GWOT VI - How Not To Shoot Your Boss
Dec. 10th, 2019 05:07 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyGWOT VI - How Not To Shoot Your Boss
The California Republic was one of seven organizations that were contributing to the United Nations North American Peacekeeping Detachment - Iowa.
UNNAPD-I. Unnapp-idi? Un apt piddy? I resolved never to use the acronym in conversation.
Three national governments had actually contributed troops: India, Brazil and Moldavia. The three NGOs were Save The Kinder! (that's German for children), Médecins Sans Frontières (that's French for insane) and Langar Aid (that's Sikh for kitchen).
The UNNAPD detachment was therefore under the command of the largest military detachment not from North America.
I didn't like Colonel Meeta any more than he liked me. It said on the tin that he commanded an Indian artillery battalion. I may be somewhat new to military command, but I was always taught that a battery is six guns (perhaps as low as four), a company is three batteries and a battalion is three companies. Doing the math, that should be between thirty-six and fifty-four pieces.
He had fourteen. Four howitzers that had probably seen service in the Korean War - on the Chinese side. Six modern 120mm mortars, an Indian copy of a reliable Russian design, broken up into a 'company' of three 'mortar platoons' each with two mortars. Four 81mm mortars that once you filed off the serial numbers, had been American line issue thirty years ago.
The howitzers and 120s were towable. The 81mm were broken down. And his 'battalion' of one hundred and eighty personnel (should be closer to three hundred) had exactly three trucks.
On the Mexican border I'd had nearly as much firepower in my mortar _section_. I'd certainly had a lot more mobility.
Adding insult to injury, he'd clearly just rotated in from the Kashmiri border, where his brigade commander had clearly seen him and his personnel as surplus to requirements. I could see the tell tale damage to noses and cheeks from frostbite, and if they had been wearing their present light jackets in Kashmir, I almost felt sorry for them.
Then we had the Moldavian troops. Moldavia is a country within a country, with the outer layer being Romania. They had sent a platoon of military police. Forty squatting Slavs in tracksuits with the cheapest possible nylon belt gear imaginable. I squinted.
Oh my God, they're carrying revolvers!
The good news continued with the Brazilians. Military forces basically boil down to infantry, cavalry, armor and artillery, and then support units.
I wasn't sure what the Brazilians had sent. I'm not sure they knew what they had sent. Corpo de Bombeiros Militar. About a platoon of overweight men in yellow reflective clothing carrying ... what the actual fuck? ... trail building tools? I looked closer. Axe, McLeod, brush beater, backpack hose pump?
Oh my God, they sent wildland firefighters to Iowa?
So much for the alleged peacekeepers.
Save The Kinder! had taken over where a more American sounding group had left off. Funded mostly out of Germany, they had a small but competent logistics staff that was plugging into the local NGOs to get food aid to the most vulnerable, the last to be fed in any conflict zone.
Doctors Without Borders had sent a medical field section. More than patrol medics, less than a hospital. The local hospitals and clinics were up, but they were nonetheless very busy, treating all the people who didn't have residency papers and therefore were refused all access to medical care. They had one beaten up ambulance that looked like it had also been in the Korean War.
Langar Aid was a puzzle. About twenty tough looking men in turbans carrying what at first glance looked like daggers in their belts. They were hilted metal rods rather than blades, and were secured to their belts with a complex knot.
Turned out they were cooks. Tactical cooks. They would go anywhere, bringing a field kitchen in by Humvee or on pack animals or on their own backs, and prepare two healthy vegetarian meals a day while taking absolutely no shit from anyone. They also were heavily armed for the bureaucratic wars, as every single one of them had a United Kingdom diplomatic (!) passport.
That was the end of the good news. It was an eclectic group but it could be made to work.
Except for Colonel Meeta.
My first meeting with him had not gone well. After being refused access to the UNNAPD encampment, we'd entrenched on the other side of town, and I'd been leading from the front in undress khakis when he'd shown up - in full dress uniform - to address what he felt were a bunch of pot smoking hippy freaks.
My second meeting with him simply hadn't happened. In obedience to orders we'd prepared for a full inspection, he'd confirmed that he was coming, and then simply didn't show up.
