Victoria: A Novel of 4th Generation War

by Thomas Hobbes

  I have never met a member of the Ku Klux Klan. There may still be a few of those somewhere, but I doubt if there are any within a hundred miles of Newark. If I did meet a Klansman in his white sheet, I would laugh.

  I have never been oppressed by a white man. But I have been oppressed by other black men almost every day of my life. So has everyone in this church.

  We are oppressed when we fear to walk home from the bus stop, because another black man may rob us. We are oppressed when our schools are wrecked by black hoodlums. We are oppressed when our children are shot by another black child for their jacket and their shoes. We are oppressed when our sons are turned into crack addicts or crack dealers by other blacks, or our daughters are raped by other blacks, or taken into prostitution by other blacks.

  We Christian blacks are more oppressed today than we have ever been in our history. Our lives are worse than they were in the deep South under segregation. They are probably worse than they were when we were slaves, because then we were at least a valuable piece of property. The black toughs with guns who terrorize this city and every black city in this country do not value us at all. They shoot us down for any reason, or for no reason at all!

  It is time for us to fight our real oppressors, the drug dealers, the whore-mongers, the gang members. The fact that they are black makes no difference. They are our black oppressors. They are not our brothers. They are worse enemies than the white man ever was. It is time for us to fight them, and to take our city back from them.

  He then equipped his congregation with baseball bats and led them out into the street.

  Singing “Onward Christian Soldiers,” they proceeded to beat the crap out of any gang member they caught. Other honest blacks, seeing what was happening, came out and joined in. Some had guns, others had ropes, kitchen knives or tires and gasoline cans.

  When they turned the corner onto Newark's main street, a bunch of gang members opened fire on them. A few fell, but the rest came on. They mobbed the gang members, hanged a few from the nearest lamppost and necklaced the rest, stuffing a gasoline soaked tire around their necks and setting it on fire.

  The internet was the command and control system. Video of burning Boyz soon filled the cell phone screens, and more decent blacks poured into the streets. By midnight, it was full-scale war, blacks against orcs. It turned out there were still a lot more blacks than there were orcs. The gangsters, pimps, whores, drug-dealers and drug-users ended up lumenaria, in such numbers that the street lights went out, their sensors telling them that it was dawn. It was.

  The next day, for the first time in decades, Newark knew peace. The citizens had taken back their city. The corrupt mayor and his cronies fled, and the Rev. Ebenezer Smith was acclaimed as the city's new Protector. He appointed a Council of Elders to help him run the place, and ordered armed church ushers and vestrymen to patrol the streets.

  Across America, men and women of every race cheered Newark's Protector. When the good Reverend Smith appealed for help restoring his city, it came. Every part of the country sent shovels, bricks, mortar and money. Construction workers, white and black, came with bulldozers, trucks, and cranes. The NRA offered a thousand pistols to help arm the new City Watch, and the Carpenters' Union built gratis a handsome gallows on the town square, complete with three traps, no waiting. The Council of Elders voted to make car theft, drug and handgun possession, and prostitution hanging offenses.

  It took a while for the politically correct establishment to react. But they did, because they had no choice. One of their most useful lies was that they represented the oppressed. Now, their own slaves had rebelled and taken over the plantation.

  On August 3, 2027, as Newark was beginning to pick itself up off its knees, the Establishment tried to kick it in the head. The governor of New Jersey, a Republican woman, with the former mayor of Newark standing beside her, announced that “the rule of law and due legal process must be restored in Newark“ (a place where for decades all the law and due process had protected was crime and criminals). To that end, she was ordering the New Jersey National Guard to occupy the city, restore the mayor to office and arrest Rev. Smith, his Council of Elders and his City Watch. She announced they would be charged with murder, conspiracy, and “hate crimes.”

  The next day, the lead elements of the New Jersey Guard, with the mayor hunkered down in a Bradley Fighting Vehicle, entered the city. They were met by a vast crowd of Newark's citizens, carrying Bibles and hymnals, led by their clergymen. They laid down in the street before and behind the convoy to block it, then approached the Guardsmen, not to threaten them but to plead for their help.

