GWOT V - Tripwire
Jul. 24th, 2022 10:58 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyGWOT V - Tripwire
I've sent out an evening patrol consisting of Lieutenant Yarborough and her new platoon sergeant, Sergeant Driscoll. He'd likely try to take the opportunity to convert her to the anti-Echo 18 faction. Perhaps he would even succeed.
But I would bet on the fire in her eyes, that she perhaps might hate my guts but would still serve the Republic. Which is all I had a right to ask for.
I posted Tiny on the gate. With the gate closed and double-locked, and him behind the twin fifty cal at the second bunker. We would all hear the THUDDA THUDDA THUDDA if he lit someone up. Otherwise they could wait at the gate until we were done with my meeting.
Everyone else, and I do mean everyone else, crammed into and around the tiny mess hall. We'd had to strike the tables, move the benches against the wall, and scrape up every chair we had. Even then there were people standing and sitting.
"I'll try to make this short. You've all at least seen me by now. I expect to learn all of your names as soon as possible. I am Captain Echo 18. We found out two days ago that I'm apparently worth 50,000 dollars to the Americans, alive or dead preferably dead.
"So if anyone wants to change sides and retire, there's your path. That is, if you trust the Americans to pay up."
A pause.
"I wouldn't."
A brief laugh from a couple people. Tension broken. Good.
"We have three missions. That happens in border operations. Mission One, the military mission. We are to aggressively patrol and observe the border, and report immediately any incursion by Mexican regular or irregular forces. We are not permitted, short of a general state of declared war, to cross the border ourselves. At all. Ever.
"In the event of probes and testing, we are authorized to act at discretion, which includes interning 'lost' Mexican forces for repatriation. In the event of general invasion, we are expected to harass and hinder the enemy advance while sounding the alarm. If we survive an hour, we'll be doing our duty. Anyone who survives the day will probably be court-martialed and shot."
A deep silence. I had the enemy OOB - order of battle - posted in the mess hall. An armored brigade with supports in proportion in Tijuana; a company of heavy battle armor on standing 30 minute alert. A regiment of light cavalry assigned _on_ the border itself. Two squadrons of close-support aircraft, with at least some night capability. Interlocking artillery fire bases. That didn't count their Cartel adherents in technicals, who were free to cross the Border at will. At least them we could shoot.
The sixty-odd people in this room against a company of tanks would last as long as they lived, and that wouldn't be long.
The mortars NCO nodded his head slightly. That was his mission. He'd be dropping shells of persistent nerve gas on major road intersections, and get exactly one attempt at doing the same to the enemy advance before they vaporized his unit.
I hadn't posted our OOB. We had a division of medium armor in San Diego. Two divisions of mechanized infantry, one north of San Diego, one in Riverside - but the latter still had its hands full. Air cavalry base at Arrowhead. A constant shell game with our two fighter squadrons, technically based at Ontario Airport but in practice moving around in twos and fours between a number of Southern California airports. To reduce the temptation to the Americans to take them out in one fell swoop.
Our militia - the rough equivalent to the Cartel technicals - amounted on paper to six divisions. Four of them in Los Angeles, one in San Bernardino, one in San Diego. All very shaky. Some of them had been shooting at each other six months ago. Only the best would be sent forward to backstop the heavies. But they would need time to report in, draw equipment and roll out.
On paper, we would resist a Mexican invasion. In reality - who knew? Pieces of equipment don't pull triggers. People do.
Most of our heavy metal was where it needed to be - east of the Sierras, to keep Nevada and Arizona from yielding to temptation. Or the Americans from doing one of their infamous thunder runs.
Enough. All they needed to know, I'd said. The rest could be taught at leisure.
"Mission Two, support the restoration of general law and order in the Campos sector. Right now, there is no law east of El Cajon and west of El Centro's police patrols. The plan is to bring in CHP reaction forces, upstaff the CA-8 checkpoint, and start building capacity and infrastructure. Until then, look around. You're the law. We're the law."
A general muttering. Not what they expected to hear.
"Some of you will be getting special training and designation as MPs. We will treat all civilians with dignity and respect at all times. Even when arresting them. Even if we have to shoot them. That means strict rules of engagement. We can't break the law to enforce the law.
"You always retain the right to self defense. If someone is trying to kill you, kill them right back and do it better. There will be times when you are ordered to let bad people go. We will get them on the next pass. This is an endurance race, not a sprint."
