting at the end of the table.

As always, Pat waved to return it. Then took the force mix printout from the Major's hand.

"Rodriguez, dismissed. Major 18, have a seat."

Pat scanned the list, scrawled a signature on the first page and the word APPROVED, and handed it to me.

"Major, I wish to be very clear with you about what the objective is here."

"Governor."

"Stop the genocide. Don't flirt with it. Don't try, don't attempt. Don't beg for resources or mobilize public opinion or work the world press instead. Find out who is behind it and stop them. However you can, however you must."

"That means killing. Maybe a lot of killing," I warned.

"That's why you were picked for this. Alviso. You're a killer. You've stayed on leash on the Border. This is an off leash situation."

Pat sat back.

"I just got off the phone with the Governor of Iowa. He doesn't have control over his own State Police. The last massacre was less than a mile from a major police barracks! He wants this genocide stopped. But the most likely outcome if he does it is that he will be shot in the back by his own guards.

"That's where you come in. You are a rogue element, you don't report to him. But he will keep his people leashed as long as your actions appear somewhat lawful. We all know who is doing this."

The Churches. I said as much.

"I can't send Bear Force. They are a scalpel when what is needed is a machete. You can't just kill their leaders, they'll just promote more and keep on coming. You have to break their will to murder.

"You know the story of the Rwandan genocide. How the UN did all they could.

"Don't do that. Do everything."

I thought a moment.

"Governor, I need to have this out loud and in the clear. My mission, is to prevent the genocide in Iowa, by any means. Am I also authorized at any _cost_?"

"Explain." We both knew I wasn't talking money.

"Any military commander must normally preserve his force. For self defense, to defend his nation, against future needs. The UN commander in Rwanda did that. They took few casualties. They saved many lives. But over thirty of them were killed, saving fifty thousand. Another eight hundred thousand died anyway.

"To do better than that, I have to accept great risks. Many casualties. Possibly my entire force.

"If we stop the genocide, can you accept fifty percent losses? Or even higher?"

Pat thought about it. Then some more.

Said very quietly.

"Major 18, you have done much for this Republic. You are sorely needed in many places. If the situation allowed me to, I would put you someplace very safe and never, ever put you at risk. That goes for every Californian I send with you, too.

"If you can stop this genocide …"

Pat picked up the force mix again.

"About six hundred Californians. Versus what, half a million Soldiers of God, if they mobilize? With over a million noncombatant lives at risk?"

I nodded.

"Major 18," and Pat's voice rang with the formality of command, "you are to consider your entire force and yourself completely expendable. You will receive written orders to this effect. Prevent this genocide or die in the attempt."

I stood and saluted.

I could see the anguish on Pat's face. That is why the indulgence of giving me my orders in person. So that I would have it clear from Pat's lips.

Pat was the politician, doing the job. Making sure that whether we came back or not, California's interests were protected. And if we all died, that our deaths still served the Republic.

I took a certain comfort in that. Not that we would win, not that we might be avenged … but that it would mean something.

"Dismissed. Odds favor, Major."

I nodded.

We would stage in Fairfield. We had days to do what would take an ordinary military force weeks. We would deploy as a rag-tag mix of units, no training or time to weld us together.

My officers and I would simply have to be the glue, instead.

Or, you know, die in the attempt.

GWOT VI - Logistics

GWOT VI - Logistics

The sprawling facility had changed hands several times during the War. Army Reserve, FEMA, Homeland, Resistance (briefly), Homeland again, then the Resistance for a while.

Now it belonged to the California Republic, and the plan was to keep it that way.

The sergeants looked at the order. Cubed out for air transport. To be broken down at destination. Humanitarian relief efforts in Iowa.

"That's an awful lot of machine gun ammunition for a rescue mission," the transportation sergeant commented.

"Depends on who you're rescuing from what," retorted the supply sergeant as he wrestled with the balky computer.

###

"We won't be needing much oxygen," the surgeon corrected. "This will be backpack medicine. We'll use it if we find it, but given a choice between O2 and dressings, I'll carry more dressings. But what we'll need is more instruments. And sterilizers."

###

"No conceivable volume of food could make any difference. Not at a pound per person per day. But a field kitchen, with spices… that's a game changer. We'll be cooking over open fires before this is over, and be grateful of the chance. Yes, the big knives. Do you think cows just fall apart into steaks and chops when you touch their nose?"

###

"This is my entire stock of water purification equipment!"

"And if you had more, we'd take that too."

###

The automatic mortar was a beautiful piece of equipment. 81mm bombs at one every two seconds, sharing the love almost as fast as rockets, and much more safely.

She shook her head sadly and moved on. Ammo hog.

This would be grenade work. Tube launched and hand thrown.

No one ever died from having too _many_ grenades.

###

"There's two field fuel testing kits available. One is in Los Angeles and the other in Redding."

"Get them both. Governor's priority."

###

Mo frowned at his son.

"No," he started and ended the conversation.