I was determined that this third and last attempt to work with my new nominal commanding officer would go well. I'd made an appointment with his clerk by telephone, personally, and confirmed by messenger and datalink.
Now I was stalled at the front gate of his camp, in California Republic full dress uniform, my driver and aide similarly attired, having been assured that "Yes, the Colonel knows you are here, you will be received in good time."
This gave me a chance to evaluate the physical security of the camp. Very, very poor. Wouldn't last five minutes in Campos sector.
The one machine gun nest was refused inside the center of the east perimeter! That meant it couldn't fire to either side, but only at an attacker obliging enough to approach from the center of a square.
And no barbed wire. That was very nearly an unforgivable sin.
Eventually a bearded man wearing jogging shorts and an overhanging belly ran up.
"Why are you here?" he demanded.
I decided to err on the side of caution.
"Major [18], California Republic, here to meet with the Colonel."
"Well, the Colonel isn't here to meet with you. Go away!"
"I have a confirmed appointment." I looked carefully at his face. "Colonel," I said in an entirely different tone.
"Are you calling my men liars?"
"No, Colonel. Appointment for 1000 made with your clerk and confirmed..."
He interrupted.
"You are rude and insubordinate. Your delegation is a joke! You should have reported to me the day you'd arrived. You were not ready for inspection when we inspected you! Now you show up claiming to have an appointment!"
There was no point getting out my scheduler and showing him. He was well off into a self generated rant which made absolutely no sense.
He approached closer and poked at my uniform front.
"What's this for?"
The Bear Cross.
"Spelling, Colonel. A-s-s-h-o-le. Asshole."
"What did you call me?!?"
"Demonstrating spelling, Colonel sir. You have seen fit to insult my nation, my command and my own honor as an officer. Clearly we will be unable to work together, and I will so inform my government. Good day."
I signaled to my driver and aide and we started to walk away.
"Come back here!" he raged. "Halt!"
I flinched.
"Halt! Halt! Halt!"
We kept walking until I heard the CLACK-CLACK of a machine gun being charged.
Then I turned, as if casually, to discover that the checkpoint machine gun was in fact being turned towards us.
This caused my aide and driver, from spinal reflex, to draw their pistols and clear left and right. This left me in the center. My dress uniform included my pistol, but I did not draw.
Instead I keyed my lapel mike with my off hand.
Two small dots appeared. One on the machine gunner's chest, one on the Colonel's enormously hairy chest.
I spoke quietly but severely.
"LOOK DOWN."
They didn't. I don't think they understood.
"Major, requesting a color," my radio spoke quietly.
A siren in the distance started sounding. My detachment was grabbing weapons and equipment, I knew. But they didn't.
"Colonel. You are under sniper observation."
"This area is completely secured!"
"Look at your fucking chest, you misbegotten excuse for an officer! Order your machine gunner to stand down, NOW, or there will be a dreadful accident!"
He looked down, saw the little red dot, and as best he was equipped to do, lost all color from the chest up.
"Major, color please?" my radio insisted.
"Yellow," I snapped back.
"Are you calling me a coward?"
"No, Colonel, I just instructed my countersniper to hold."
I thought about it for a moment. Glanced around.
Except for the handful of troops immediately adjacent to the checkpoint, the rest were going about their ordinary routine, utterly oblivious that their Colonel was in grave danger.
That handful had slowly brought weapons to hand but had not yet chosen to do anything.
The aide and driver brought their pistols down to low ready, but did not holster.
I keyed my mike, talking to both the radio and the asshole.
"Colonel. Tell your machine gunner to stop muzzling us, or I'm going to kill him. Your decision. You have ten seconds."
_Then_ the machine gunner looked down at his chest. He saw the red dot and a stain started on the left side of his pant leg, and grew as we watched.
"Colonel. Five seconds."
Without orders, the machine gunner yanked his barrel up to a 45 degree angle, no longer muzzling me, and tried to control the stream of urine.
My aide and driver promptly holstered.
"Red light," I said quietly into the lapel mike.
I would only get one shot at this.
"Colonel. The honor of both our nations is at stake in this deployment. The United Nations has put you in command. My unit is at your disposal."
Without missing a beat...
"Your nation is a sick joke. America had the right idea. Mongrels, filth, degeneracy. I know California well. Before the War, I spent a year there as a visa holder, working, seeing how my people are treated. And then the California Republic murdered them!"
