by J. F. Holmes
Total War
If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you,
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too.
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or being lied about, don't deal in lies,
Or being hated, don't give way to hating,
And yet don't look too good, nor talk too wise:
If you can dream—and not make dreams your master;
If you can think—and not make thoughts your aim;
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster,
And treat those two impostors just the same;
If you can bear to hear the truth you've spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build 'em up with worn-out tools:
If you can make a heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings
And never breathe a word about your loss;
If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: "Hold on!"
If you can talk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings—nor lose the common touch,
If neither foes nor loving friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much;
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds' worth of distance run,
Yours is the Earth and everything that's in it,
And—which is more—you'll be a Man, my son!
~ Rudyard Kipling
“In preparing for battle I have always found that plans are useless, but planning is indispensable.”
~ Dwight D. Eisenhower
Beginnings
Sometime before the Invasion
------------------
Pacific Ocean, three hundred nautical miles south-southwest of Puget Sound.
“Conn, Sonar, I’ve got an unusual signal. Make that two, no three. Designate contacts Sierra Seven Five, Seven Six, and Seven Seven, moving line abreast.”
The USS Vermont, an Ohio-class ballistic missile sub, was headed to the dock after launching nuclear strikes on Chinese naval bases. Those gloves had come off quickly, once the first one had been popped over an Allied fleet. Now she cruised a hundred feet down, three hundred nautical miles south southwest of Puget Sound. Orders were, well, Secret, to say the least, and she moved quiet as a ghost.
“Run it through the computer, see if we have a match,” said the COB, Master Chief Ball. “What do they sound like?”
“Heavy, multiple screws, maybe a couple of container ships moving in convoy. Still might be a Chicom diesel electric out there Make that four total, designate new target Sierra Seven Eight…They’re hauling ass, though,” said the sonar operator.
“How many knots?”
The kid, as Ball thought of her, took a few moments to listen. “Thirty-seven, give or take.”
The Chief whistled. “No container ship moves that fast. Do you have anything in the database that matches?”
The sonar operator’s crewmate read the computer screen, said, “Hey, check this shit out!” and rotated the screen to show the captain, who had stepped up. She bent down to look at the images. On the display was the outline of a large warship, lengthwise, decks, and performance.
“You tricky old man, you!” Captain Sarah Larken whispered to her absent father.
“What was that, Captain?” asked the Chief.
“Nothing, Chief. XO, prepare to surface, and get ready to line the rails, so to speak.”
The Vermont rose steadily, breached the gentle rollers of a beautifully calm day, and proceeded to sail a steady five knots, waiting for the approaching ships. Her captain and full command staff stood on the sail, and several dozen of the crew stood along the hull. She didn’t have long, as the immense grey shapes were throwing up massive bow waves.
As each passed, the crew of the sub cheered madly, but held onto the lifelines, giving the ancient sign of respect by standing at attention. In return, the other ships’ crews did the same, and each blew a massive blast on their horn in turn. Captain Larken chanted the name of each as they sailed by, reading the white numbers on the grey hulls.
“Sixty-three, Missouri, Mighty Mo. Sixty-one, Iowa, Big Stick. Sixty-four, Wisconsin, Wisky. Sixty-two, New Jersey, The Black Dragon.” Each one was said with reverence, almost awe.
“Seems like you should have been a surface warrior, Ma’am, you know so much about those ships,” said the XO, standing beside her.
She laughed and said, “Blame my dad. Rear Admiral Jonas Larken, last commander of the USS Missouri. He always wanted me to go to sea, and I was a severe disappointment to him when I chose subs.”
“If he could only see them now. I thought they were decommissioned, what, fifty, sixty something years ago,” said the Chief. “Didn’t even know they could move! Wonder where they’re going?”
“They couldn’t move up until a few months ago, and even if I knew where, I couldn’t tell you, Chief,” said Captain Larken. “As for my dad, well, he’s been really busy this last half year, in Hawaii, LA, and on the East Coast. Matter of fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if he just passed us by a few minutes ago on the Missouri, his old ship.”
“Think it has anything to do with our orders?” asked the XO.
A mischievous smile appeared on Captain Larken’s sea-weathered face, and she said, “I’ve got a sneaking suspicion we may eventually find out.”
*****
Joint CEF / USMC Base Camp Pendleton
“Gentlemen, these orders are Top Secret, eyes only, in the event things go badly for us in space.” The First Marine Division commander looked each of his regimental commanders in the eye as he said it, his voice still not recovered from being gassed in the Philippines the year before.
Each took out a typed sheet of paper from a manila folder, and the general read from his copy. “In the event of the defeat of Confederated Earth Forces in space and on land, all United States Marine Corps units will disband and melt into the general populace. Regimental Command Staff will assume duties of reconnaissance, supply acquisition, and training of irregular forces, while maintaining communications with USMC personnel in preparation for resuming offensive operations at a date to be determined later by CEF HQ.”