Now some of them were starting to get it. The first excitement of the deployment was wearing off. And there were five people who should be in this room who weren't. One was going to be trying out prosthetics at Arrowhead. The other four had been flown out in body bags.
"Mission Three. The flow. There is an authorized entry control point at El Centro and another one at San Ysidro. There are no ECPs in Campos Sector. Anyone who enters the California Republic in this sector is violating our sovereignty and committing a civilian felony. Our duty is to detain them and turn them over to the Immigration Court for processing.
"You've all been trained on capture cards. I want to emphasize that what we put on those cards is important. If someone walks up to us and voluntarily surrenders themselves, this weighs _heavily_ in their favor with the Immigration Court. We need that fact noted with their identities. If they stand and stop when challenged, that's a push. If they run and we have to tackle them, they may be tossed right back over the Border, or they may end up breaking rocks.
"I'm just not very excited over contraband. I am very very excited over people."
I brought a picture up on the projector.
A growl from a few people.
"Those two. American special warfare."
I changed photos to show them with their unit, a photo provided to me by Collections. Who would probably lose their shit if they found out that I'd shown it to my entire unit.
Fuck 'em. Intel is for use.
"They killed four of us and a fifth is missing a leg. And they're in California right now. Hopefully in San Diego. But their mission - as Special Forces A Team members - is to train anti-California guerillas, maim and kill California civilians, and damage our infrastructure. More likely that they made it up to Los Angeles. Where they have their pick of softer targets. Schools. Churches. Hospitals."
"I don't know what devil's deal the Americans cut with the Mexicans. But they're smugglers. And when they smuggle these people across our border, each of them trained for years by a superpower in the arts of terrorism and insurgency ... each of them who gets across is more than likely a hundred dead Californians."
Dead silence in the room.
"Migrants, fine, give them a ride to Immigration. But you see these fuckers, or anyone like these fuckers, dead is OK. Alive and in secure custody and we turn them over to Collections, even better. So what are the tells?"
I walked them through it. People called them out. Intense physical fitness. Eyes that watched. Concealed weapons while crossing the border. Traveling with exotic weapons or explosives. Night vision equipment. Satellite communicators or radios. Pretending not to speak English. Freshly grown beards. No tattoos on the face or backs of hands. Check the feet - boots? And again, eyes that watch.
"They're trained in how to escape custody. Handcuff keys. Small concealed blades. Likely kiestered items. How to use any weapon, not just American make but ours as well. Hand to hand combat. Silent kills of sentries, hatchet and knife."
Our scout-soldiers - less than a third of the room - nodded. They were novices in that particular military art. Special Forces were legendary.
"So you think you have one, they need to be tagged and bagged like they were hungry angry tigers. Because tigers are far less dangerous than American commandos.
"So first, we're the tripwire. Second, we're the law. Third, we interfere with the flow. Those are the missions.
"Now we talk just a little about how. We are going to patrol during the day for now. We can't go out at night. They own the night right now. So we've made arrangements with Arrowhead. They will be doing night flights and they will be free fire.
"As we patrol, we build our skills. We also modify the terrain."
I switched pictures.
A map of the Sector. With three bases indicated that didn't presently exist.
"We're going to put in fire bases of our own. One west of El Centro, one in the ruins of Campos town, one at the former Homeland base here. Cameras and optics. Aerostats when we can get them. Reaction posts. Then we start tightening things up. A little road building, a lot of road and trail destruction. CHP gets the checkpoint on CA-8 running, we harden that.
"Then there's Campos Nation."
Change pictures. A bunch of angry men and women with rifles standing in front of a battered gas station.
"That's not California. Nor is it Mexico. It's a free and independent nation within our territory. Bisects our sector. Gives our sector its name. They are either going to be our best friends or our worst enemies.
"If one of you fails to honor the national sovereignty of the Campos Nation, I will remand to general court martial. You harm a hair on the head of a Campos national, it's _worse_ than doing it to a California civilian. You steal something from Campos Nation, you're declaring _war_ on them. So if you visit Campos Nation, you are a guest in their territory - and if your mission takes you to Campos Nation, by their invitation, it counts as a foreign operational deployment. That means expeditionary pay."
A rumble, not quite believing.
I'd had my fight with State and with the Paymaster's Office on that point. If Campos Nation was a free and independent territory, on duty California forces operating in that territory were operating outside California and therefore entitled to expeditionary pay.
Therefore they would seek excuses to lawfully go there, but not to alienate the locals. Which is exactly what I needed.
