by John Ringo
“Okay, AID, who’s that?” queried Ersin, angrily.
“The Division artillery commander.”
“Shit.” He thought about it for a moment then keyed the radio anyway. “Bravo Five Nine Actual, this is Echo Two One. Negative fire. I say again, per corps orders, negative fire. Get off my net. Out.”
“Echo Two One, this is Bravo Five Nine. This is an order. Call fire, I say again, call fire, over.”
“AID, contact corps, send these transmissions with explanation. Do it now. Bravo Five Nine, require electronic authentication and link. AID, don’t accept the link.”
“I have to. Bravo Five Nine outranks you.”
“Not really, haven’t we been transferred to Fleet Strike?”
“Your team has not been officially transferred yet.”
“Okay, what about divided command authorities? I fall under CONARC, not corps and we are under a corps command not to fire.”
“Most recent orders of a superior officer overrule previous orders. That’s Ground Forces General Regulation One Dash One Zero Five. Link confirmed, Posleen positions transmitted.” There was a brief pause. “One-Five-Five fire on the way. Your position was noted as well. They are using close support rules as stipulated by doctrine.”
“Goddamnit! Have you contacted corps?”
“I am unable to contact corps at this time due to message traffic. Material transferred to e-mail and sent to queue.”
“Get me Sergeant Major Mosovich,” he snarled at the recalcitrant machine as the sky began to scream.
* * *
“He what?” shouted the normally mild-mannered Twelfth Corps commander.
“General Bernard ordered his artillery to engage the Posleen positions near Virginia 639.” The corps operations officer looked like he had taken a drink expecting water and gotten unsweetened lemonade. In a way he had.
“Send the corps provost to the Twenty-Ninth Infantry Division headquarters. Order him to place General Bernard under arrest for insubordination and disobedience to direct orders. Send General Craig to take command.”
“Craig isn’t from the Guard, sir.”
“Fuck ’em. This is the last irresponsible action I am allowing that rat-fuck division command and staff to undertake. Tell George to put a leash on those idiots. Contact Division Arty, tell them that the order is countermanded. Relieve the commander, have him report here, replace him with his XO pending final disposition. Tell the XO he can figure on finding a new home unless he justifies staying in command.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Get me Colonel Abrahamson. He needs to know we may be kicking off early.”
CHAPTER 42
Dale City, VA, United States of America, Sol III
0728 EDT October 10th, 2004 ad
There was thirty dead and wounded on the ground we
wouldn’t keep —
No, there wasn’t more than twenty when the front begun
to go —
But, Christ! along the line o’ flight they cut us up like sheep,
An’ that was all we gained by doin’ so!
We was rotten ’fore we started — we was never disciplined;
We made it out a favour if an order was obeyed.
Yes, every little drummer ’ad ’is rights an’ wrongs to mind,
So we had to pay for teachin’ — an’ we paid!
An’ there ain’t no chorus ’ere to give,
Nor there ain’t no band to play;
But I wish I was dead ’fore I done what I did,
Or seen what I seed that day!
— from “That Day”
Rudyard Kipling
“Does anyone know what the fuck is going on?” asked Specialist Keren, rhetorically.
“You heard the Pres, so shut up and dig,” said Sergeant Herd, but it was without heat. Everyone was confused and uncertain.
The Fiftieth Infantry Division was a new unit. Its unit colors had been in storage since World War II when it had performed undistinguished service in the Pacific theater. It had nearly participated in the battle of Leyte Gulf. It had performed heroic rear area service during the battle of Tarawa. It had nearly invaded the Japanese mainland and gone down in Army history. Unfortunately, it was only a blip in Army history and an unnoticed blip until the present emergency. And Ground Force personnel had responded appropriately.
The current service personnel transferred to the unit were, by and large, the soldiers and officers that relieving units were just as happy to see the backs of, and the new recruits had only those personnel and a smattering of rejuvs to use as guidance. A few officers and NCOs stood out, but in many cases only because of average performance rising out of an abyssal morass of incompetence.
Mortar platoon, Alpha Company First Battalion Four Hundred Fifty-Second Infantry, Third Brigade, Fiftieth Infantry Division, was, if anything a cut above the rest. Specialist Keren had, admittedly, been a sergeant before and would probably be a private again but that had very little to do with his competence as a mortarman. He had a bit of a drinking problem, and with it came a coincidental habit of telling officers what he thought their mothers did for pocket money, but that was no problem in the field. And he was the high point of the “trained” privates. A couple of the newbie privates were on the mental level of Oscar the Zoo Gorilla. And the platoon sergeant had spent the last fifteen years improving his knowledge of metalworking in a machine shop. And the platoon leader, despite the overabundance of first lieutenants, was a recent graduate of the Pennsylvania Army National Guard Officers Training School and would soon, almost certainly, require a razor.