  The moral level of war triumphed. Faced not with rioters but with crying women and children quoting Scripture to them, the Guard fell apart. The Guardsmen were ordinary citizens themselves, and like most normal people, they thought what had happened in Newark was great. The black Guardsmen took their weapons and went over to their own people, and the whites and Hispanics went home with the sincere thanks of Newark's citizens. The mayor was dragged out of his Bradley, marched by Newark's new soldiers to the town gallows, and hanged.

  In Washington, the Establishment sensed that if they lost this one, it was over (they were right about that). So on August 5, President Sam Warner, a “moderate“ Republican who had won with 19 percent of the vote in a 13-way race, announced he was sending the 82nd Airborne to take Newark back for the government. In a move so politically stupid only a Republican could have made it, he waved around a Bible and said, “The United States Government will not allow this book to become the law of the land.”

  That was the final straw. All across the country, Christians held rallies for Newark. Busloads of militiamen, mostly white, headed for New Jersey to help the city defend itself. Military garrisons mutinied, with the 2nd Marine Division at Camp Lejeune moving on Ft. Bragg, the base of the 82nd Airborne. That didn't come to a fight, because the Christians in the 82nd took over the post and announced they would not obey orders. In New York State, the Air National Guard painted Pine Tree insignia on their aircraft and said they would bomb any federal troops approaching Newark.

  Here in New England, our friends in Vermont beat us to the punch. On August 8, Governor Ephraim Logan of the Vermont First Party addressed an emergency session of the State Legislature. In Vermont fashion, his words were few but to the point:

  Vermont was once an independent republic. We joined the new United States because they represented what most Vermonters believed in: limited government, serving the people, guided by virtue.

  The government now in Washington represents none of these things. It seeks to run and regulate every aspect of every person's life. It lords over the people, far worse than King George ever did, and it regards citizens as nothing but cows to be milked for money. It lives and breathes vice of very kind, and holds virtue in contempt.

  The federal government no longer represents the of people of Vermont or the United States. I do not know what other Americans will do, but I know what Vermont should do. It is time for us to resume the independence we won, and voluntarily surrendered. I ask you for a vote of secession from the United States and the restoration of the sovereign Republic of Vermont.

  The Vermont First Party held a large majority of the seats in the legislature, so the outcome was foreordained. It was the moment they had long been waiting for. Most of the legislators from other parties joined in too. On August 9, 2027, Vermont became a republic again.

  In Maine, we moved swiftly to follow Vermont. Our Resolution of Secession was passed on August 22, by a referendum, with 87 percent of the voters saying “Yes.” New Hampshire's legislature had already voted secession on August 14.

  We knew we were all in this together, so when the governors of the three states met in Portsmouth, New Hampshire on October 12, Columbus Day, and recommended we join together as the Northern Confederation, it was accepted by our people. Our flag was the old Pine Tree flag of America's first revolutionaries, with its motto, “An A
ppeal to Heaven.”

  The Confederation would be a loose one, like the original American Confederation; we had all had enough of strong central governments. We would have a common defense, foreign policy and currency, and no internal tariffs, but otherwise each state would continue to handle its own affairs. The three governors would make up a Council of State to handle common problems; that would be the only federal government, and the capital would rotate every six months among the states so no federal bureaucracy could grow.

  Elsewhere in the old united States, South Carolina seceded on August 24, followed quickly by North Carolina, Georgia, Alabama, Mississippi, Louisiana, Tennessee, Arkansas, and Kentucky. Their representatives met in Montgomery, Alabama in early September and formed a new Confederate States of America. Virginia, dominated politically by the non-Southerners in northern Virginia, held back this time, as did Florida and Texas; the latter two feared the reaction of their large Hispanic populations if they left the Union, and for good reason. As it turned out, the Union wasn't much help.

