GWOT V preview - The Border Is A War
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drewkittyGWOT V - The Border Is A War
[This is a preview snippet for Global War of Terror Part V. In GWOT I, the Firecracker War begins after San Francisco is nuked, and Echo 18 was there too. In GWOT II, Echo 18 does whatever it takes to keep a corporate campus going. In GWOT III, Homeland has some questions for him about the Resistance. GWOT IV turns the tables.]
"Atten-SHUN!" the battalion NCO calls. He turns to me.
"21st California, present and accounted for, sir!"
I limp forward, walking along the lines of personnel. Male and female, aged fourteen to seventy, uniformed in khaki fatigues, boots polished and gear properly worn.
They are not exactly soldiers, but not exactly civilians either. Legally they are citizen militia. Practically, their training is cursory. In experience they are rich. Every one of them has fought in the 2nd Civil War. The amnesty covers the living as well as the dead, so we will draw a merciful veil over for which side.
Morally, their actions are now my responsibility. I am their commanding officer.
Behind me, the NCO and the color party watch as I inspect. I am looking at faces, not boot polish.
God, some of them are so _young_. But their eyes are so very hard. The architects of the Firecracker War have so very much to answer for. In Hell.
Three platoons of thirty infantry soldiers, a three battery of three 120mm towed mortars, a headquarters squad and a technical detachment.
Not much to tack down twenty five miles of international border, all of which is now ours. The United Nations detachment from Cambodia and Fiji is withdrawing next week. While we parade, they are patrolling and maintaining a reaction force. We will start joint patrols in two days. All too soon, they will be gone, off to the next hot spot in the chaos of North America.
Mexico has made it very clear that if we do not hold the border, if we do not stop the flow of drugs and guns and refugees south, that Mexico will do it their way. However, they don't give a shit what comes north. That's all our problem.
That's the other reason I have the mortars. To serve as a tripwire to keep the Mexican Army and its cartel adherents on the correct side of the line in the sand, giving the California Republic time to concentrate and respond, with armor rather than light infantry. But by then we'll all be dead.
We're still part of the United States. Kind of. But the entire reason California has had to raise its own battalions is because we are all still coming to terms with the 2nd American Civil War and how it ended. Or at least how we hope it has really, truly ended.
I reach the Mortar Platoon's line of standing soldiers. Unlike the others, they are all men. Also unlike the others, they are all in great physical shape. Every single one of them has a gas mask carrier fastened to his belt, and three injectors in a kit carried in the left leg BDU pocket. Behind them, hooked up for towing to Toyota pickup trucks, are their three mortars. Ammunition is in the beds.
I wander over and inspect. I see a colored band around some of the shells. Base color gray, banding is green. Each truck has a piece of what looks like blotting paper taped to the rear window, over the truck bed.
I am in command of a mass destruction capable unit. Those shells are nerve gas, and if I order it, they can make people do the funky chicken and flop in convulsions and die horribly.
I walk back to look at the HQ squad and technical detachment. I know two of these people. One gives me a fierce grin. The other is carefully blank in expression.
One of the power drones is set up on the tarmac for my inspection. Payload forty pounds. Typically equipped with cameras and what we are all calling a laser target designator. It's actually a mass blinder - locks on eyeballs and lases them, causing temporary or permanent blindness depending on the power intensity chosen by the operator.
Some of the mortar shells are laser guidance capable. With the help of a person-carried "laser rifle" or an equipped drone, a shell can be targeted so precisely that it can be dropped on the rear deck of a Mexican battle tank.
The other skill of the 'technical detachment' is shown by the single ambulance, also towing a trailer stocked to the brim with medical supplies. A battle surgeon, two paramedics, an orderly-driver and - of all things - a social worker.
The battle surgeon and I know each other. As far as I know, she still doesn't have a license to work on humans. Meow. But in the last four years, she ran an infirmary for me, an aid station for the Resistance, then a prison infirmary for me again ... and now, a medical detachment.