But, for all of that, they had established a unit camaraderie that was sorely lacking throughout most of the division and they had managed to hold together during the occasional riots that had broken out and they had trained, even when the rest of the battalion had screwed off or gone AWOL half the time. What magic element infected them, whether it was Keren’s sarcastic outlook on their chances in the event of real combat, or the platoon sergeant’s careful attention to every last detail of personal and equipment needs or the platoon leader’s puppy-dog eagerness that was too infectious to ignore and too ingenuous to kick, the unit had come together. True, they were far below the pre-emergency norm for the American Army, and they had a lot of training to catch up on, but they were as good as it got in the Fuckin’ Fiftieth.
Unfortunately the current situation would have strained a veteran unit.
First there had been the mad dash to saddle up, with nearly half the battalion officers gone and over fifteen AWOLs in Alpha company alone. Then going into the defense when it became apparent that they might be in the interdiction circle. Then the orders to move out to positions north of the Potomac, which was just fine with most of them. Last came the sudden about-face.
Up until then operations had progressed with remarkable smoothness. The occasional unit got lost or at least off on the wrong road and stuck in civilian traffic, and a couple of units had run out of fuel because their bowsers could not find them. And there were not enough lowboys — the tractor-trailer rigs that were normally used for any movement that would not involve conflict — in the entire world to move all the armored fighting vehicles being shuffled on the eastern seaboard. So the division had to move in its APCs, Bradleys and tanks and plenty of them broke down; some of the units in the division had not done maintenance in months. But, basically, all things considered, up until the turnaround everything was going as smooth as silk.
Moving a corps is something like moving a large family. Telling such-and-such a unit to go to this location and repeating that ad nauseum will not work. The units invariably do not have enough fuel to complete the movement, even as simple a drive as from Alexandria to Quantico: a forty-five-minute drive by car on a good day. And telling the units to go here or there, centering hundreds of fighting units with their support on a small area, means that thousands of vehicles are all trying to use the same roads at the same time. While that works just fin
e for commuters, military units rarely recover well when they lack cohesion. Individual vehicles simply follow the vehicles in front and rarely does every vehicle commander follow a map. Mixing units leads to one unit with extra vehicles and one unit with virtually none. Just having mom and dad go out to the car and sit after telling the kids to pack and load the car is a recipe for disaster.
In a normal movement or even a “planned” emergency every unit is given a destination, a route to use and an estimated time of arrival. In addition there are specified points to refuel, rearm and be served hot chow. Good commanders send that information down the line and the subordinate units brief their individual drivers and vehicle commanders. At a minimum almost every driver and vehicle commander knows where they are going, the route to follow and any planned stops along the way. (There are always exactly ten percent that do not “get the word.”) Then the unit moves out and invariably everyone except the drivers, the officers, senior NCOs and overeager junior NCOs goes to sleep. On arrival it is the overeager junior NCO’s job to wake everyone up. That is how they become senior NCOs.
When the President gave the corps its marching orders every officer from the High Commander down to the company commanders knew in their bones that the result would be utter chaos. And they were right. With no time for the staff to prepare any of the units and with the units effectively backwards to the way they should have been arranged, the night had been an unending madhouse.
The platoon had just heard a valid report that the Fiftieth Infantry Division had less than seventy percent of its vehicles in the correct location. This after what would have been a simple five-mile road march if they had driven directly from their laagers in Quantico.
Unable to determine precise points for every unit to move to and through, the Corps had been forced to give general orders to the subordinate divisions along with a general axis of movement. These were the orders that the divisions then transmitted to their subordinate units. They had had varying success.
Some divisions, notably the Thirty-Third, had tried to give every subordinate battalion its precise destinations and axes of defense using the correct and proper codes for such vital information. The result had been utter confusion on the part of the battalions. Through simple errors inherent in any complex unpracticed endeavor — especially when undertrained communications personnel were attempting to use necessarily complex encoders and decoders — battalion commanders found themselves with orders scattering them all over the map. In some cases the orders had them outside of the continental United States. Several commanders referred the obviously incorrect dispositions to the brigade commanders, who should have been detailing their tactics in the first place. The brigade commanders tried to contact the division for clarification.
In the midst of all of this the corps’s communications protocols changed, not all the correct protocols were transmitted to all the units and suddenly half the corps was out of communication with each other.
The mortar platoon had three of its five fighting vehicles in what the platoon leader was fairly sure was the right place. After switching back and forth on their PRC-2000 radio they finally established contact with the platoon sergeant and the first squad track. The same method finally got them in contact with the company net; the company commander’s RTO was flipping around to the old and new frequencies trying to find its units.
The information from the company was mildly encouraging. They were in more or less the right place. Some of the company’s line platoons were in more or less the right place. And the company commander was fairly sure that he would be able to contact battalion “soon.” A request for refueling and chow, however, was answered with an unsettling “we’ll have to get back to you on that.”
Now fairly sure that there were some gun-bunnies — riflemen that is — between them and the Posleen and fairly sure that they knew where they were and where the gun-bunnies were, they were preparing for their first taste of war. All they had to do was set up to fire, an exercise that should take a maximum of twelve minutes according to Ground Forces Standard. Keren had been digging for over a half-hour, waiting for word that the platoon leader was ready to lay the guns “in-parallel.” Until that was done, control orders from the Fire Direction Center would be meaningless; the guns needed a starting point to work from.