  The Rocky Mountain states pulled out too, and established a new nation named Libertas. Oregon, Washington and British Columbia had long been calling themselves Cascadia; they had had their own flag since the 1990s. They quickly made it official. A few more states set up independent republics, while the rest waited to see what would happen.

  At General Staff Headquarters in Augusta—now the General Staff of the Northern Confederation—we knew what was going to happen–war. We also knew it wasn't going to be a War Between the States, not this time. That would be part of it, but probably just the beginning. The deep divisions that ran through America's “multicultural“ society in the early 21st century did not follow state boundaries. Yet those divisions would be the most important ones in the war that was to come.

  As Chief of the General Staff, I faced two main responsibilities: getting the Northern Confederation's forces ready for war, and developing contingency plans. To that end, I called a conference of our principal officers, including the Guard leaders from Vermont and New Hampshire, in Augusta on October 30, 2027.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  We met over breakfast at Mel's Diner, a few blocks south of the State House. That was where our General Staff did most of its important business. The office was useful for doing calculations and research, nothing more. The old American military had loved offices and Power Point briefings because they helped avoid decisions. Our objective was precisely the opposite.

  We had just eleven people at our breakfast: no horseholders or flower-strewers allowed. They were militia leaders and Guard commanders, plus the commander of 2nd Battalion, 8th Marines, Lt. Col. John Ross. He'd brought his whole battalion, with their families, north from Camp Lejeune to join us, on an LPH he stole from the Navy by boarding it at night and giving the squids a choice between sailing for Portland or walking the plank. The ship and the battalion together gave us an amphibious capability that would later prove useful. Father Dimitri, now our liaison with the Russians, was also there. The Tsar was friendly and willing to offer discreet help.

  Over hot cider—coffee was an import we couldn't afford—I started the session with a question. I knew most folks were thinking about what we did not have and could not do, and I wanted them to look at the situation creatively, not despairingly. So I asked, “What are our main strengths (pun intended)?”

  Three militia leaders answered at once, “Our infantry.”

  “That's a good answer,” I replied. “Your militiamen are not only fine infantry, they are light infantry, which is an important distinction. They are hunters, which is what light infantrymen must be. They understand ambushes, stalking the enemy, staying invisible, because that is what you must do to hunt any game, including human. What about our Guard infantry?”

  “Frankly, it's not as good,” said Lt. Col. Seth Browning, who led one of the New Hampshire units. “We got too much training in the American Army, which never understood light infantry tactics. They think you defend by drawing a line in the dirt and keeping the enemy from crossing it, and attack by pushing the line forward. Their tactics are a hundred years out of date, or more, if you've ever looked at the tactics of 18th century light infantry. Roger's Rangers could have cleaned the clock of any infantry unit in the modern American Army.”

  “How do we fix that?” I asked.

  “Can we get some General Staff officers as instructors?” another Guard commander asked.

  “Sure, if you need 'em,” I replied. “Do you?”

  For a bit, the only sound was chewing. Then Sam Shephard, head of the Green Mountain boys, who'd learned a few things along the way, said, “If we know the right tactics, why can't we teach them to the Guardsmen?”

  At this, the National Guard commanders looked uncomfortable. They saw themselves as the real soldiers, because they had uniforms and ranks and knew how to salute. I needed to break this mind-set down, because what makes real soldiers is an ability to win in combat, not clothes or ceremonies. But I also wanted to go easy on their egos. So I asked, “Are any of the militiamen also Guardsmen?”

  The militia leaders chuckled at this. “Lot's of 'em,” Shephard replied. “I guess we don't need to keep that secret any longer. We infiltrated the Guard years ago.”

  “Why not have them lead the training in the new tactics?” I asked. “That way the Guard would train itself.”

  I saw the Guard leaders relax at this point. Nodding heads indicated agreement. “OK, we'll let you make that happen,” I said. I'd just given them a mission-type order: they knew the result we needed, and that it was their responsibility to get it. I wanted to get them used to that.