Otherwise Campos Nation would be a dagger in the heart of the sector, and we'd have to interdict a much larger area to control smuggling from Mexico through Campos to its longer border with California. Three sides with us, only one side with Mexico.
"Don't underestimate them. They survived _Homeland_. They kept the Mexicans out _while_ we settled our own civil issues. Now they are poised to be the only food and fuel for a hundred kilometers, between El Cajon and El Centro. And the only brothel as well."
A hoot from someone, interrupted by a yelp caused by someone else's well placed boot.
"So we're going to buy from them now and again, as any other travelers would. And we're going to treat them very well. And if they ever have the courage to call us, we're going to be their bestest friends.
"I've talked enough. Beer issue. Draw straws for a reaction patrol, just three people, I'll take it. The rest of you take a little R&R. Back to normal at 0600 tomorrow, so don't overdo it."
###
One of the three volunteers for the reaction patrol was my driver from two days ago.
She looked haggard.
"Can't sleep, can you?" I said.
She shook her head.
"Tomorrow, go see the Psyche. That's an order. Tonight, let's talk tactics."
The four of us went over contact drills. Along the way I got the driver talking. About how we had broken out of the ambush and then come roaring back in.
Should have done it yesterday. Critical stress defusing matters. But shit was busy.
Then again, you never know when the Mexicans might grow a pair and decide to say, invade Campos Nation. That would cut CA-8, either for giggles or to start charging tolls. Or start the Reconquista, the return of San Diego and Los Angeles to Mexican control. Undoing the losses of the Mexican-American War.
Thanks to Collections, I had a copy of one of their war plans for that.
If we stayed alive long enough, we could sound the alarm in time for our units to assemble, break out of their laagers and scatter and set up a rolling defense. Our air assets would fight, but not be enough. If they contested the skies with the Mexicans, they would be doing well. Not being idiots, the Mexican land forces had AAA in proportion.
If we were caught napping, on the other hand, the Mexicans could cut up our military forces - land and air alike - for steaks and chops. Our reservists in particular were our economy. They needed to be at work in our factories, not standing to every few days and getting nothing done.
It would be nice if we could clot the flow a little. Law and order would be awesome.
But we were really out here for the tripwire. That an invading Mexican force would make enough noise killing us, that California would wake up in time to resist.
Over my dead body. Literally.
I've sent out an evening patrol consisting of Lieutenant Yarborough and her new platoon sergeant, Sergeant Driscoll. He'd likely try to take the opportunity to convert her to the anti-Echo 18 faction. Perhaps he would even succeed.
But I would bet on the fire in her eyes, that she perhaps might hate my guts but would still serve the Republic. Which is all I had a right to ask for.
I posted Tiny on the gate. With the gate closed and double-locked, and him behind the twin fifty cal at the second bunker. We would all hear the THUDDA THUDDA THUDDA if he lit someone up. Otherwise they could wait at the gate until we were done with my meeting.
Everyone else, and I do mean everyone else, crammed into and around the tiny mess hall. We'd had to strike the tables, move the benches against the wall, and scrape up every chair we had. Even then there were people standing and sitting.
"I'll try to make this short. You've all at least seen me by now. I expect to learn all of your names as soon as possible. I am Captain Echo 18. We found out two days ago that I'm apparently worth 50,000 dollars to the Americans, alive or dead preferably dead.
"So if anyone wants to change sides and retire, there's your path. That is, if you trust the Americans to pay up."
A pause.
"I wouldn't."
A brief laugh from a couple people. Tension broken. Good.
"We have three missions. That happens in border operations. Mission One, the military mission. We are to aggressively patrol and observe the border, and report immediately any incursion by Mexican regular or irregular forces. We are not permitted, short of a general state of declared war, to cross the border ourselves. At all. Ever.
"In the event of probes and testing, we are authorized to act at discretion, which includes interning 'lost' Mexican forces for repatriation. In the event of general invasion, we are expected to harass and hinder the enemy advance while sounding the alarm. If we survive an hour, we'll be doing our duty. Anyone who survives the day will probably be court-martialed and shot."
A deep silence. I had the enemy OOB - order of battle - posted in the mess hall. An armored brigade with supports in proportion in Tijuana; a company of heavy battle armor on standing 30 minute alert. A regiment of light cavalry assigned _on_ the border itself. Two squadrons of close-support aircraft, with at least some night capability. Interlocking artillery fire bases. That didn't count their Cartel adherents in technicals, who were free to cross the Border at will. At least them we could shoot.
