GWOT V - Typing Drill
Aug. 29th, 2024 12:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
drewkittyGWOT V - Typing Drill
Camp McNasty is Camp McEmpty. We have temporarily abandoned it, locking the gates and arming the mines.
Because we're a little busy.
"Rampart, Echo 18, OTX Traffic."
"OTX Go."
"We have a major incursion. McNasty destroyed by Mexican aircraft. Enemy scout units in force along the entire Sector boundary proceeding North. Campos Nation also destroyed. Executing Tripwire. I have fire missions."
"OTX unable to service, artillery is in movement and air bases are also under attack. Advise of main enemy advance when possible. Out."
Well, damn. There went engaging the enemy scouts with air strikes and barrages. That left direct fires.
There was absolutely no question of my force of lightly armed scout vehicles defeating a Mexican invasion. The scout forces arrayed on my mobile display terminal - MDT - outnumbered my forces six to one. They were only the eyeballs for the Mexican general deciding where to punch his armor through. I checked the OOB again.
A fucking armored brigade. Lovely.
If every single one of the Mexican soldiers stood in front of us unarmed, and we fired one shot per Mexican, we would run out of bullets long before a brigade ran out of bodies.
Rampart needed to know, very badly, exactly _where_ that brigade planned to cross. Were they going to punch west for El Cajon and San Diego, punch east for El Centro, or hey diddle diddle through the middle up into the softer underbelly of the California deserts?
That was our job. Figure it out.
"Echo 18, all units, execute OTX Tripwire. Spread out, stay alive, report contacts through your MDTs. If you sight armor or heavy log, break radio silence."
One of the many, many supports the Mexican brigade brought to the party was a dedicated battalion of rocket assisted 155mm self propelled guns, with radio direction finders.
Anyone talking on a California frequency could expect shells in the air flying towards them before they finished their second sentence.
The enemy scouts wanted to know where our main defenders were, what was in place to block their advance (not much) and the condition of the road net. They also wanted to keep us - California's scouts - from figuring out where their armor was going.
Tanks need fuel. A convoy of fuel trucks was good as a shout, "Over here, vatos!"
We couldn't meaningfully engage tanks.
We could engage a convoy of undefended fuel trucks. But they'd be more likely to advance in their underwear than without a guard force to protect them.
My role in this was almost over. Either my people knew what they were doing, or they didn't.
###
"Two five, two seven, the military crest."
"I see it."
Dust cloud. That meant a vehicle. Smugglers weren't going to be running during a major invasion.
"RTX?"
"Negative."
###
"Echo 18, Bravo 7, real world. Runner, Phase Line Mary."
The total information systems could lock up your brain if you let them. But I knew how to remote a camera view without losing the rest of my picture.
Yup. Runner.
Fuck the RTX and the Mexicans.
"All Two Units, intercept Roger One at Phase Line Mary."
I had to make a phone call. I didn't expect it to go well.
It didn't.
###
Clicking END on a data link call is nowhere near as satisfying as slamming down a handset.
But I was in command of Campos Sector, so it was my decision no matter how much Rampart disliked it.
"Two seven, making contact. Warning shots. They're slowing. Fuck me blind, they just dumped two bodies. I am pursuing."
Smugglers. Apparently they had not gotten the memo, and were playing by the old rules. No migrants on board, repatriate to Mexican territory.
Commit murder in front of California forces ...
"Target destroyed. Two five, can you check the bodies? We'll close on the target and gather intel."
###
The smuggler vehicle had burned to a crisp. Nothing had been blown clear. Two charred corpses grinned - they always do that when the muscles burn away.
The dumpees were another story. One was still alive. But not for very long.
"Multiple GSW to the abdomen. Not happening even with a full trauma center here and now."
And our nearest trauma center at Arrowhead was an hour away by air.
She spoke no English or Spanish. But our translator was recording and sort of spoke a Mayan dialect, related to but not the same as the casualty.
She was also desperate to tell us. She knew she was dying. But it was important.
###
"They were doing recon for a larger refugee movement. The two were brought along as entertainment."
About six hundred migrants in a particular canyon south of the Border. Thanks to the RTX, we had some access to battlefield intel that we normally did not. Optics and IR can see more things when you know where to point.
We could not under any circumstances whatsoever cross the Border to rescue them from their captors.
That did not mean there was nothing we could do.
"Continue the RTX. Reopen McNasty. Be careful. Let's leave a nice big pocket near Mary. Let them think we're busy doing other stuff. And set up for mass internment."
Then I called a ursine friend of mine. Hairy bastard.
###
The battered old buses and trucks formed up and the migrants were prodded to board them. A couple were too slow, and were shot or stabbed as was usual.
A single off road vehicle made mostly of welded pipe was in front.
