by James Rosone
“Forget him,” said his sergeant callously. “Focus on killing the enemy in front of us. We need to take ’em out or we’re dead.” Then, following his own advice, he let loose a full magazine’s worth of bullets at the UN soldiers.
The urge for survival forced Johnson to do his best to shake off the scene of his dead friend. He scanned the forest in front of him. One of the sergeant’s rounds caused an enemy soldier to grab at his neck. Another dropped like a sack of potatoes. However, a third soldier brought some sort of light machine gun to bear and cut loose a long string of bullets in their direction.
Johnson ducked. He heard a grunt and a wet, fleshy sound. As he glanced over at his sergeant, Johnson watched him fall backward, hit by multiple bullets. His sergeant was dead before he hit the ground.
Damn! I’m all alone now, Johnson thought.
He turned and looked around behind him. All he saw was either dead bodies of his squad and platoonmates or men crying out for help. There didn’t seem to be anyone left unhurt to help him or continue the fight. Johnson turned back to his sergeant, reached over for the M27, and readied himself to use it.
Abruptly, the battlefield became quiet. No one was shooting anymore. All Johnson could hear was the cries for the medics. As he lay on his back, trying to decide if he should jump back up and resume shooting or not, he heard voices.
“Check your sectors and advance,” called out a voice in English.
“We got a lot of wounded over here. What do you want us to do with them?” asked another.
Could those be Americans? Johnson wondered.
“If they’re wounded, help ’em out. If they give you any trouble, kill ’em,” replied another.
Just as Johnson was about to crawl over and engage whoever was moving toward him, he heard a couple of branches snap. “Don’t even try it or I’ll light you up!” shouted a loud commanding voice near him.
Moving his hands away from his rifle, Johnson held them out and turned to see two soldiers pointing their weapons at him.
“Who the hell are you guys?” Johnson asked. They were clearly speaking English, which confused him.
Smiling, the soldier replied, “48th Highlanders. We’re Canadian.” He paused for a second as he lowered his rifle.
His comrade did the same before he added, “You damn Yanks cost us a lot of good men.”
Sitting up slowly so as not to get shot, Johnson replied, “Yeah, you Canucks cost us a few as well.”
With nothing more to say, they gestured for him to get up. Then they trudged him back toward their lines into an uncertain future.
Chapter 7
Detention Camps
January 31, 2021
Fort Stewart, Georgia
Rows and rows of white tents had been set up for as far as the eye could see. Every couple hundred meters, there was a cluster of ten portable toilets positioned between them. Near each group of portable toilets were two prefabricated shower trailers. The site had turned into a truly massive camp, only a couple of miles outside the town of Hinesville, Georgia, and not too far from the coastal city of Savannah.
“What do you suppose they’re going to do with these camps?” Tommy asked. He’d just finished inspecting the tent to make sure it had the proper number of bunk beds and footlockers to house twenty-four people. Each tent also had three tables with eighteen folding chairs, where the occupants could play cards, read a book, or otherwise entertain themselves.
Tommy climbed back into the golf cart. His partner, Bill, answered, “I suspect they’ll fill ’em up with prisoners from the war. You heard they captured over ten thousand prisoners up there in Washington, right?”
“They captured ten thousand prisoners in D.C.?” Tommy asked skeptically. He stuffed some more chew in his lower lip.
Bill just shook his head. “No. Not D.C. Washington State. You know, up near Canada. It’s on the West Coast. Geez, boy, didn’t they teach you anything in school?”
“Don’t call me ‘boy,’ old man. And yes, I know there is a state called Washington. I just got confused,” Tommy replied. Most days, Bill and Tommy got along pretty well, despite the fact that Bill was in his midfifties and Tommy had just turned nineteen. They were both African American, and Bill pretty much called anyone younger than him “boy,” which agitated the hell out of Tommy, who took it as some sort of racial slur.