The sixty-odd people in this room against a company of tanks would last as long as they lived, and that wouldn't be long.
The mortars NCO nodded his head slightly. That was his mission. He'd be dropping shells of persistent nerve gas on major road intersections, and get exactly one attempt at doing the same to the enemy advance before they vaporized his unit.
I hadn't posted our OOB. We had a division of medium armor in San Diego. Two divisions of mechanized infantry, one north of San Diego, one in Riverside - but the latter still had its hands full. Air cavalry base at Arrowhead. A constant shell game with our two fighter squadrons, technically based at Ontario Airport but in practice moving around in twos and fours between a number of Southern California airports. To reduce the temptation to the Americans to take them out in one fell swoop.
Our militia - the rough equivalent to the Cartel technicals - amounted on paper to six divisions. Four of them in Los Angeles, one in San Bernardino, one in San Diego. All very shaky. Some of them had been shooting at each other six months ago. Only the best would be sent forward to backstop the heavies. But they would need time to report in, draw equipment and roll out.
On paper, we would resist a Mexican invasion. In reality - who knew? Pieces of equipment don't pull triggers. People do.
Most of our heavy metal was where it needed to be - east of the Sierras, to keep Nevada and Arizona from yielding to temptation. Or the Americans from doing one of their infamous thunder runs.
Enough. All they needed to know, I'd said. The rest could be taught at leisure.
"Mission Two, support the restoration of general law and order in the Campos sector. Right now, there is no law east of El Cajon and west of El Centro's police patrols. The plan is to bring in CHP reaction forces, upstaff the CA-8 checkpoint, and start building capacity and infrastructure. Until then, look around. You're the law. We're the law."
A general muttering. Not what they expected to hear.
"Some of you will be getting special training and designation as MPs. We will treat all civilians with dignity and respect at all times. Even when arresting them. Even if we have to shoot them. That means strict rules of engagement. We can't break the law to enforce the law.
"You always retain the right to self defense. If someone is trying to kill you, kill them right back and do it better. There will be times when you are ordered to let bad people go. We will get them on the next pass. This is an endurance race, not a sprint."
Now some of them were starting to get it. The first excitement of the deployment was wearing off. And there were five people who should be in this room who weren't. One was going to be trying out prosthetics at Arrowhead. The other four had been flown out in body bags.
"Mission Three. The flow. There is an authorized entry control point at El Centro and another one at San Ysidro. There are no ECPs in Campos Sector. Anyone who enters the California Republic in this sector is violating our sovereignty and committing a civilian felony. Our duty is to detain them and turn them over to the Immigration Court for processing.
"You've all been trained on capture cards. I want to emphasize that what we put on those cards is important. If someone walks up to us and voluntarily surrenders themselves, this weighs _heavily_ in their favor with the Immigration Court. We need that fact noted with their identities. If they stand and stop when challenged, that's a push. If they run and we have to tackle them, they may be tossed right back over the Border, or they may end up breaking rocks.
"I'm just not very excited over contraband. I am very very excited over people."
I brought a picture up on the projector.
A growl from a few people.
"Those two. American special warfare."
I changed photos to show them with their unit, a photo provided to me by Collections. Who would probably lose their shit if they found out that I'd shown it to my entire unit.
Fuck 'em. Intel is for use.
"They killed four of us and a fifth is missing a leg. And they're in California right now. Hopefully in San Diego. But their mission - as Special Forces A Team members - is to train anti-California guerillas, maim and kill California civilians, and damage our infrastructure. More likely that they made it up to Los Angeles. Where they have their pick of softer targets. Schools. Churches. Hospitals."
"I don't know what devil's deal the Americans cut with the Mexicans. But they're smugglers. And when they smuggle these people across our border, each of them trained for years by a superpower in the arts of terrorism and insurgency ... each of them who gets across is more than likely a hundred dead Californians."
Dead silence in the room.
"Migrants, fine, give them a ride to Immigration. But you see these fuckers, or anyone like these fuckers, dead is OK. Alive and in secure custody and we turn them over to Collections, even better. So what are the tells?"
I walked them through it. People called them out. Intense physical fitness. Eyes that watched. Concealed weapons while crossing the border. Traveling with exotic weapons or explosives. Night vision equipment. Satellite communicators or radios. Pretending not to speak English. Freshly grown beards. No tattoos on the face or backs of hands. Check the feet - boots? And again, eyes that watch.