Several battered pickup trucks were in back. None displayed flags. All had machine guns on hardpoints.
It was dusk. Good light to cross the border, the illusory protection of night once across.
North of the border crossing a ways, the road narrowed to cross a wadi, a ravine created by rare but powerful desert rainfall.
The pickup trucks blew up, rather suddenly, within a few seconds of each other. The burning wreckage of the first blocked the road. The buses floored it. No one fired at them.
Men in unmarked fatigues and peasant clothes immediately broke down the tripods of their automatic grenade launchers and started hiking out, each carrying parts of the launchers. Their work was done.
###
Several buses, stopped. A handful of armed men surrounded by a much larger crowd of men, with women and children crowding in but a little behind.
"Go in?" someone asked on the tac net.
"Wait," I ordered callously.
One of the armed men opened fire. As if it were a signal, the crowd surged over their tormentors.
"Go, go go!"
###
Our medics were not in time to save three of the migrants, the bravest, who had gone bare handed against the one machine gun and several rifles of the scout vehicle.
Of course we were far too late to save the smugglers, all of whom had been beaten to death before we closed the distance. That is exactly what I said in my official report.
We did save several others, and interned all of them. Processed.
"What will happen to us?" one of their leaders asked, through a translator.
"You have lawfully crossed the border into California fleeing violent crime. You have properly surrendered yourselves to immigration personnel. You will be individually cited and taken to El Cajon, where you will be fed and clothed and housed until your immigration hearing. As Category II border crossers within the regulations of the UN Treaty, almost all of you can expect to be granted California temporary residency. Only those who have illegally crossed since the founding of the Republic will be rejected."
The news spread. People started weeping.
Not sadness. Joy.
If their captors had followed the original plan, they would have worked in fields and sweatshops, a language barrier and threats to families between them and seeking help. Illegals, hidden from and deprived of access to any services but those provided by their captors.
Now they would work in fields and factories still, but with full access to California's healthcare and educational systems. Carded. Legal.
There was no one alive to dispute my version of events. They hadn't paid to be smuggled across, they had been trafficked.
That was my story and their story and the only story I would permit to be heard.
Ever.
###
"After review we have determined that Campos Sector has passed the Regional Training Exercise and is typed out as a Scout Soldier Unit."
We'd passed the RTX. Not even trying. Going through the motions, focused on the other thing.
The evaluators had no doubt that in the event of general invasion, we could do our jobs.
I had not been concerned about it.
Dying is easier than living.
Camp McNasty is Camp McEmpty. We have temporarily abandoned it, locking the gates and arming the mines.
Because we're a little busy.
"Rampart, Echo 18, OTX Traffic."
"OTX Go."
"We have a major incursion. McNasty destroyed by Mexican aircraft. Enemy scout units in force along the entire Sector boundary proceeding North. Campos Nation also destroyed. Executing Tripwire. I have fire missions."
"OTX unable to service, artillery is in movement and air bases are also under attack. Advise of main enemy advance when possible. Out."
Well, damn. There went engaging the enemy scouts with air strikes and barrages. That left direct fires.
There was absolutely no question of my force of lightly armed scout vehicles defeating a Mexican invasion. The scout forces arrayed on my mobile display terminal - MDT - outnumbered my forces six to one. They were only the eyeballs for the Mexican general deciding where to punch his armor through. I checked the OOB again.
A fucking armored brigade. Lovely.
If every single one of the Mexican soldiers stood in front of us unarmed, and we fired one shot per Mexican, we would run out of bullets long before a brigade ran out of bodies.
Rampart needed to know, very badly, exactly _where_ that brigade planned to cross. Were they going to punch west for El Cajon and San Diego, punch east for El Centro, or hey diddle diddle through the middle up into the softer underbelly of the California deserts?
That was our job. Figure it out.
"Echo 18, all units, execute OTX Tripwire. Spread out, stay alive, report contacts through your MDTs. If you sight armor or heavy log, break radio silence."
One of the many, many supports the Mexican brigade brought to the party was a dedicated battalion of rocket assisted 155mm self propelled guns, with radio direction finders.
Anyone talking on a California frequency could expect shells in the air flying towards them before they finished their second sentence.
The enemy scouts wanted to know where our main defenders were, what was in place to block their advance (not much) and the condition of the road net. They also wanted to keep us - California's scouts - from figuring out where their armor was going.
Tanks need fuel. A convoy of fuel trucks was good as a shout, "Over here, vatos!"
We couldn't meaningfully engage tanks.
We could engage a convoy of undefended fuel trucks. But they'd be more likely to advance in their underwear than without a guard force to protect them.
My role in this was almost over. Either my people knew what they were doing, or they didn't.
###
"Two five, two seven, the military crest."
"I see it."