I blinked. Say the fuck what?
"Your Homeward Bound operation!"
I did not reply directly.
"Sergeant Anderson, how many Homeland command officers have I executed?"
"Several hundred, sir. Or do you mean personally? Oh, God, at least a dozen."
"Colonel, do you know who General Batesman was? I captured him. Personally. This spelling prize is partly for capturing him. He was the architect of Homeward Bound, which was an American operation. 100% Stars and Stripes. Zero percent California Republic.
"Obviously I don't expect you to believe me. But all the transcripts from Alviso Prison are on the public Internet. Thousands of foreign nationals were callously murdered by Homeland. You have every right to be enraged. Genocide does that.
"But be angry at the right people."
He sputtered back.
"I've seen your confession! You walked them away and you killed them!"
It was my turn to blink.
Oh, you dirty psych ops bastards, you Homeland motherfuckers.
I held up my left hand. Unwillingly he saw that my fingernails were missing.
"I lied under torture to protect human life. I would very much like to see that confession. My torturers did not see fit to provide me with a copy."
"It's on YouTube!"
My aide made a note.
"Colonel. I would not tolerate Homeland forces under my command. If you believe my troops are genocidaires, I cannot blame you for not wanting us here. I will therefore, in obedience to my government and the UNNAPD mission, attempt to carry out my orders on my own.
"Please investigate further, you will find out the truth. Meanwhile, this genocide will not wait for us to settle our differences. I will return to my encampment and await your orders for twenty-four hours.
"After that I will start unilateral operations to stop the separation of non-Christian persons from these communities. You have our frequency and a code set. Colonel."
Unwillingly, I saluted, then took my leave.
He did not order us to halt, nor did the machine gun move again.
As we drove away, the aide showed me his burner phone.
Amazing war zone we have here. Complete with high speed Internet access.
I barely recognized the broken man talking in short words. Confessing to atrocity.
Me.
This was going to make our mission that much harder.
A lot of lives were at stake. So I didn't have the luxury of taking personal offense. We would respond after I had a chance to compare notes with our psyop folks.
Meanwhile, I needed to do a lot of diplomacy and fence building, quick.
The California Republic was one of seven organizations that were contributing to the United Nations North American Peacekeeping Detachment - Iowa.
UNNAPD-I. Unnapp-idi? Un apt piddy? I resolved never to use the acronym in conversation.
Three national governments had actually contributed troops: India, Brazil and Moldavia. The three NGOs were Save The Kinder! (that's German for children), Médecins Sans Frontières (that's French for insane) and Langar Aid (that's Sikh for kitchen).
The UNNAPD detachment was therefore under the command of the largest military detachment not from North America.
I didn't like Colonel Meeta any more than he liked me. It said on the tin that he commanded an Indian artillery battalion. I may be somewhat new to military command, but I was always taught that a battery is six guns (perhaps as low as four), a company is three batteries and a battalion is three companies. Doing the math, that should be between thirty-six and fifty-four pieces.
He had fourteen. Four howitzers that had probably seen service in the Korean War - on the Chinese side. Six modern 120mm mortars, an Indian copy of a reliable Russian design, broken up into a 'company' of three 'mortar platoons' each with two mortars. Four 81mm mortars that once you filed off the serial numbers, had been American line issue thirty years ago.
The howitzers and 120s were towable. The 81mm were broken down. And his 'battalion' of one hundred and eighty personnel (should be closer to three hundred) had exactly three trucks.
On the Mexican border I'd had nearly as much firepower in my mortar _section_. I'd certainly had a lot more mobility.
Adding insult to injury, he'd clearly just rotated in from the Kashmiri border, where his brigade commander had clearly seen him and his personnel as surplus to requirements. I could see the tell tale damage to noses and cheeks from frostbite, and if they had been wearing their present light jackets in Kashmir, I almost felt sorry for them.
Then we had the Moldavian troops. Moldavia is a country within a country, with the outer layer being Romania. They had sent a platoon of military police. Forty squatting Slavs in tracksuits with the cheapest possible nylon belt gear imaginable. I squinted.
Oh my God, they're carrying revolvers!
The good news continued with the Brazilians. Military forces basically boil down to infantry, cavalry, armor and artillery, and then support units.