Not really a demotion. She's the source of all the medical care anyone in my unit will get, whatever happens to us. And any help we decide to be generous enough to give to anyone else.
Mountains and desert, between San Diego and Yuma, in harsh terrain and harsher climate. Everpresent dust. Trash everywhere. Sun that cooks your skin and bakes your bones.
And people desperate to come North, or go South, carrying their little packages of badness, madness and/or sadness.
It is my job to stop the flow.
Like a tampon.
And just as disposable.
[This is a preview snippet for Global War of Terror Part V. In GWOT I, the Firecracker War begins after San Francisco is nuked, and Echo 18 was there too. In GWOT II, Echo 18 does whatever it takes to keep a corporate campus going. In GWOT III, Homeland has some questions for him about the Resistance. GWOT IV turns the tables.]
"Atten-SHUN!" the battalion NCO calls. He turns to me.
"21st California, present and accounted for, sir!"
I limp forward, walking along the lines of personnel. Male and female, aged fourteen to seventy, uniformed in khaki fatigues, boots polished and gear properly worn.
They are not exactly soldiers, but not exactly civilians either. Legally they are citizen militia. Practically, their training is cursory. In experience they are rich. Every one of them has fought in the 2nd Civil War. The amnesty covers the living as well as the dead, so we will draw a merciful veil over for which side.
Morally, their actions are now my responsibility. I am their commanding officer.
Behind me, the NCO and the color party watch as I inspect. I am looking at faces, not boot polish.
God, some of them are so _young_. But their eyes are so very hard. The architects of the Firecracker War have so very much to answer for. In Hell.
Three platoons of thirty infantry soldiers, a three battery of three 120mm towed mortars, a headquarters squad and a technical detachment.
Not much to tack down twenty five miles of international border, all of which is now ours. The United Nations detachment from Cambodia and Fiji is withdrawing next week. While we parade, they are patrolling and maintaining a reaction force. We will start joint patrols in two days. All too soon, they will be gone, off to the next hot spot in the chaos of North America.
Mexico has made it very clear that if we do not hold the border, if we do not stop the flow of drugs and guns and refugees south, that Mexico will do it their way. However, they don't give a shit what comes north. That's all our problem.
That's the other reason I have the mortars. To serve as a tripwire to keep the Mexican Army and its cartel adherents on the correct side of the line in the sand, giving the California Republic time to concentrate and respond, with armor rather than light infantry. But by then we'll all be dead.
We're still part of the United States. Kind of. But the entire reason California has had to raise its own battalions is because we are all still coming to terms with the 2nd American Civil War and how it ended. Or at least how we hope it has really, truly ended.
I reach the Mortar Platoon's line of standing soldiers. Unlike the others, they are all men. Also unlike the others, they are all in great physical shape. Every single one of them has a gas mask carrier fastened to his belt, and three injectors in a kit carried in the left leg BDU pocket. Behind them, hooked up for towing to Toyota pickup trucks, are their three mortars. Ammunition is in the beds.
I wander over and inspect. I see a colored band around some of the shells. Base color gray, banding is green. Each truck has a piece of what looks like blotting paper taped to the rear window, over the truck bed.
I am in command of a mass destruction capable unit. Those shells are nerve gas, and if I order it, they can make people do the funky chicken and flop in convulsions and die horribly.
I walk back to look at the HQ squad and technical detachment. I know two of these people. One gives me a fierce grin. The other is carefully blank in expression.
One of the power drones is set up on the tarmac for my inspection. Payload forty pounds. Typically equipped with cameras and what we are all calling a laser target designator. It's actually a mass blinder - locks on eyeballs and lases them, causing temporary or permanent blindness depending on the power intensity chosen by the operator.
Some of the mortar shells are laser guidance capable. With the help of a person-carried "laser rifle" or an equipped drone, a shell can be targeted so precisely that it can be dropped on the rear deck of a Mexican battle tank.
