“What the hell, Sergeant? Encrypted or not, the rebels will triangulate that call and be on us in minutes.”
Wilkes broke all basic discipline and flipped on his powerful Maglite. The white light ruined everyone’s night vision, but transformed the plywood wall into a stunningly realistic M2 Bradley. Someone even glued Styrofoam blocks on to give a crude 3D effect. The paint job was far from perfect up close though. Wilkes splayed the light over a hundred more intact “vehicles” in line across the cornfield. Each more realistic the further away it was.
An impressive wooden army, at least from the sky.
“Believe me, wherever the rebel army is, it’s nowhere around here.”
Seven hundred miles to the south, the first invasion of the United States in 150 years kicked off with a whimper, rather than a bang. Literally, since that was the only sound the four bored federal customs agents made as they bled out.
Fifty yards down the road from their inspection station, a scream pierced the night. One of the eight Louisiana National Guardsmen protecting the border guards hadn’t fallen asleep. Didn’t make a difference. There was no one around still alive to hear the dying sentry. Well, no one except for the twelve rebel troops, all former US SOCOM operators, cleaning their blades.
One of the silent warriors rooted around the Guard’s small machine gun bunker and found a green box. He flipped a switch on his NODS and flashed two quick infrared lights after he removed the fuses. Another operator on the roof of the customs building attached something to the big antennae there and gave the same signal. With a quick nod, their leader turned back to the Texan side of the border. He flicked a powerful infrared flashlight on and off three times. The whole lightshow was invisible to the naked eye in the cloudy night.
Not so invisible to the rebel army a couple miles west though. A thousand vehicle engines fired up as one, music to the advance party’s ears. With this listening post and its landmines neutralized, and every camera and sensor for five miles sending the federal border command a false feed, the advance team’s leader indulged himself by partially relaxing.
That didn’t last long. The first rebel track, an old M113 with an ancient 105mm recoilless rifle mounted on top, clanked to a halt alongside the guard shack. “Woohoo! Dame fine work boys! We’ll take it from here.”
The Special Forces leader didn’t like surprises. Ever. His men couldn’t miss the boss’s loose stance. Without an order, they all melted into the shadows, their weapons at the high ready. “Where’s the armored cavalry regiment that’s supposed to be spearheading the assault? Who are you? Oh, you got to be kidding me…”
The commander of the newcomers hopped out of the turret and swung his legs over the side, his non-regulation cowboy boots inches from the SF man. “Ain’t my fault them West Coast ladies can’t get dressed in time for the ball. Good thing we got our own generals. They sent us in first. If the URA can’t keep up, well, that ain’t no thang. The Texas Expeditionary Detachment can finish the war without ‘em!”
The commando unwrapped a stick of gum and chewed it slowly, his version of a panic attack. “I see. As long as we’re all killing the same people, I guess it doesn’t matter. Did you at least bring our equipment?”
“Ah ha! Now that’s what I’m talking about. Oh yeah, how could we forget your order? Let me have the boys bring them up.” He reached for his radio, but the SF trooper laid a calm hand against his knee. That frightened the cowboy more than a cocked pistol to the head.
“Radio. Fucking. Silence. Not a peep over the net until we hit Shreveport. We haven’t planned this for months just to have a bunch of amateurs screw it up at the last minute.”
The Texan officer gulped. “Eh, yeah. Well, there’s your stuff anyway.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder.
“Thank you, Colonel. Good luck…” The black ops soldier grimaced at another Texan track rushing past. This one with giant longhorns bolted on the front glacis shield. “You’re going to need it.”
He never said a word to his team, but simply spun one finger in a circle and jogged across the street. His men materialized out of nowhere and met up with him as their new transportation arrived.
A nervous Oklahoman boy stepped out of the first police car and popped the trunk. “Uniforms and gear are inside. Keys are in the ignition. Do you…” He searched the bearded man’s uniform for any type of rank, insignia, or nametag. He found nothing, so played it safe. “Do you need anything else, sir?”
The SF commander just grunted as he inventoried his kit. One more chore to knock out before they could call it a night. The young militiaman hesitated. “Uh, you know that if they catch you dressed like this, you’ll be shot on sight. The Geneva Convention doesn’t apply to spies.”
All the operators chuckled. Their leader adjusted the new badge on his chest and smiled for the first time all night.
“And what do you think the Feds plan to do with you all when you come out of nowhere? Buy you a beer?”
“Copy, Disco. We’re on them.” US Navy Captain Simons nudged his F/A-18 fighter out of its lazy holding pattern. He could finally stretch his twin-engine legs. After scrambling like the Russian’s were coming, his squadron spent half an hour on station waiting for the AWACS to figure out what to do with them. He’d seen the air controllers screw up before, but this indecisiveness was something new. Simons clicked on his radio and hooted at his squadron to follow.
“All right, Buzzards. You heard the eye in the sky. We’ll engage as far forward as we can, but won’t cross the Forward Edge of Battle Area (FEBA). Remember the briefing. It’s the Wild West down there for SAM’s. From both sides. Don’t bet your ass on the jittery nerves of some grunt with a Stinger.”
Captain Simons had never led a twelve-ship combat air patrol before. Not even in training. Two fighters, occasionally four, made up a typical interception flight. The vast scale of operations in this new war simply blew his mind. They would have been rolling even deeper, with all 24 craft in his squadron, if the others weren’t scattered in small pieces all across the Midwest. Shot down a thousand miles from the ocean… hell of a way for a Navy pilot to go.
Simons swallowed the memories and focused on the mission at hand. It only took three minutes for his Super Hornets to cover the 30 miles from their holding point to the engagement line. Unlike most operations, they were uncomfortably close to their home base. He didn’t let any worry creep into voice though.
“Let’s go Buzzards. Let’s show these traitors what happens when you punch above your weight!”
To reduce the unholy losses from the enemy’s and, depressingly too often, confused friendly air defenses, federal aircraft never approached too close to the FEBA unless they were striking enemy ground forces. With all their high-tech radars and beyond-visual-range missiles, such risks weren’t necessary nowadays. Firing from a comfortable range of 25 miles, or just over the horizon for enemy ground troops, was still close enough to dominate the local airspace.
Oh, and dominate they would. Captain Simons grinned at the gift on his radar screen. These rebels were making it too damn easy. Traditionally, any airstrike into contested airspace has at least two elements. The strike force, coming in fast and nape-of-the-earth, brought the pain. Flying high above them, an escort element would pounce on anyone approaching their comrades below. This particular rebel strike package defied doctrine. Every intruder cruised exactly at 10,000 feet and only slightly faster than a civilian Cessna.