  “John, what about your Marines?” I asked Lt. Col. Ross. “How modern are their tactics?”

  “Well, as you know, the Marine Corps never made the transition to Jaeger tactics,” he replied, using the German word for true light infantry, which translates as “hunter.” “But I've worked on my unit a good bit. What would help us most is some free-play exercises against militia units, using paint-ball and BB guns. Is anybody willing to play?

  “Sure,” Sam Shephard replied. “we'd love to kick your butts.”

  “You may, at first,” Ross responded. “At Lejeune, when Marines played paint ball against the local kids, they almost always lost. But you'll find we learn fast. And I suspect we can teach you a few things about techniques. The American military was pretty good at those.”

  “What else are we good at?” I asked. “Is our infantry our only strength?” Silence told me folks were thinking too small. They knew we didn't have the gear American militaries were used to, so we seemed weak. “What are we fighting for?” I added.

  “Everything,” answered the New Hampshire AG, General George LeMieux. “Our lives, our families, our homes, our culture, and our God. If we lose, we lose all of them. The cultural Marxists will throw us in gang-run prisons, take everything we own away from our families, probably take our kids away and turn them over to homosexuals to rear. We'll all be ‘re-educated,’ like the South Vietnamese soldiers were after their defeat, and forced to worship the unholy trinity of 'racism, sexism, and homophobia.' Our only other choice will be to grab our families and what we can carry and run for New Brunswick, and hope we can find some country in the world that will take us as refugees.”

  “What are the federals fighting for?” was my next question.

  “For pay, maybe. For a government most of them hate, unless they are blacks or Hispanics or gays, and sometimes even then,” was John Ross's answer.

  “Does that make a difference?” was my final question. The faces all said Bingo at once.

  “It makes all the difference,” Ross answered. “That's why the Vietnamese and the Lebanese and the Habir Gedir clan in Somalia and the Pashtun in Afghanistan were able to beat us. We had vastly superior equipment. But they had everything at stake in those conflicts and we had very little. Now, we have everything at stake, and if federal forces attack us, they will have little. That d
oesn't guarantee we will win, but it means we can win, because we will have the will to fight and they won't.”

  At this point Browning broke in. “John, I agree we have better infantry, and we have the will to fight. But what about all the things we don't have? What about tanks, artillery, antitank weapons, an air force, and a navy? How do we fight without them?”

  “We've been working on all those, Seth,” I replied. “Maine already has a Light Armored Regiment, based on technicals— four-wheel drive trucks carrying .50 cal machine guns or 90mm recoilless rifles—and other 4Xs as infantry carriers. Ross's outfit brought a few Marine Corps LAVs, which give us a powerful core unit. We'd like to raise another Light Armored Regiment in Vermont and New Hampshire, also equipped with technicals. We've got the weapons, and any good body shop can make the conversion.”

  “One ship has already arrived from Russia, and more are coming,” said Father Dimitri. “We are sending you machine guns, mortars, which will be more useful than artillery in your terrain, anti-tank mines, thousands of RPGs, shoulder-launched anti-aircraft missiles, and anti-aircraft guns. And a special present from the Tsar himself for Captain Rumford: 100 T-34 tanks, which should be here next week.”

  “Shit, T-34s?” said General LeMieux. “I guess beggars can't be choosers, but those date to World War II. They can't possibly fight American M-1s. Couldn't you spare us something a little more modern, like T-72s?”

  “T-34s are exactly the right tanks for us,” I replied. “They are crude, simple, and reliable. They always start and they always run. If they do break, any machine shop can fix ‘em. We don't want tanks to fight other tanks. That's what anti-tank weapons are for. The best way to stop an M-1 is with a mine that blows a tread off. We want tanks for real armored warfare, which means to get deep in the enemy's rear and overrun his soft stuff, his artillery and logistics trains and headquarters, so his whole force panics and comes apart.”