I wasn't sure what the Brazilians had sent. I'm not sure they knew what they had sent. Corpo de Bombeiros Militar. About a platoon of overweight men in yellow reflective clothing carrying ... what the actual fuck? ... trail building tools? I looked closer. Axe, McLeod, brush beater, backpack hose pump?
Oh my God, they sent wildland firefighters to Iowa?
So much for the alleged peacekeepers.
Save The Kinder! had taken over where a more American sounding group had left off. Funded mostly out of Germany, they had a small but competent logistics staff that was plugging into the local NGOs to get food aid to the most vulnerable, the last to be fed in any conflict zone.
Doctors Without Borders had sent a medical field section. More than patrol medics, less than a hospital. The local hospitals and clinics were up, but they were nonetheless very busy, treating all the people who didn't have residency papers and therefore were refused all access to medical care. They had one beaten up ambulance that looked like it had also been in the Korean War.
Langar Aid was a puzzle. About twenty tough looking men in turbans carrying what at first glance looked like daggers in their belts. They were hilted metal rods rather than blades, and were secured to their belts with a complex knot.
Turned out they were cooks. Tactical cooks. They would go anywhere, bringing a field kitchen in by Humvee or on pack animals or on their own backs, and prepare two healthy vegetarian meals a day while taking absolutely no shit from anyone. They also were heavily armed for the bureaucratic wars, as every single one of them had a United Kingdom diplomatic (!) passport.
That was the end of the good news. It was an eclectic group but it could be made to work.
Except for Colonel Meeta.
My first meeting with him had not gone well. After being refused access to the UNNAPD encampment, we'd entrenched on the other side of town, and I'd been leading from the front in undress khakis when he'd shown up - in full dress uniform - to address what he felt were a bunch of pot smoking hippy freaks.
My second meeting with him simply hadn't happened. In obedience to orders we'd prepared for a full inspection, he'd confirmed that he was coming, and then simply didn't show up.
I was determined that this third and last attempt to work with my new nominal commanding officer would go well. I'd made an appointment with his clerk by telephone, personally, and confirmed by messenger and datalink.
Now I was stalled at the front gate of his camp, in California Republic full dress uniform, my driver and aide similarly attired, having been assured that "Yes, the Colonel knows you are here, you will be received in good time."
This gave me a chance to evaluate the physical security of the camp. Very, very poor. Wouldn't last five minutes in Campos sector.
The one machine gun nest was refused inside the center of the east perimeter! That meant it couldn't fire to either side, but only at an attacker obliging enough to approach from the center of a square.
And no barbed wire. That was very nearly an unforgivable sin.
Eventually a bearded man wearing jogging shorts and an overhanging belly ran up.
"Why are you here?" he demanded.
I decided to err on the side of caution.
"Major [18], California Republic, here to meet with the Colonel."
"Well, the Colonel isn't here to meet with you. Go away!"
"I have a confirmed appointment." I looked carefully at his face. "Colonel," I said in an entirely different tone.
"Are you calling my men liars?"
"No, Colonel. Appointment for 1000 made with your clerk and confirmed..."
He interrupted.
"You are rude and insubordinate. Your delegation is a joke! You should have reported to me the day you'd arrived. You were not ready for inspection when we inspected you! Now you show up claiming to have an appointment!"
There was no point getting out my scheduler and showing him. He was well off into a self generated rant which made absolutely no sense.
He approached closer and poked at my uniform front.
"What's this for?"
The Bear Cross.
"Spelling, Colonel. A-s-s-h-o-le. Asshole."
"What did you call me?!?"
"Demonstrating spelling, Colonel sir. You have seen fit to insult my nation, my command and my own honor as an officer. Clearly we will be unable to work together, and I will so inform my government. Good day."
I signaled to my driver and aide and we started to walk away.
"Come back here!" he raged. "Halt!"
I flinched.
"Halt! Halt! Halt!"
We kept walking until I heard the CLACK-CLACK of a machine gun being charged.
Then I turned, as if casually, to discover that the checkpoint machine gun was in fact being turned towards us.
This caused my aide and driver, from spinal reflex, to draw their pistols and clear left and right. This left me in the center. My dress uniform included my pistol, but I did not draw.