It was unspoken. One of them needed to survive to carry on the family line.

So Mo Junior was not going to Iowa.

This would be work for a master blaster.

Some bridges need to be built.

Others need to be blown up.

###

"Forty five cases of zip ties," the MP sergeant marveled.

"Twelve hundred feet of hempen rope. In one hundred foot lengths. Breaking strain between 400 and 700 pounds."

"What's that for?" a private asked.

"Study your task book. And your knots."

The private would find out soon enough. And nothing was as cruel as a poorly tied hangman's noose.

###

The gun truck had been captured from Homeland. Some of the guns had been stripped off. The ammunition feed system had been replaced. Armor added.

A ring of armed guards surrounded the gun truck, facing outward. Two of them carried the distinctive submachine guns of the Strategic Defense Force. For with to kill other California Republic soldiers.

Within the truck, an SDF Captain and the Major were fumbling with something.

They straightened and got out. Most of the armed guards were dismissed to their duties.

The SDF guards remained. They would remain, taking turns on watch, until the gun truck left to be loaded on the plane.

###

The engineer captain inspected the hand tools again.

"Three times the normal load of files and grinders," he noted to himself. "Not enough."

###

On the drill field, a peculiar evolution.

Thirty soldiers riding bicycles. Rolling forward, suddenly dumping the bikes, coming up with their rifles, walking forward, alternating between shouting BANG! and short runs.

"Again," their sergeant called.

The Major watching. Turned to his orderly.

"Check the roster. How many bicycle mechanics do we have with us? Find them, designate them, requisition tools and parts. I want a full bicycle shop with us."

"Where do we get the bikes?"

"Same place we get our food, our fuel and our vehicles."

###

Magnetic and plastic signs. Plug in flashing lights. Vehicle radios and antennas.

The stack of signs took up little space.

"CALIFORNIA REPUBLIC" with the Bear and "CA RAPID REACTION FORCE" for the sides of vehicles.

"100% SEARCH OF ALL PERSONS AND VEHICLES" paired with "IF YOU TURN AWAY YOU WILL BE SHOT" for security control points.

"KEEP BACK OR YOU WILL BE SHOT" for the backs of vehicles.

Plastic signs for wiring up.

"MILITARY ZONE, OFF LIMITS, THIS MEANS YOU."

"KEEP OUT OR YOU WILL BE SHOT."

"MINES" and "GAS MINES" in their deadly little triangles.

"DETENTION AREA. NO TALKING."

STOP signs they would acquire locally.

But some things are universal, whether you share a language or not.

A pointed rifle is an excellent STOP sign.

###

Most important of all. Military duct tape. Cases and cases of it.

Some things need to be stuck together.

Other things need to fall apart.

GWOT VI - Good Samaritan

GWOT VI - Good Samaritan

"If you meet the Buddha on the road, kill him." - Lin Chi, Zen master


The first thing that caught his attention about the girl was that she was naked.

He couldn't help that. But he had to look. She might have a weapon. Or be spotting for bandits.

She was naked, and bruised all over, and wild-eyed. But her frame was that of a young woman, not a child, and she had the muscles of an athlete.

She also had marks around her neck, thin red lines that made it look like someone had tried to strangle her.

He leveled his rifle.

"Who are you?"

She looked at him. Said slowly, unavoidably spitting a little blood.

"You have the advantage of me, sir."

"I'm afraid I do. These are bad times. I live here. You?"

"Passing through. Do you have a phone?"

He cocked his head. His wife was already on the phone to the Sheriff, who wouldn't come out.

Not at night. Not in Iowa. Not anymore.

"Yes. Who would you call?"

"Someone who will reward you richly."

He shook his head, and motioned with the rifle for her to keep her distance.

"No use for money. No use for games either. Who are you?"

"Corporal Sarah McConnell, 15th California. MP brigade."

He backed away hastily and made sure the rifle was pointed at her.

"Can't blame a girl for trying," she said next.

He'd come within half a second of having his rifle taken away from him. His own damn fault, for thinking she couldn't be a threat.

"Now, sir, my unit will be looking for me. If you help me, we will find a way to make it right. If you let me alone, I suppose we'll let you alone."

The threat was unstated.

"Be on your way, Corporal," he said at last. A pause. "Stock tank water's clean."

She turned for the stock tank.

She was not naked. She was unclothed. He could see the difference. And the deeper red marks on her buttocks.

He walked back to his truck, not taking his eyes off for fear she would turn back.

Rummaged a bit in the back, amid the tools and tarps and wire. Found a towel, found a shirt. Cursed himself, opened his first aid kit, removed some bandages, put them in his pocket. Thought about it. Added a roll of duct tape.

He walked halfway towards the stock tank. Held up the items, before her wary gaze. Put them down on the dirt.

Walked back to the truck. Started it. Backed up slowly, to make a wide sweeping turn around.

The lights warned him, even before he heard the music.

Soldiers of God patrol.

Big jacked up pickup trucks, approaching.

