The Mississippian spit the last of his dip into an empty Dr. Pepper bottle. “Fuck surprise, sir. I’d rather have artillery! I mean, I’ve seen some political shit, but that pencil dick from the White House staff telling me which weapons I can bring on a mission takes the cake! Rifles only. No heavy weapons? Good God! Well, I couldn’t do anything about the big explosive gear, but we were pretty selective about defining the rest of the weapons.”
The big man gave his boss a sly wink. The colonel tried not to grimace. A smile from Brown was never a good sign. “Don’t worry, sir. I followed those orders to the letter. No ‘heavy weapons’ came with us.”
Brown turned to the side and shouted down the rows of tightly packed paratroopers. “Ain’t that right, boys! Who’s got a weapon that’s too heavy?” A dozen machine guns and grenade launchers pumped in the air. Twice as many young men grabbed their crotches and cracked dick jokes.
The colonel, quite used to these excessively macho displays of self-affirming aggression among the yeomen class of landed freeman infantry, simply ignored them. He fiddled with his VMI class ring and frowned at his senior enlisted advisor. “Sergeant Major, that’s why I leave the details to you. Frankly, you are correct in your assessment of the tactical situation. We have no air support, no organic fire support of any kind in fact, and at least four hours lead-time until the rest of the brigade conducts a movement-to-contact. Not to mention that the, ah, less than transparent rules of engagement will present many command and control challenges. It is my intent—”
The sergeant major slapped him on the back. “You must be nervous, sir, if you’re getting all technical War College on me. Don’t you worry none. We’ll secure that airfield and ammo dump right quick and then curl up like a masturbating porcupine until reinforcements get there. That’ll make the rules of engagement pretty simple: Stay out of our way or pay.”
The last was delivered as a yell and rapidly picked up in a “Hooah” chant from the rest of the company. The pilot’s “20 minutes till drop zone” announcement only heightened the war whooping.
Fifteen miles behind them and a couple higher up, two much more subdued Florida Air National Guard pilots switched on their radar sets. This electronic equivalent of a warning flare from the F-15’s did not go unnoticed. Guided to their targets by ground-based radar, the interceptors surprised the hastily thrown together federal task force. Surprised or not, two pairs of F-22’s flying escort for the cumbersome transports peeled back and rocketed towards the interference.
Over the emergency Guard radio channel a Key West twang laid down the law.
“Unidentified aircraft, you are not authorized to enter Florida airspace. Return ‘mediately to the nearest federal airfield or you will be considered hass-tile.” In the face of all that high tech death racing towards him, the bluff sounded impotent to the Guard pilot. To the thousands of people listening into the unencrypted channel though, he came across as deadly serious.
The Air Force section leader racing towards the National Guard flight couldn’t believe just how far off the reservation these nutty Floridians had gone. His slow Texas drawl didn’t disguise the anger he felt.
“All Florida Air and Army National Guard forces have been federalized by order of the President of the U ‘nited States. As the senior federal officer on the scene, I order allll National Guard elements to immediately stand down and return to base.” Not without a dose of showmanship himself, he couldn’t resist tossing in a little white lie to up the stress factor. “This is your first, last and only warning. Lethal force has been authorized.”
Another thousand civilians tuned in just in time to catch his empty threat.
The National Guard flight leader never paid much attention to all the talk on the news about the president trying to play dictator. Politics wasn’t his thing, but he sure started to believe the rumors now.
With a combined closure rate of over one thousand knots, the two sides didn’t have much time to make up their minds, or even to bluster further. Years later, historians would passionately argue about why the threat receiver light began blinking on the lead Air Force F-22. Provocation or malfunction, it really made no difference. Even explicit orders on both sides to avoid firing go out the window when you believe your ass is on the line.
Training, reflex and a dose of fear took over when the warning bulb flashed. Without any further confirmation of an attack, the Air Force flight leader uncovered his fire control safeguard and let a Sidewinder heat-seeking missile fly towards his Florida National Guard counterpart. His well-disciplined wingman followed suit without a second thought.
Barely two miles away was practically knife-fighting range for modern jets. At that speed, the missiles reached their targets in only three seconds. There wasn’t a point, or a chance, in evasive maneuvering. The National Guard pilots didn’t even have a moment to fear their oncoming death. They did have just enough time, at least, for one of the Floridian F-15 pilots to snapshot off a return missile before becoming a thousand flaming missiles his self.
All the US Air Force fighters passed easily out of the oncoming Sidewinder’s engagement envelope before it had a chance to arm. The five heavily loaded, slow C-130’s a few miles farther along were a different story. While ground controllers for both sides burned the airwaves up screaming about “deescalating” things, the fire-and-forget missile acquired a target and proceeded to avenge its atomized master.
Lieutenant Colonel Anderson stood straight and addressed his command team. Well, as near as possible for a man with 200 pounds of parachutes and gear hanging off him could. “It’s agreed then. After the complete loss of Charlie Company, we won’t physically occupy the ammunition holding area. Two platoons from Alpha Company will secure the entrances and engage anyone entering or leaving. The rest of the battalion sticks to the original plan to take and hold the airfield. Questions?”
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