“You know, I like Lieutenant Leper. I mean…” Keren tossed another shovel of dirt out of the fighting position he was digging next to the mortar track. He might not need the hole, but if he did he knew he was going to need it bad and in a hurry. Most of the platoon thought he was an idiot.
“Can it, Keren.” Sergeant Herd knew he had the best gunner in the battalion, maybe in the division, but he also knew he had to keep him firmly in check.
“No, really, he’s a nice guy and he tries hard…” continued the specialist. He tossed another shovelful of dirt out of the hole, and looked around to see if he’d hit anyone with it. No. Damn.
“What,” snorted Sheila Reed, the ammo bearer and track driver, “you think you could do better?”
“Shit, I know I could do better,” Keren responded, tossing the next shovelful higher. A drift of the wind caught it and threw dust onto the rest of the crew lounging on the track. His chocolate face creased as they cursed him.
“Go out there and do it, then,” said Tom Riley, the assistant gunner.
“Fuck no, Sergeant Ford is out there. You know what a bastard he is.”
“Fuck Ford,” said Herd, suddenly interested. “He can do Fire Direction, but anybody that can punch numbers can do that. Do you really think you can lay in the guns?”
“I can tell what their problem is from here,” Keren said, throwing the D-handle shovel out of the hole and dusting off his hands. “They can’t get the deflection head leveled up. It’s not like a one-twenty, where you only have to level side to side. A deflection head you gotta level all the way around.” He hoisted himself out of the hole and looked at his squad leader.
“Go on. Tell Ford if he has a problem to take it up with me.” Sergeant Herd knew the specialist was probably right. Having volunteered before the invasion was ever heard of, the gunner had been in the service six years already and knew his way around a mortar platoon far better than anyone but the platoon sergeant. If he said he could get the platoon laid in he could get them laid in.
Keren pulled his sleeves down and settled his cap on his head. Regulations called for wearing the Kevlar helmet at all times in the field, but his Kevlar was in the track — where it did some good keeping you from banging your head — and that was where it was gonna stay. Since most of the men and women in the platoon were wearing BDU caps he fit right in. Those who were not wearing BDU caps were wearing either floppy brim “boonie” caps or were coverless. The only people in sight with Kevlars on were Lieutenant Leper and Sergeant Ford. On the other hand Keren’s LCE with his pistol, ANCD and food and water did not leave his body.
“Okay Zippy,” he said, referring to Riley by his nickname, “get ready to lay that bastard in.”
As he neared the pair Sergeant Ford turned and glared at him. “We don’t need your help, Keren, so get lost.”
“Already am Sergeant, happens any time I leave the barracks. Sergeant Herd told me to come over and see if I could be of assistance.”
“Sergeant Ford,” said Lieutenant Leper, “maybe you could go and see if you can reestablish communication with battalion TOC.”
Ford glared at the specialist and stalked off towards the FDC track.
“Specialist, I seem to be having a little trouble with leveling this up. I’ve watched Staff Sergeant Simmons any number of times and I thought I knew how but…”
“Yes, sir, I understand,” Keren said, tactfully. “These things are a real bugger to level.” He grabbed the leveling knobs and centered them, then looked at the bubble and stomped one leg of the tripod down. Using both hands he manipulated all three knobs, two at a time for a few seconds and spun the sight around.
“Di
rection of fire is twenty-eight hundred, right, sir?” he asked.
“Twenty-eight hundred mils, right,” said the confused lieutenant, looking over his shoulder to ensure that the recalcitrant bubble was in fact centered. To his amazement it was. “How the hell did you do that so fast?”
“The same way you get to Carnegie hall, sir.” The specialist manipulated the head to twenty-eight hundred mils and spun it towards his track. “Two gun aiming point this instrument!” he shouted.
“Two gun, aiming point identified!” Riley answered. The gunner on the other track scrambled off the ground where he had been dozing and dove into the track. A moment later his head popped through the top.
“Deflection, one-seven one seven five! Close enough.”
“Deflection, one-seven one seven five!”
keren spun the sight towards the other track and read off the numbers. “Three gun!”
“Three gun!”
“Aiming point this instrument!”
“Aiming point identified!”
“Deflection one-nine one one eight!”
“Deflection one-nine one one eight!”
He waited until the guns called up, secretly pleased that the assistant gunner on his track got up faster than the gunner on Third Track and repeated the process twice more for each gun until they were laid in parallel and he pronounced himself satisfied. “They’re in. Only way to know if they’re actually aligned is to fire them in series, sir. But they’re as laid as I can get them.”
“That was amazing. How did you get the bubble to level so fast?” the officer asked, still surprised at the casual display of skill.
“My first platoon sergeant taught me that trick, sir. If the bubble seems like it should go one way, you have to grab two knobs. Twist one to push the bubble and twist the other in the opposite direction. Also you should be looking at the bubble from your normal sighting angle, rather than trying to crane down from on top. That keeps you from chasing the bubble.”