Dust cloud. That meant a vehicle. Smugglers weren't going to be running during a major invasion.
"RTX?"
"Negative."
###
"Echo 18, Bravo 7, real world. Runner, Phase Line Mary."
The total information systems could lock up your brain if you let them. But I knew how to remote a camera view without losing the rest of my picture.
Yup. Runner.
Fuck the RTX and the Mexicans.
"All Two Units, intercept Roger One at Phase Line Mary."
I had to make a phone call. I didn't expect it to go well.
It didn't.
###
Clicking END on a data link call is nowhere near as satisfying as slamming down a handset.
But I was in command of Campos Sector, so it was my decision no matter how much Rampart disliked it.
"Two seven, making contact. Warning shots. They're slowing. Fuck me blind, they just dumped two bodies. I am pursuing."
Smugglers. Apparently they had not gotten the memo, and were playing by the old rules. No migrants on board, repatriate to Mexican territory.
Commit murder in front of California forces ...
"Target destroyed. Two five, can you check the bodies? We'll close on the target and gather intel."
###
The smuggler vehicle had burned to a crisp. Nothing had been blown clear. Two charred corpses grinned - they always do that when the muscles burn away.
The dumpees were another story. One was still alive. But not for very long.
"Multiple GSW to the abdomen. Not happening even with a full trauma center here and now."
And our nearest trauma center at Arrowhead was an hour away by air.
She spoke no English or Spanish. But our translator was recording and sort of spoke a Mayan dialect, related to but not the same as the casualty.
She was also desperate to tell us. She knew she was dying. But it was important.
###
"They were doing recon for a larger refugee movement. The two were brought along as entertainment."
About six hundred migrants in a particular canyon south of the Border. Thanks to the RTX, we had some access to battlefield intel that we normally did not. Optics and IR can see more things when you know where to point.
We could not under any circumstances whatsoever cross the Border to rescue them from their captors.
That did not mean there was nothing we could do.
"Continue the RTX. Reopen McNasty. Be careful. Let's leave a nice big pocket near Mary. Let them think we're busy doing other stuff. And set up for mass internment."
Then I called a ursine friend of mine. Hairy bastard.
###
The battered old buses and trucks formed up and the migrants were prodded to board them. A couple were too slow, and were shot or stabbed as was usual.
A single off road vehicle made mostly of welded pipe was in front.
Several battered pickup trucks were in back. None displayed flags. All had machine guns on hardpoints.
It was dusk. Good light to cross the border, the illusory protection of night once across.
North of the border crossing a ways, the road narrowed to cross a wadi, a ravine created by rare but powerful desert rainfall.
The pickup trucks blew up, rather suddenly, within a few seconds of each other. The burning wreckage of the first blocked the road. The buses floored it. No one fired at them.
Men in unmarked fatigues and peasant clothes immediately broke down the tripods of their automatic grenade launchers and started hiking out, each carrying parts of the launchers. Their work was done.
###
Several buses, stopped. A handful of armed men surrounded by a much larger crowd of men, with women and children crowding in but a little behind.
"Go in?" someone asked on the tac net.
"Wait," I ordered callously.
One of the armed men opened fire. As if it were a signal, the crowd surged over their tormentors.
"Go, go go!"
###
Our medics were not in time to save three of the migrants, the bravest, who had gone bare handed against the one machine gun and several rifles of the scout vehicle.
Of course we were far too late to save the smugglers, all of whom had been beaten to death before we closed the distance. That is exactly what I said in my official report.
We did save several others, and interned all of them. Processed.
"What will happen to us?" one of their leaders asked, through a translator.
"You have lawfully crossed the border into California fleeing violent crime. You have properly surrendered yourselves to immigration personnel. You will be individually cited and taken to El Cajon, where you will be fed and clothed and housed until your immigration hearing. As Category II border crossers within the regulations of the UN Treaty, almost all of you can expect to be granted California temporary residency. Only those who have illegally crossed since the founding of the Republic will be rejected."
The news spread. People started weeping.
Not sadness. Joy.
If their captors had followed the original plan, they would have worked in fields and sweatshops, a language barrier and threats to families between them and seeking help. Illegals, hidden from and deprived of access to any services but those provided by their captors.
Now they would work in fields and factories still, but with full access to California's healthcare and educational systems. Carded. Legal.
There was no one alive to dispute my version of events. They hadn't paid to be smuggled across, they had been trafficked.
That was my story and their story and the only story I would permit to be heard.
Ever.
###
"After review we have determined that Campos Sector has passed the Regional Training Exercise and is typed out as a Scout Soldier Unit."
We'd passed the RTX. Not even trying. Going through the motions, focused on the other thing.
The evaluators had no doubt that in the event of general invasion, we could do our jobs.
I had not been concerned about it.
Dying is easier than living.