“Let’s go sign off on the next group of showers, Tommy,” said Bill, trying to reframe the conversation.
Tommy let out a deep breath, then asked, “You really think I should learn to become a plumber?”
“I do,” Bill responded. “Look, I don’t mean to insult you when I say this, Tommy, but let’s face it: you aren’t the sharpest tool in the shed. I know you had to drop out of school to get a job and help support your momma and all, but being a plumber is good work. You don’t need a college degree for it, and you can make really good money. You’re good with your hands. Heck, a month ago, you wouldn’t have had a clue how to set up one of these shower trailers. Now, you can practically do it yourself.”
Tommy nodded at the compliment. “I guess I am getting pretty good at this,” he said, suddenly sitting up taller. “But still, going to trade school costs money—something I obviously don’t have.”
Bill was silent for a moment as they pulled forward to the next set of trailers they had to inspect. When they hopped out of the golf cart, he put a hand on Tommy’s shoulder. “If you agree to work for my company for three years after you complete trade school, I’ll pay for it, Tommy. As you can see, I have more work than I can handle. Besides, I told your mother I’d do my best to help you ’cuz your father was a good friend of mine. But I’d need you to commit to working for me while you’re in school, and for three years afterwards. Deal?”
Tommy thought about that for all of two seconds before he stuck his hand out. “Deal. Now, let me do the final inspection on this unit, and you check to make sure I did it right.”
Bill smiled at his new apprentice and nodded. For the next couple of hours, they finished signing off on the shower units and the rest of the tents they’d been assigned to inspect. Once they finished their final checks of each tent and building, they’d let the camp manager know it was ready for whatever was coming next.
As they drove down the rows of tents, they saw another work crew was finishing up a guard tower. The tall structures were being placed along the outer perimeter fence, every two hundred meters apart. The outer barriers themselves were twelve feet tall with a coiled string of razor-sharp concertina wire on the top. Another crew set up light poles every twenty meters facing inward, illuminating the camp.
By the time the sun set on the last day of January, Bill and Tommy certified the camp as complete and ready for operations. In the coming weeks, the camp population would swell to more than eight thousand people as the government filled it up with prisoners of war.
*******
Metcalfe, Mississippi
DHS Detention Camp 14
George Thomas wiped the sweat from his forehead as he walked into what would become the camp’s administrative office building. He saw the commander of the 34th Military Police Company and walked over to him.
“Afternoon, Captain Quinn,” he said jovially. He poured himself a glass of sweet tea and took a seat in the chair next to the man’s desk.
Smiling at George, Quinn replied, “Afternoon, sir. I assume you’ve completed your inspection?”
George nodded as he finished draining the contents of his glass. “I sure did. I must say, Captain, I’m impressed. Your soldiers are quick and professional. This place looks great.”
“Well, our unit helped to run a detention camp in Afghanistan, so we have a lot of vets with experience in getting these things going. That said, it didn’t hurt having a few hundred KBR contractors and a few hundred FEMA tents as well.”
George tilted his head to the side. “So, how many contractors do you think you’ll need to help manage the camp?” he asked.
<
br /> “Do you mean guards or just workers to keep the camp functional?” asked Quinn, leaning forward.
“Both, I suppose. We’ve got three more of these camps going up right now, so I’m trying to get a handle on the numbers.”
Captain Quinn nodded. “Well, I think you’ll need roughly eighty contractors to maintain the facilities, and we’ll probably need a guard force of roughly six hundred. I plan on having the guards working either eight- or twelve-hour shifts, six days a week, depending upon how many people we have to keep an eye on.” He paused for a moment. “Roughly how many people are these camps going to hold, and for how long?”
George shrugged his shoulders. “That’s the million-dollar question, Captain. I know our capacity for each camp is roughly five thousand people. As for how long—I can’t be sure. I’d guess until this stupid conflict is done with. Could be a few weeks, could be a few months. All I know is when the next big offensive starts, they expect to capture a lot of prisoners.”
