The Secret Service agent mouthed “fucker” to the Army officer, who just winked and waved the crowd of local VIP’s over.
“Mr. President, welcome to the end of the war.” The governor of Mississippi pumped the president’s hand and wrapped his other arm over his shoulder. The president left his smile on and just hoped one of his guards kept an eye out for a knife behind his back. This ultraconservative governor was one of the president’s most rabid opponents back in the good old days… back when partisan politics had nothing to do with actual partisans.
“Great to be here, Governor. I’m sorry it’s under such circumstances though. It’s humbling to see so much support for the Federal Government. Especially considering, well you know the situation…”
How do you tactfully mention that someone’s home state is a hotbed of psychotic murderers? The governor’s contrite expression seemed genuine, at least.
“Mr. President, those Biblical Foundation insurgents, the American Taliban as we call ‘em, represent less than 1 % of my people. Despite what you might hear up there in Washington, we Southerners are Americans first and foremost. Ideology will always take a backseat to protecting the Stars and Stripes.”
He raised his voice and flashed a victory sign at the civilian laborers. “Something those URA assholes are going to find out the hard way! If they thought real Southern men and women were just gonna roll over and whore out their homeland to some liberal, fascist, West Coast traitors, well they got another thing coming!”
The president politely avoided mentioning that a quarter of the onrushing rebel troops hailed from Texas. Not exactly hippies or Nazis. He wasn’t crass enough to ruin politics with facts or logic. The governor did have an election coming up, after all. Instead, he turned back to the young Army colonel. Shockingly young for his rank, but that was typical nowadays. Loyalty and survivability counted more in this war than length of service.
“Shall we take the tour, Colonel Pemberton?”
“Of course, sir. I don’t know what you’ve been briefed, but the situation is not as untenable as you might think.”
“Really? I was told there was nothing left to oppose the enemy west of the Mississippi except for some scattered National Guard units. What’s changed in the last 12 hours?”
“Well sir, it was hairy at first. Make no mistake about it; those rebel bastards caught us with our pants down. They were one step ahead of us for days, but we haven’t been asleep at the switch. They also clearly miscalculated the local population’s reaction. They aren’t seen as liberators. For every rebel shooter on the front line, there’s another one guarding their supply train from enraged LouisianansandArkansans. The URA’s advance has slowed to a crawl. With every hour they delay, we’ve got a brand new battalion reinforcing us from the Midwest.”
The president raised an eyebrow. “Have a few thousand insurgents really slowed them down so much? I thought the rebel army had close to half a million troops?”
“Not directly, but the URA’s emphasis on combat troops rather than support staff makes them particularly susceptible to this type of warfare. That weak support structure is their Achilles’ heel.”
“Weakness? The rebels have gobbled up most of two states in less than a week. From where I’m sitting, looks like they’re kicking our asses.”
Pemberton gestured down the boardwalk, beaming at the endless parade of trucks offloading pallets of boom boom gear.
“This is what I mean. We average about 2.5 soldiers working in the rear area for every trigger-puller at the front. Pretty much the norm for a modern, high tech fighting force. In the rebel’s so-called Free American Army that tooth to tail ratio is nearly 1:1. Sure, that’s a great arrangement when you’re sitting on the defense, when your force is static and supply lines are short, but it’s something else entirely when you go on the offensive.”
The president smiled skeptically, unable to match Pemberton’s confidence.
“It all adds up, sir. With so few mechanics, every combat platform that’s damaged or breaks down stays out of the fight much longer. Not enough supply drivers slows your advances even further. Even having too few paper pushers cripples operational planning and communications. All these little annoyances build up over time until they boil over into combat impotence, no matter how badass the force seems on paper.”
The president’s National Security Advisor chimed in. “That’s correct, sir. Between the URA’s slowdown and our own buildup, we should be able to counterattack soon. General Bremer estimates 48 hours to achieve numerical parity. Within 96 more we should have enough combat power and supplies stockpiled to begin pushing them back into Texas.”
The president grunted and ducked into a cramped sandbagged bunker. He patted the shoulder of some teenaged soldier manning a MK 19 automatic grenade launcher. POTUS opened his mouth to shout something encouraging, but the howl of jet engines drowned out his words. Six F-16’s rocketed over their heads, hauling ass to the west. The bone-rattling backwash in their wake filled the bunker with dust.
The president jumped out of the sandbag closet, hocking dirt from his lungs. The colonel offered him a canteen. “Sorry sir. Due to the heavy air losses, it’s just not safe to fly higher than tree top level.”
“Um…” spit, “Sure, ok. Fine.” The president leaned in close to the officer. “Tell me your no bullshit estimate. If they get past us here, if the rebels crack the Mississippi line anywhere, they’ll spread out all over the South. God knows what havoc they could sow in our heartland. Can you hold another 24 hours?”
The colonel’s answer was lost over the whoomping of eighteen Apache attack helicopters flashing above. They trailed the F-16’s, ready to exploit any hole the SEAD mission opened up in the rebel’s air defenses. Colonel Pemberton said something into his handheld radio and gestured behind their ramparts. “Well, watch this and tell me what you think, sir.”
The president followed his finger to a rail line spur barely half a mile away. A train hauling dozens of flatbeds full of armored vehicles clanked to a stop. A hundred civilian yard hands swarmed the train, dropping ramps and tie chains like a NASCAR pit crew. Within seconds of arrival, fifty different vehicles sped off. Eighteen tank-like things with oversized barrels split off from the rest.
Breaking all safety regulations, the artillery crews must have made the trip inside their vehicles. The tracks formed up in a loose line only a few hundred yards away from him and stopped. None of the soldiers got out. They stayed inside and raised their barrels up to the sky.
The president grinned. “Impressive. Now we just need to get them in the fight…” The thunder of all eighteen 155mm guns firing as one boom dropped his jaw. Fifteen seconds later, they repeated the performance. Then again. Then yet again. All in less than one minute.
“That, sir, was the 4-27 Field Artillery battalion. Seventeen hours ago, they were in the field around Wichita. Now, they’re kicking ass down here. We can coordinate like that, but do you think the URA can?”
The president nodded, but then spun around in fear. He snagged some random soldier’s binos and scanned the western horizon. “Amazing, but doesn’t that mean the enemy is already here?”
The president’s Secret Service team practically hopped from foot to foot. Their leader, already enraged at this reckless publicity stunt, debated faking a threat to evacuate his charge. Colonel Pemberton just laughed.
“No sir. They’re firing rocket assisted, GPS-guided Excalibur II rounds. The newest stuff in the arsenal. It gives our artillery a range of over 60 kilometers. That’s double the reach of the URA’s guns. We can pound them, but they can’t hit us back.”