GWOT VI - Order of Battle
Jan. 11th, 2020 12:29 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyGWOT 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.
"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.