The other skill of the 'technical detachment' is shown by the single ambulance, also towing a trailer stocked to the brim with medical supplies. A battle surgeon, two paramedics, an orderly-driver and - of all things - a social worker.
The battle surgeon and I know each other. As far as I know, she still doesn't have a license to work on humans. Meow. But in the last four years, she ran an infirmary for me, an aid station for the Resistance, then a prison infirmary for me again ... and now, a medical detachment.
Not really a demotion. She's the source of all the medical care anyone in my unit will get, whatever happens to us. And any help we decide to be generous enough to give to anyone else.
Mountains and desert, between San Diego and Yuma, in harsh terrain and harsher climate. Everpresent dust. Trash everywhere. Sun that cooks your skin and bakes your bones.
And people desperate to come North, or go South, carrying their little packages of badness, madness and/or sadness.
It is my job to stop the flow.
Like a tampon.
And just as disposable.
no subject
Date: 2018-12-17 03:01 am (UTC)I take the mike from the RTO.
"This is Echo 18 Actual, repeat Actual. Emergency traffic. I need air medevac or casevac forthwith for a pediatric heat stroke patient, to Rampart LZ. Repeat actual, repeat forthwith."
"Nationality of patient? Confirm pediatric?"
"Affirm. American."
The battle surgeon, the RTO and both drivers look at me.
The patient is a border crosser from the south. There is exactly zero chance she is an American national.
I, a commissioned officer of the California Republic, have just publicly lied through my teeth.
"Sorry, Echo 18 Actual, no rotary air assets available. Transport by ground to Trinity and a fixed wing will be waiting for flight to Arrowhead."
The child is still seizing despite four times the safe dose of Ativan. She's on high flow O2 and has two IV lines and a bone line placed, never mind the infection risk.
She stops seizing. Stops breathing too.
The surgeon starts bagging her. Not with the ambu bag. The body bag.
"Echo 18 Actual, Penguin, that's a cancel on medical transfer. Time of death 1534. Out."
no subject
Date: 2018-12-21 03:12 am (UTC)The incumbent UN force being replaced by the 21st is Cambodian and Fijian. This pairing of a company sized East Asian and platoon sized Pacific Islands force was deliberate on the California-Mexico border in all sectors, and has helped with both cultural issues and prevention of misconduct.
McCain Valley Conservation Camp, which had been a CalFire facility prior to the Firecracker, is the 21st California's operating base - and also an atrocity site from when it was under Homeland control. The former Boulevard Border Patrol station was first converted to Homeland use, then destroyed by the Resistance.
Due to heavy damage to the City and County of San Diego - and all along the border - during the Resistance campaign, the nearest fully operational trauma center available for medevac is now Arrowhead Trauma Center in Colton, in San Bernardino County. Orange County trauma centers continue to be overloaded and nominal savings in air flight time is not worth the trip.
A primary mission, other than securing the border, is to secure the CA-8 corridor, a task shared with a platoon of the California Highway Patrol.
The flow of undocumented persons, drugs, weapons and contraband (including 'hot' jewelry to this day) is a true two way flow. Due to substantial UN and non-Federal US forces committed to El Centro and San Diego, much of the flow is pushed into isolated rural sectors like Boulevard.
Note that each US state is now obligated to raise and maintain its own armed forces due to the weakening of the US Federal government after the treaty ending the 2nd American Civil War. Substantial US Federal forces are also on loan to the UN outside the United States. Much of this is structured, in fact but not discussed, as owed reparations for the Firecracker War. US forces are not welcome in China; by displacing UN forces elsewhere, they free up those forces for China peacekeeping and reconstruction.
Also note that migrants 'north' and 'south' are common ... Mexico considers her nationals displaced by the US civil war to be distressed refugees to be taken in and cared for, but others to be unwanted, and wants the California Republic to do the preliminary sort at her expense. Some north bound migrants are Americans trying to make their way home; but many are simply displaced persons not welcome anywhere else in the Americas.