by R A Peters
Considering the situation, he was surprisingly calm. Of course, dealing with disaster is always easier than sitting around waiting for it. Especially from an officer’s point of view. Once things went to hell, screwing up further didn’t reflect so badly upon you. You didn’t have to strive to live up to some idealized standard. Simply pulling your unit through the ordeal makes you a hero.
Beside him, Command Sergeant Major Brown snarled. His focus was on much more prosaic concerns than his career. Ninety-two of his boys, not even counting the transport’s crew, just died without a chance to fight back. That was not something a man like him could shrug off to bad luck.
Pointing at the radioman, Brown clarified the only part of the plan that interested him.
“Screw all that political talk about a show of force. Those rebels have kicked things up to a whole new level. Consider Camp Blanding a hot landing zone. Ya’ make it damn clear that everyone knows the rules of engagement (ROE) just changed. Positive ID is now all you need to engage. If they got a weapon, they’re free game. No complexities, no exceptions. I want every man briefed in the next five minutes and I want confirmation from each platoon sergeant.”
The young radio operator didn’t have the courage to defy the sergeant major by glancing at the colonel to confirm the order. The best he could muster was five seconds of hesitation to give his leader a chance to speak up. To give anyone a chance to speak up.
No one did.
So he followed his orders.
Camp Blanding, Southern Access Road
Northeast Florida
24 January: 0330
Private First Class Donaldson cursed as he soaked himself yet again with the supposed “deep woods” bug spray. “This shit’s about as useful as my Guard enlistment,” he murmured for the tenth time.
Just another big city boy from Michigan seduced by endless Miami Beach music videos, he convinced his parents that only the University of South Florida could provide that quality education they were always going on about. For the first couple of semesters the 19-year-old did manage to live the rap star life in bikini heaven while making, just barely, the grades needed to keep the folks off his back.
At least, that was before the interest rates doubled on his student loans thanks to some weird federal legislation. His father was “very proud” how he finally found a part-time job to help out, but that between his mother’s medical bills and the loan’s new costs, they had to “make some tough choices.”
Lucky to have found even a minimum wage job these days, Donaldson jumped at the instate tuition reimbursement incentive the National Guard offered. With the ink still wet on the papers, he called his father to tell him not to worry. For serving just one weekend a month and two weeks a year, the Guard would “pay for his future.”
Turned out, he lied. He wasn’t even out of basic training when, as part of some complicated “deficit reduction deal” in Washington, the state lost most of the federal contributions that helped fund the National Guard. Barely able to provide basic pay to their guardsmen, Florida wasn’t about to foot the bill for his education as well. Contractual obligation or not.
“Fuck!” He swatted, too late, at another stinging something. How could a swamp be so alive in January? Winter was just a word in Florida. It was cool getting sunburnt on New Year’s Eve, but this was ridiculous.
When that dumbass of a governor called up the Guard, Donaldson tried to weasel out, naturally. That’s when the stick-up-the-ass, ex-active duty NCO on the other end of the phone mentioned his contractual obligations. He saw now how sassing off about government contracts being binding only one way explained why he was spending all night guarding the access road entrance to a damn swamp.
“Son of a bitch!”
The older specialist in the guard shack glanced up from his porn magazine, chuckling at the stressed out skinny kid hovering around him. “What the hell, man?”
Donaldson ground his teeth and reached into his shoulder pocket. “Just thinking about shit. Here, I’m going to burn one. Keep an eye out, Hough.”
“Ok, but do it back in the tree line. If the on-duty NCO catches you, it’s both of our asses.”
About 10 yards away, in a slight depression surrounded by high scrub palms, Donaldson finally felt safe from his real enemy: Goddamn sergeants.
It wouldn’t be the last time smoking saved his life. No sooner was he out of sight than Specialist Hough heard something moving around in the dark. He naturally assumed the worst. That the NCO of the guard force was trying to sneak up on them as part of some “gotcha” game.