Instead I keyed my lapel mike with my off hand.
Two small dots appeared. One on the machine gunner's chest, one on the Colonel's enormously hairy chest.
I spoke quietly but severely.
"LOOK DOWN."
They didn't. I don't think they understood.
"Major, requesting a color," my radio spoke quietly.
A siren in the distance started sounding. My detachment was grabbing weapons and equipment, I knew. But they didn't.
"Colonel. You are under sniper observation."
"This area is completely secured!"
"Look at your fucking chest, you misbegotten excuse for an officer! Order your machine gunner to stand down, NOW, or there will be a dreadful accident!"
He looked down, saw the little red dot, and as best he was equipped to do, lost all color from the chest up.
"Major, color please?" my radio insisted.
"Yellow," I snapped back.
"Are you calling me a coward?"
"No, Colonel, I just instructed my countersniper to hold."
I thought about it for a moment. Glanced around.
Except for the handful of troops immediately adjacent to the checkpoint, the rest were going about their ordinary routine, utterly oblivious that their Colonel was in grave danger.
That handful had slowly brought weapons to hand but had not yet chosen to do anything.
The aide and driver brought their pistols down to low ready, but did not holster.
I keyed my mike, talking to both the radio and the asshole.
"Colonel. Tell your machine gunner to stop muzzling us, or I'm going to kill him. Your decision. You have ten seconds."
_Then_ the machine gunner looked down at his chest. He saw the red dot and a stain started on the left side of his pant leg, and grew as we watched.
"Colonel. Five seconds."
Without orders, the machine gunner yanked his barrel up to a 45 degree angle, no longer muzzling me, and tried to control the stream of urine.
My aide and driver promptly holstered.
"Red light," I said quietly into the lapel mike.
I would only get one shot at this.
"Colonel. The honor of both our nations is at stake in this deployment. The United Nations has put you in command. My unit is at your disposal."
Without missing a beat...
"Your nation is a sick joke. America had the right idea. Mongrels, filth, degeneracy. I know California well. Before the War, I spent a year there as a visa holder, working, seeing how my people are treated. And then the California Republic murdered them!"
I blinked. Say the fuck what?
"Your Homeward Bound operation!"
I did not reply directly.
"Sergeant Anderson, how many Homeland command officers have I executed?"
"Several hundred, sir. Or do you mean personally? Oh, God, at least a dozen."
"Colonel, do you know who General Batesman was? I captured him. Personally. This spelling prize is partly for capturing him. He was the architect of Homeward Bound, which was an American operation. 100% Stars and Stripes. Zero percent California Republic.
"Obviously I don't expect you to believe me. But all the transcripts from Alviso Prison are on the public Internet. Thousands of foreign nationals were callously murdered by Homeland. You have every right to be enraged. Genocide does that.
"But be angry at the right people."
He sputtered back.
"I've seen your confession! You walked them away and you killed them!"
It was my turn to blink.
Oh, you dirty psych ops bastards, you Homeland motherfuckers.
I held up my left hand. Unwillingly he saw that my fingernails were missing.
"I lied under torture to protect human life. I would very much like to see that confession. My torturers did not see fit to provide me with a copy."
"It's on YouTube!"
My aide made a note.
"Colonel. I would not tolerate Homeland forces under my command. If you believe my troops are genocidaires, I cannot blame you for not wanting us here. I will therefore, in obedience to my government and the UNNAPD mission, attempt to carry out my orders on my own.
"Please investigate further, you will find out the truth. Meanwhile, this genocide will not wait for us to settle our differences. I will return to my encampment and await your orders for twenty-four hours.
"After that I will start unilateral operations to stop the separation of non-Christian persons from these communities. You have our frequency and a code set. Colonel."
Unwillingly, I saluted, then took my leave.
He did not order us to halt, nor did the machine gun move again.
As we drove away, the aide showed me his burner phone.
Amazing war zone we have here. Complete with high speed Internet access.
I barely recognized the broken man talking in short words. Confessing to atrocity.
Me.
This was going to make our mission that much harder.
A lot of lives were at stake. So I didn't have the luxury of taking personal offense. We would respond after I had a chance to compare notes with our psyop folks.
Meanwhile, I needed to do a lot of diplomacy and fence building, quick.