“You’ve got ta bae shitting me!” Colonel Morgan McCargar uttered in his heavy accent, loud enough for the general to hear. The commander of the Fifth Marine Regiment had a look of disbelief on his face.
The division commander smiled and said, “Gee, I thought this would be tailor-made for a Scotsman. Just pretend they’re the English, and you’re William Wallace. How long did it take you to get independence? A hundred years?”
“A wee bit shorter than that, I would hope. No one wants to see my old saggy balls hanging from my kilt, General,” he answered, trying for some humor. The rest of his fellow officers laughed, trying to dispel the idea of defeat.
“Sir, do you really think we’re going to get beaten?” asked Colonel Horowitz, First Regiment CO.
“I have little faith in Operation Brightstar. Brains don’t make up for experience, and whatever jackass put those kids in charge of the CEF fleet, well, let’s just be prepared, gentlemen.”
“So, just like that?” said McCargar.
“You’ll be working as part of Operation Moria. Since the fleet seems to be stripping us of every dollar they can find, China’s engaged in a civil war, and Russia’s apparently playing ball…”
“Bullshit!” muttered McCargar under his breath, but the division commander ignored it and continued.
“Si
nce Russia’s playing ball, and the Israelis have once again beaten the snot out of our terrorist buddies in the sandbox, we’re going to spend the next year burying and mothballing every goddamned bullet, rifle, and tank we can get our hands on.” He laid out a map on the table, and started pointing to prepositioning sites, mostly in the mountains or the deep deserts.
“Hand this over to your respective S-4s, then start training for intensive asymmetrical warfare. If we do lose, people, I intend the let those alien sons of bitches know they picked the wrong enemy in the Corps.”
“What about the CEF ground forces?” asked Colonel Cassidy, meaning primarily the staff weenies. Few of the regular military forces had actually been assimilated into the CEF.
“They have a plan,” said his boss, “mostly lying low and training for one big push sometime in the future. We will assist when the time comes. Any other questions?”
They all had a million each, but the general had made it plain that he’d given an order and expected it to be carried out. He stood, and they all came to attention as he left the room. When the door shut behind him, the men, all seasoned professionals, gave each other the “Oh shit!” look, and as one, called their spouses to tell them they wouldn’t be home for dinner. Not that night, and for a few nights thereafter.
*****
Confederated Earth Forces HQ, Cheyenne Mountain
David Warren was tired, more tired than he had ever been in his life, and here was this jackass making them run through the simulation again. “Admiral, we’ve beaten these guys eleven times out of twelve.”
“And on the twelfth time, they destroyed the entire Earth,” rasped the old man, exasperation in his voice. “You don’t GET it, kid. You have to win, every goddamned time. You’re supposed to be the best, so frigging ACT like it. Back into the simulator.”
When they were locked into their tanks, Kira Arkady opened up a private channel to Warren. “Hey, keep giving Admiral Razor a hard time,” she said, using the students’ nickname for him, “and they’re going to boot you out of the program.”
“Hell no they won’t, because I’m the best. High Command for me, shipboard life for you, baby.” His response was pure cocky teenager.
“Keep giving ME a hard time,” she shot back, “and I’ll boot you out of MY program.”
“OK, ladies and gentlemen,” came the voice of Hal, the AI running this exercise. “In this scenario, we’re assuming fleet carriers escorted by gunships, similar to our task and organization. However, weaponry is significantly far advanced of ours, with better targeting, greater range, and in-system jump capability.”
A chorus of groans erupted over the com net, and Warren voiced their frustration. “That’s bullshit, Hal, and you know it. There was nothing on that small ship that indicated any kind of super-advanced tech much beyond ours. In addition, we’ll have the advantage of surprise.”
“Regardless, you should always be prepared to be overmatched,” answered the AI. “If you follow the historical example of Crassus’ defeat on the plains of Mesopotamia, you’ll see—”
His lesson was cut short by Admiral Razor, who stopped Hal in midsentence. “Enough defeatist talk. Run the most probable simulation, based on projected capabilities. We don’t have time to waste on scenarios that are way on the far edge of probability.”
With sighs of relief, the two dozen teenagers of Project Brightstar plugged into the net and flew out into the solar system. They didn’t have the experience to understand that Admiral Razor had his own bosses, and that they in turn were answerable to a fickle electorate, who had no concept of being defeated. After all, weren’t we the top predator on the planet?
They emerged hours later, soaked with sweat, and flush with victory. The three dozen teens who made up Project Brightstar were from all over the world but spoke English in an excited babble. Warren and Arkady slipped out past the group as they headed to the mess hall and found an unoccupied corridor.
Once unseen, they wrapped themselves in a passionate embrace, something strictly forbidden. Coming up for air after a long minute, they were surprised by Admiral Razor, who turned a corner just as they let go of each other.
“WHAT THE HELL IS THIS!” he bellowed as both braced to attention. “Goddamned teenagers can’t keep their pants on. Completely against the rules, and if you’d been conscious of anything, you’d have felt the mobilization notice in your implants.”