Specialist Hough sprang into textbook action. He shut off the shack’s interior light, swung his M16 to the high ready and lit the road up with his pivot-mounted halogen searchlight. He expected to hear a shout of, “Well done, soldier!” At worst, “What took you so fucking long?”
“Contact, 11 O’clock!” surprised him as much as the two controlled pairs coming right on its heels. The ceramic ballistic plate in his vest was designed to stop one hit, maybe two if lucky. With so many rounds striking him center mass at close range, the body armor shattered like so much porcelain.
Ten yards over in the brush, PFC Donaldson’s heart stopped at the burst of fire. Training told him to take advantage of his lucky position and engage the enemy in flanking fire. His gut told him to run like hell. Some small, rarely used part of his brain spoke up with much more practical advice. Keep calm, don’t move, you’re vastly outnumbered!
With all the noise around, the crickets suddenly halted their incessant orgy. He noticed for the first time how dangerously quiet it got at night without the bugs. Convenient, since he couldn’t see much from his scrub palm redoubt anyway. The new voices clarified the situation just as good as seeing it.
“Clear!”
“Only one of them on duty? Fucking National Guard amateurs!”
“Does he need a medic? Maybe he’s not–”
“Ha! Way too late for that. Shit, he had a weapon, man. I mean you saw it, right? What was I supposed to do? The ROE are clear, he had a weapon…”
An older voice cut in. “Enough of that shit. You did well, but now the whole fucking camp knows we’re here. We need to get back to the ambush site at the other gate before their Quick Reaction Force (QRF) gets moving. Police this mess up and let’s go!”
Donaldson waited a good five minutes after it was dead quiet again before going back to the guard shack. His buddy’s body lay untouched. Well, almost. Someone emptied his ammo pouches and his rifle was missing. So was the shack’s radio.
At least they’d forgotten the backup phone. The warning light exploded. Thank God it had no ringer.
For the first time ever, he was glad to hear his sergeant’s voice.
“Rock on! You’re still alive. Listen up, Private. Things just got real. Enemy airborne came in about 15 minutes ago and they’re crawling all over the place. We’ve lost contact with the airstrip and the bastards are picking people off left and right. You hear anything, shoot first and ask questions later. QRF is heading your way, so don’t fire at the Humvees! They’ll reinforce your position. We need to defend the Ammunition Holding Area (AHA) until we can get the ammo and heavy weapons out, is that–”
“Sergeant, look, they’ve already taken the AHA. They hit us here a few minutes ago.” Donaldson finally admitted it to himself.
“Hough’s dead and they got our radio. I’m alive. I, uh, I got lucky.”
The NCO on the other end didn’t miss a beat. “No time for that now. You made it; that’s all that’s important. What is the enemy up to?”
Donaldson brought up the 4-power ACOG scope on his rifle. He couldn’t make out detailed shapes in the dark, but movement was clear enough. “I think they’re setting up an ambush site between the north and east gates. They can hit anyone entering either entrance from there plus cover the main road.”
“Are they now? Want to ambush my QRF?” Donaldson could have sworn he heard a purr over the phone. “You know, t
here’s an artillery battery that was out doing some night fire training earlier. I wonder if they still got a few rounds left. Where is the enemy exactly, Private?”
“Um, along the reverse slope of the safety berm. Straddling the access road about 300 meters northwest of my position, maybe a 100-200 meter front.” The fear in his voice finally gave way to adrenaline. “At least two platoons, but not a full company. I think they’re trying to dig in.”
“Do you remember how to call in an artillery fire mission, Private?”
Donaldson went pale thinking about this latest failure. “Ah, not really, Sergeant.”
“Don’t worry about it, kid. You just did. Find some cover. Danger close!”
Camp Blanding Airstrip
Two kilometers southeast of the Ammunition Holding Area
24 January: 0430
Thump, thump, thump, thump, thump, thump!
The barrage in the distance hit all at once, but you could hear the distinct explosions if you listened carefully. Alpha Company’s CO was not easy to make out on the radio over all the small arms fire and shelling.