Leaning in closer, Quinn spoke in a hushed tone. “You have any insight into how the war is going at all? Are we winning, or is the country really going to split apart?”
George looked around the room to make sure no one else was listening. “From what I’ve been told, the war in the north is going well, or at least as good as can be expected. The big concern right now is what’s happening in Mexico and out west. I heard a rumor California and Oregon have been building up a large militia force. They’ve also started rounding up conservatives and anyone that’s giving them problems and putting them in reeducation camps.”
Captain Quinn snickered. “Isn’t that what we’re doing here?”
George shook his head. “Not at all, Captain. This is going to be a POW camp. They’re setting up a few other camps just like this for Americans who’ve chosen to take up arms against the government. If people are caught doing that, then they’re getting sent to one of these camps until they can be tried in a court of law. There’s a big difference between holding people until they can be prosecuted for a crime and outright rounding people up because you disagree with their politics.”
The two of them talked for a bit more as they worked out the details of how many guards and other workers they’d need to make the camps in the area run. George Thomas and Captain Quinn might not have been happy about it, but for better or worse, they found themselves managing some six detention camps in Mississippi. They’d do their best to make them run as safely and efficiently as possible.
*******
Camp Pendleton
Brigadier General Shell of Regimental Combat Team One looked at his commanders briefly before he turned to point at a spot the map of Southern California.
“Marines, as most of you know, California and a handful of other states are currently operating in a state of open revolt against our federal government. Thus far, we’ve been told to stay clear of the political crap going on there. However, with our forces having to withdraw from Japan, the Navy needs us to secure the ports of Long Beach and LA. There’s a sizable Japanese-American convoy of some sixty-odd freighters, cargo ships, and roll-on, roll-off ships heading to the ports as we speak.
“Right now, the city government and the local port authorities have denied the federal government and us the use of the facilities. Therefore, we’re going to go seize them. Now, I know many of you have some concerns about this, but it has to happen. We need to offload that equipment from Japan and get ready to deal with this Chinese force to our south. RCT One has been tasked with this mission, and we’re going to achieve it.” He motioned to a man near him. “I’m now going to hand things over to the G2 for the latest intelligence summary of what we’re facing.”
A major walked up to the front of the room and changed the PowerPoint slide to his portion of the brief. Once he was ready, he returned his gaze to the battalion and company commanders in front of him.
“Near the hills of San Clemente, the California National Guard’s 1st Battalion, 160th Infantry Regiment has set up a series of fortified positions along Interstate 5. Their goal is to keep us bottled up down here in San Diego County. To the north, in Temecula along Interstate 15, 1st Squadron, 18th Cavalry Regiment has set up a blocking force to keep us from gaining entry into the valley. The California Civil Defense Force has also moved a substantial number of militia units to the area. We are uncertain of their level of training, equipment, or numbers, but we’re estimating their numbers to be somewhere around two or three thousand. They make up the bulk of the force opposing us.
“Under normal circumstances, we’d land our force behind them and bypass them altogether. However, we need to also secure a route for our equipment that’ll be arriving in the ports back to San Diego County. That means we’re going to have to clear them out.”
General Shell heard a few of the Marines grumble and saw some of them shaking their heads. He stood back up to interject. “Listen. I know none of you guys like the idea of having to shoot fellow Americans, especially our Army brothers—but let’s not forget something here. These guys made their choice. They opted to join the renegade government and fight against our country. We can’t allow that to happen. We’re going to give these guys one chance. They will either surrender peacefully or get crushed by the United States Marine Corps.”
The general paused for a second before he added, “I want you to start preparing yourselves and your men for this. We push off to start this show in twelve hours. So we have time to get everything ready and also get a bit of rest. God only knows how long this operation will take, so let’s be as prepared as we can for whatever may come next.”