“The what?” they both asked at the same time. Divorced from their teenaged bliss, both immediately felt the recall notice touching their consciousness via the neural implants.
“We’re moving out; the eggheads have determined that the aliens are building a gate, probably to let a fleet go through. Estimates are three months until complete. Warren, you report to Central. Arkady, you’re assigned to the CEFS Lexington, as per your training. Your shuttle leaves in ten minutes, be on it.”
“Uh, Admiral, why don’t we just, you know, like, destroy the Gate?” asked Warren.
“That would be the smart thing to do, but there are…political considerations. We want to capture the technology, and some fools are still holding out for peace.”
“But…” started Arkady, but his glare silenced her. He rolled away in his chair, muttering about “damned kids!” and the two looked at each other.
“This is it!” David Warren said excitedly, taking her in his arms. Kira Arkady smiled at him, but she was much more of a pragmatist.
“David, if we get some leave before this all starts, and I can come back to Earth, or you can come up… Maybe we can do what we talked about?”
“Of course. My sister will flip at first, but she’ll love you and welcome you into the family. Trust me.”
He held her in his arms, and she whispered, only once, “I love you.” Neither knew the circumstances under which they would see each other again, and they were too young understand the fortunes of war.
She kissed him one more time, then said, “Now let’s go kick some alien ass!”
*****
Mieu Mon Military Airbase, Vietnam
The prisoner exchange took place at an old airfield outside Hanoi. Lines of Allied POWs stumbled dispiritedly past their Chinese counterparts, neither side looking at the other. Each walked toward opposite hangars hung with the sign of the Red Cross. No one noticed a figure, draped in a ratty blanket, who had slipped under the airfield fence and inserted himself into the American line. Or if they did, they were too numbed to say anything. He stripped off the blanket to reveal a tattered coverall with Chinese characters on the back, and underneath that, in English, ‘Military Prisoner’. It was the same outfit everyone else in the line wore, just more bloodstained and tattered.
Inside the Allied hangar, armed MPs stood watch, and medical personnel received the former prisoners, giving them an initial checkup. Physically they were, for the most part, OK. Mentally though, many weren’t well off. The modern Westerner, or even most Asians now, just couldn’t get used to being unplugged, and the Chinese government had broken quite a few to use for propaganda. Torturing them for social media passwords to run psyops in America. The war had only lasted three months, and then another two while the exchange was worked out. The Confederated Earth Forces had other things to worry about, such as the appearance of some kind of construction going on around Titan. Prisoners from an already forgotten war were a low priority, and negotiations had dragged on.
“Name, please?” asked the young US Army sergeant in charge of matching records, speaking to a grim-looking man with a ratty beard and a scarred face.
“Agostine, Nicholas R., Staff Sergeant, ODA 793, 1st Battalion, 1st Special Forces Group, out of Okinawa,” answered the man in the ragged prisoner pajamas.
The clerk ran a quick DNA match on her tablet and frowned. “Um, ah, you’re not on the list of prisoners to be exchanged, Sergeant. There must be some mistake; you’re listed as ‘Died of Wounds’ by the Chinese.”
“That’s what they’d like you to think. Please get
JSOC on the horn, and tell them I’m alive and I’ve managed to exfiltrate a military prison on Hainan, and also have information about Chinese military operations on the island.”
“Well, I don’t think anyone cares about that anymore, the war has been over for a couple of months now.” She frowned and said, “This is way above my pay grade, Sergeant, I’ll have to get my supervisor over here to…” Her sentence was cut short by a captain who’d been pretending to look through folders at a table a few feet away.
“I’ll take this from here, Sergeant Allison,” said the woman. Agostine looked her over, noted the slight Indian accent, and read her name tape.
“Do I know you, Captain…Singh? Are you with JSOC?” he asked. Agostine had been screwed with by brass often enough to be suspicious of anyone not in his direct chain of command. He had also, after being captured, been beaten to within an inch of his life. His Green Beret team had managed to knock a hole in the Air Defense net surrounding the Chinese nuclear launch facilities, but they’d paid a high price. He was alone now.
“Yes, and no. I’m just a National Guard captain, but I’m TDY because I speak Mandarin and Cantonese, among other languages. Although JSOC knows who I am, and I have full authority to speak in their name, I represent another organization.”
“I’m retiring. With all due respect, Ma’am, go do your spooky spy shit with someone else.”
Captain Singh could see that he still had spirit, despite the beatings and torture, and she desperately wanted to hear his story. That could wait, though. She motioned him to follow her, and they walked through a door in the back side of the building.
“In case you haven’t heard, the Confederated Armed Forces are recruiting,” she threw out as her opening gambit.
“Fuck that, I’m not going into space. The CEF Navy can go piss up a rope for all I care,” was his short, curt answer.
She held up her hand and said, “I agree with you, though my husband is a fighter pilot on the Lexington,” she said, referring to one of the space-based carriers being constructed at L5.