“Roger. That was 155mm art…casualties…enemy…about company strength, over.”
Lieutenant Colonel Anderson’s tone held the calm and clarity that only someone not under fire could. “Gator 6, this is Eagle 6. In your assessment, can you disengage and fall back into cover in the AHA, over?” Silence from the radio, but the steady stream of semi and full auto fire in the distance told the story.
Sergeant Major Brown practically hopped up and down. “Damn it sir, we’ve rounded up enough loose vehicles here and no one has made a move to retake the airfield. We could get a company over there to help fast.”
Lieutenant Colonel Anderson frowned. “They’re almost two kilometers away. Our lines of communication are far too tenuous, even with mobile resources. Our force is spread thin enough as it is. I can’t risk dividing it further. Doctrine calls for fire support…XO, keep pestering higher for that close air support! No more excuses from them. Make our situation crystal clear.”
To his credit, the colonel didn’t waste time with “might have been’s.” Nor did the sergeant major bother with “I told you so’s.”
The radio came back to life before either could speak. A new voice called this time.
“Eagle 6, this is Gator 3-7, over.”
A platoon sergeant? The colonel knew the answer even before he asked. “This is Eagle 6. Where’s Alpha 6 actual, over?”
“Gator 6, he’s KIA, break…near as I can tell, I’m Alpha 6 now, over.”
“Gator, Eagle. Can you disengage, over?”
There wasn’t any hesitation. “Negative, Eagle 6. Too many wounded to move and too much open ground to cross anyway, over.” The firing appeared to die down somewhat.
“Gator, Eagle. Can you hold your position, over?”
Again, no hesitation. “Not for long, break…they’ve already flanked us and are in the AHA in large numbers, over.”
Colonel Anderson gritted his teeth and threw a glance at the sergeant major. Brown looked contemplative for a change.
“Eagle 6, they’re keeping us pinned down until they get the Bradley armored vehicles loaded with ammo. It won’t be too much longer until they’re done. When they come, we got nothing to stop them, over.” The colonel chewed on that for a long time, all while fiddling with his VMI class ring.
“Eagle 6, this is Gator 6. Did you copy my last, over?”
The radio operator clicked the mike on and tried to answer. Anderson grabbed it back. “Roger, Gator 6. I copy…break…break…the surrender of your command is at your discretion, over.”
Brown snatched the mike away from his commander. “Wait one, Gator 6.”
Voice barely above a whisper, he growled at the enlisted men. “Let me talk with the Colonel alone.” The two enlisted soldiers melted away fast. Even the XO found somewhere else to go.
“Don’t you fucking dare, sir! You make a command decision right now. Don’t force a junior NCO to make that type of call to save your reputation. Man up and tell them to…” he had to spit the word out, “surrender, or tell them to die to the last man, but it’s your responsibility, not his.”
Someone burst away with a SAW light machine gun on the far side of the perimeter, towards the highway ringing the field. M4 rifles joined in a second later…not all as outgoing fire.
The battalion executive officer came back to their huddle. “The Guard’s just probing the perimeter, sir. Trying to define the battle space. Don’t worry. We have tight 360 degree security.”
Anderson finally spoke up. “Little good it does us when they have armor and artillery.”
The XO finally stopped his perpetual scowling. “We’re working on that, sir. Brigade promised to scramble a few F/A-18 fighters. It’ll take them nearly an hour to get on station here and you’ll have to personally approve every strike, but it’s something.”
The sergeant major needlessly kept pushing the forward assist button on his M-4, an old nervous tick of his. “They don’t have an hour. Minutes, tops. Make a call, sir. I’ll back you either way.”
Anderson stretched out his hand. “Am I allowed to communicate with my command now, Sergeant Major? If you don’t mind, I’d like to be in charge of this unit for a minute.”
“Hooah, sir.”
The colonel never broke eye contact with him as he took the mike. “Gator 6, Eagle 6, over.”
“Gator 6, over.”
“You are authorized, correction, you are ordered to surrender your element to the enemy, over.”