"They're trained in how to escape custody. Handcuff keys. Small concealed blades. Likely kiestered items. How to use any weapon, not just American make but ours as well. Hand to hand combat. Silent kills of sentries, hatchet and knife."
Our scout-soldiers - less than a third of the room - nodded. They were novices in that particular military art. Special Forces were legendary.
"So you think you have one, they need to be tagged and bagged like they were hungry angry tigers. Because tigers are far less dangerous than American commandos.
"So first, we're the tripwire. Second, we're the law. Third, we interfere with the flow. Those are the missions.
"Now we talk just a little about how. We are going to patrol during the day for now. We can't go out at night. They own the night right now. So we've made arrangements with Arrowhead. They will be doing night flights and they will be free fire.
"As we patrol, we build our skills. We also modify the terrain."
I switched pictures.
A map of the Sector. With three bases indicated that didn't presently exist.
"We're going to put in fire bases of our own. One west of El Centro, one in the ruins of Campos town, one at the former Homeland base here. Cameras and optics. Aerostats when we can get them. Reaction posts. Then we start tightening things up. A little road building, a lot of road and trail destruction. CHP gets the checkpoint on CA-8 running, we harden that.
"Then there's Campos Nation."
Change pictures. A bunch of angry men and women with rifles standing in front of a battered gas station.
"That's not California. Nor is it Mexico. It's a free and independent nation within our territory. Bisects our sector. Gives our sector its name. They are either going to be our best friends or our worst enemies.
"If one of you fails to honor the national sovereignty of the Campos Nation, I will remand to general court martial. You harm a hair on the head of a Campos national, it's _worse_ than doing it to a California civilian. You steal something from Campos Nation, you're declaring _war_ on them. So if you visit Campos Nation, you are a guest in their territory - and if your mission takes you to Campos Nation, by their invitation, it counts as a foreign operational deployment. That means expeditionary pay."
A rumble, not quite believing.
I'd had my fight with State and with the Paymaster's Office on that point. If Campos Nation was a free and independent territory, on duty California forces operating in that territory were operating outside California and therefore entitled to expeditionary pay.
Therefore they would seek excuses to lawfully go there, but not to alienate the locals. Which is exactly what I needed.
Otherwise Campos Nation would be a dagger in the heart of the sector, and we'd have to interdict a much larger area to control smuggling from Mexico through Campos to its longer border with California. Three sides with us, only one side with Mexico.
"Don't underestimate them. They survived _Homeland_. They kept the Mexicans out _while_ we settled our own civil issues. Now they are poised to be the only food and fuel for a hundred kilometers, between El Cajon and El Centro. And the only brothel as well."
A hoot from someone, interrupted by a yelp caused by someone else's well placed boot.
"So we're going to buy from them now and again, as any other travelers would. And we're going to treat them very well. And if they ever have the courage to call us, we're going to be their bestest friends.
"I've talked enough. Beer issue. Draw straws for a reaction patrol, just three people, I'll take it. The rest of you take a little R&R. Back to normal at 0600 tomorrow, so don't overdo it."
###
One of the three volunteers for the reaction patrol was my driver from two days ago.
She looked haggard.
"Can't sleep, can you?" I said.
She shook her head.
"Tomorrow, go see the Psyche. That's an order. Tonight, let's talk tactics."
The four of us went over contact drills. Along the way I got the driver talking. About how we had broken out of the ambush and then come roaring back in.
Should have done it yesterday. Critical stress defusing matters. But shit was busy.
Then again, you never know when the Mexicans might grow a pair and decide to say, invade Campos Nation. That would cut CA-8, either for giggles or to start charging tolls. Or start the Reconquista, the return of San Diego and Los Angeles to Mexican control. Undoing the losses of the Mexican-American War.
Thanks to Collections, I had a copy of one of their war plans for that.
If we stayed alive long enough, we could sound the alarm in time for our units to assemble, break out of their laagers and scatter and set up a rolling defense. Our air assets would fight, but not be enough. If they contested the skies with the Mexicans, they would be doing well. Not being idiots, the Mexican land forces had AAA in proportion.
If we were caught napping, on the other hand, the Mexicans could cut up our military forces - land and air alike - for steaks and chops. Our reservists in particular were our economy. They needed to be at work in our factories, not standing to every few days and getting nothing done.
It would be nice if we could clot the flow a little. Law and order would be awesome.
But we were really out here for the tripwire. That an invading Mexican force would make enough noise killing us, that California would wake up in time to resist.
Over my dead body. Literally.