*******
Interstate 5, Near San Clemente
It was still dark, 0500 hours, as Staff Sergeant Mack’s LAV-25 followed behind four M1A1 Abrams main battle tanks down Interstate 5 toward San Clemente. There was a lot of consternation among the men of Regimental Combat Team One as they inched closer and closer to a possible conflict with their Army brothers.
Sergeant Mack had his own reservations. Given, these were Army National Guard units—still, many of them had served with plenty of regular Army and National Guard soldiers in the Iraq and Afghan wars. While they weren’t Marines, they were still blood brothers from a war they’d collectively fought together. The thought of having to kill them wasn’t sitting well. Mack could tell that the younger Marines who hadn’t seen combat in Iraq and Afghanistan didn’t seem to be questioning the orders, but the more seasoned Marines were coming to grips with a horrible situation.
Captain Turpin picked up on the foul mood. “You look like your chewing on a lemon, Staff Sergeant,” he commented.
Mack shrugged. “A big part of me hopes we don’t have to actually fight these guys. I’m hoping they’ll just surrender or go away.”
“I know how you feel, Sergeant. When I was enlisted, this National Guard unit that’s standing in our way in San Clemente was operating in our AO in Iraq during my first deployment. We didn’t have a lot of interaction with them, but what I do remember was that despite them being a National Guard unit, they sure knew how to take the fight to the enemy.”
Captain Turpin paused for a moment. “I hope the veterans of those deployments don’t view us in the same manner. We’re not the enemy, and neither are they. We’re all just caught up in this three-dimensional chess game some higher-ups are playing. We’re just pawns being moved around on a board none of us understand or can see. I pray none of our guys have to get killed because people can’t come to their senses.”
Before either of them could say anything further, the SINCGARS radio crackled to life with the voice of the tank commander leading the force ahead of them. “Loki Six, Hammer Six. How copy?”
Captain Turpin grabbed the radio and depressed the talk button, waiting for a second for the receiver to beep, signaling that the device had synced. “Hammer Six, Loki Six. Send it.”
“I got a roadblock roughly two thousand meters to my front. Thermals are showing multiple enemy positions d
ug in along the spur leading up to the ridge. How do you want us to proceed?”
Turpin swore under his breath. Then speaking back into the receiver, he asked, “What is the roadblock made of? Do you see any other armored vehicles?”
“The roadblock consists of at least two eighteen-wheel semitrucks and trailers blocking both directions of traffic. As to enemy armor—yeah. There’s an Abrams battle tank that just poked his head around a position. He’s aimed right at us but hasn’t fired yet. Do we try and talk to them?”
Before Turpin could reply, Mack asked, “What if we approach them under a white flag? Let’s try and talk to them before we start shooting. If they’ve got Abrams battle tanks just like ours, chances are they have artillery and other nasty surprises waiting for us. This could get really bloody really quickly.”
Nodding at the suggestion, Captain Turpin responded, “Go find me a white flag then, Mack.”
Talking into the receiver, Turpin ordered, “Hammer Six, stand by. Don’t do anything that may make them want to attack you. As a matter of fact, back up a few hundred meters. I’m coming forward under a white flag to try and talk some sense into these guys.”
“Loki Six, this is War Machine Actual. Stand down your approach to the enemy lines. I’m en route to your position. We’ll approach them together.” Sergeant Mack lifted an eyebrow, as did Captain Turpin. The general had overheard their conversation.
Ten tense minutes went by as more National Guard soldiers filtered into some fighting positions along the hillcrests that dotted this area of Interstate 5. They could hear the sound of tracks moving along—more tanks were nearby.
Brigadier General Shell walked up to Turpin. “This your idea, Captain?” he asked with a wry smile.
Captain Turpin shook his head. “It was my staff sergeant here.”
Turpin turned to face Mack. “Good idea, Sergeant. So, since this was your bright idea, I want you to come with us. Stay frosty and be ready to drop these guys if we have to. You got me?”