“Say again, over?”
“This is Eagle 6, you heard me. You’ve all done a fine job, but there’s nothing more to accomplish there. This is not Afghanistan. I’m not going to throw any more lives away over this crap, over.” The radio was silent so long the colonel thought he’d lost another leader. The curt reply spoke volumes.
“WILCO, out.”
The colonel bristled at the shorthand for “will comply.” He’d been around long enough to know it also served as polite enlisted code for, “Fine, I’ll do it, you jackass.”
The livid executive officer ran back to their huddle and waved the Sat phone in disgust. “They called them back, sir! Straight from the president! He overruled headquarters. Only explanation was some bullshit about not wanting to ‘escalate’ things. That fucker even relieved General Jacobi for refusing to comply.”
Brown dropped back on a knee. “So? I knew that promise of close air support was too good to be true. Fuck it; we didn’t have the fast movers before. We haven’t lost nothing.”
“No, Sergeant Major. I don’t mean just them. I’m talking about the rest of the brigade! Our follow on relief, the Tallahassee task force…everyone! They cut us off. We’re ordered to hold in place until further orders. Oh, and avoid taking or inflicting casualties!” To the open-mouthed faces gathered around he added, “I swear, you can’t make this shit up!”
A familiar, clanking whine far too close cut off the bitch fest. A short salvo of 25mm high-explosive rounds landed harmlessly in the middle of the airfield. Things just went from bad to worse beyond belief.
Some nearby soldier, valiantly but comically warding off the hulking Infantry Fighting Vehicle with his under-barrel mounted grenade launcher shouted, “Sir, the lead Bradley’s waving a white flag.”
The colonel clasped his hands behind his back so no one could see them shake. “About time! I thought they would never give up!” What an amazing effect one lame joke could have on so many men with so little hope. By the time Anderson stood in the middle of “no man’s land” and saluted his full bird Florida colonel counterpart, the quote had been passed everywhere along the 300 man line. Growing more defiant with every retelling.
*
“Sir, that proposal is unacceptable.” Lieutenant Colonel Anderson took off his K-Pod helmet as well. More for the opportunity to slide out of the oven for a moment than as a show of trust. Even a winter night in Florida was h
ot for a Maine man. The armor and helmet added a good 15 degrees, easily.
“I grant you our present situation is unfavorable, but if necessary, the gloves can come off. I will designate this entire base a Free Fire Area and call in the full weight of my air support. We have accomplished our primary objective of occupying this airfield to prevent additional atrocities. We haven’t advanced farther out of concern for inflicting unnecessary casualties, but we–”
Florida’s newly famous Colonel Beauregard, who hadn’t even bothered to put on his IBA body armor, slapped his knee and laughed.
“You’re something else, all right! I wish I had you on my staff back in Afghanistan negotiating with those assholes!” He paused to savor his opposite number’s sour look.
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter. We’re all using the same radio frequencies and the same COMSEC encryption codes. I’ve really enjoyed your XO’s pleading with your headquarters. You don’t have any mortars, no anti-armor ability, no reinforcements coming and sure as hell no air support.” His smirk disappeared as iron crept into his voice.
“All you’ve got is blood on your hands, a president who abandoned you and 300 outgunned, outnumbered and surrounded men. Internment is the best deal you’re going to get. You have one hour to talk to your officers and see what your superiors think. If they’ll even bother communicating. They seem quite willing to wash their hands of you all. Remember, that hour ceasefire is a gift. Professional courtesy. Dismissed, Colonel.”
Anderson didn’t even offer a half-assed salute in reply.
Tallahassee, Florida
24 January: 0445
Florida’s Attorney General Francis Pickens hung up the phone in confused disgust. Half an hour wasted arguing with various staffers at the White House and all he could get was a promise that “someone will call you back.” They still didn’t believe the governor was really in the hospital and incommunicado. They were like a dog with a bone, trying to get back in touch with him. It was even harder for them to believe that the dithering moron of a lieutenant governor wasn’t interested in stepping up.