He stopped. Avoiding them was the same as running, which was the same as fighting and the same as death.

But he could die for harboring. And his family, too.

He rolled down his window and turned off his headlights as he waited. Turned on the interior light, so the Soldiers of God could see him clearly. Made sure his rifle was on the passenger seat, out of reach.

They turned down the music as they approached.

"Evening," the patrol leader said. A big burly man in the unmarked uniform of the Soldiers of God. But he had a collar.

"Evening, Reverend."

"Looking for trouble."

"Reverend?"

"A girl. Naked. Seen her?"

"No, Reverend. What do I do if I find her?"

"Shoot her. She killed two of my men. Then call us."

He nodded.

"Go home, farmer. We've got this."

He did as he was bid. The trucks spread out, on their search. Fortunately the ground was dry, not muddy.

Behind him, the night lit in fire. The world roared.

"GET OUT OF THE TRUCK!" the loudspeaker ordered. "DO IT NOW. LIE ON THE GROUND."

He again did as he was bid.

The Reverend was in the grip of a black and a Hispanic, both in patterned uniforms.

The Reverend's men were dead or dying.

"Use wire, save the zip ties," a tall lean man called to the soldiers trussing the dying. His collar winkled gold in the reflected light of the burning Christian trucks.

"Reverend. I am Major 18. What is your church?"

He spat.

"We are all Christians. You are a heathen and a heretic!"

"Pagan, actually. Reverend. You did not answer me. If you do, I will burn your church to the ground."

"Why should I tell you?"

"Because I will burn the nearest THREE churches to the ground if you do not. Tell me, Reverend, are you a Godly man? A Christian man? Save your neighbors if you are, for you will not save your own. Or yourself."

The Reverend tried to spit again, but his mouth was dry.

They pressed his hands against an electronic device, which beeped.

"Reverend. 1st Pentacostal House." A touch of another device. "Seven miles north north west. Excellent."

"We have computers too. You have family in California!"

"Actually, I don't. And if I did, Homeland would have taken care of that for me. And done me a favor to boot."

The Californian officer with the oak leaves, the Major, took off his left glove, held up his hand.

Ruined. Fingernails missing.

Slapped the Reverend with it.

"Three churches burn because you lack faith, Reverend. Any words for your neighbors, the ones you doomed for simple lack of Christian charity?"

"Fuck you."

"And that is why we will win, and you will lose. Reverend, as the commanding officer of California forces in the field, I find you guilty of the capital rape and murder of a California soldier, Sarah McConnell. The penalty is death. The sentence is immediate."

The Major looked around. There were no trees nearby. But there was the windmill for the stock tank. And a rope with tied noose hanging ostentatiously from the side of the gun truck.

"She's alive," the farmer found himself blurting.

"What?" the Major said, as the Reverend cursed and started cursing the farmer's soul.

With horror, he realized that he had not saved the Reverend … but had instead doomed his own family.

The Major motioned to his men. They beat the Reverend mercilessly and dragged him away some little distance. Then the Major approached the farmer.

"Where?"

"Nearby. Likely under the stock tank."

"California Republic!" called a female voice as rifles turned, proving him wrong.

"Out slow and careful," barked another female voice. "We will shoot."

"I know," Sarah said with her hands high in the air, as she got out of the back of the farmer's pickup.

"Corporal, you are out of uniform," the Major said mildly. "Report to the medic."

"Sir," she saluted crisply, and did so.

The Major considered the farmer carefully, motioned his men to return the Reverend. Made a slight shooing motion left and right, which caused the soldiers on either side of the prisoner to spread out, while still not letting go.

"Reverend. This man tried to save your life, at some risk. What should I do with him?"

"He is a traitor to the Church and a traitor to Iowa. Kill him!"

The Major sighed, drew his pistol with his good hand and shot the Reverend twice in the head.

"If you had said to let him go, I would have let you go," he said sadly to the corpse.

"No churches will burn today. Nor will your home. These men, these bandits, pay for all with their lives. Element, attention to orders. For capital rape, unlawful combatants, take their names, kill them now."

His men spread out. One of the wounded screamed until the pain woke him up enough to admit his name, then the gunshot ended his pain forever.

"Farmer. Nothing happened here. You were held at gunpoint. I killed all these men. I let you go. Go home. Tell no one."

Wearing someone else's uniform pants and the farmer's old shirt, Corporal McConnell interposed herself.

"Major, I promised him reward if he helped me."

"He didn't. Because nothing happened."

She saluted.

"Yes, sir."

"Leave your truck and your rifle. Walk home. And thank what Gods you believe in, every day for the rest of your days. Go now."

###

The Sheriff came at dawn with his posse. Of Christians.

They buried their dead, who had already been stripped by their killers.

They asked close questions of the farmer. They searched his truck. Searched his home. Threatened his family. Apologized. They had to be sure.

Then they left.

The farmer went back out to the truck, to finish driving it home.

It took him a moment to realize, the gas had been a quarter from empty.

Now it was full.