The Brads leapt forward at max speed through the shrapnel clouds, and surprisingly made it almost painlessly. One IFV was rocked by a near miss that threw a track off. The crew could only sit there helpless and praying as more rounds thumped around them. The only vehicle that took a direct hit was one that had hung back in “safety” to provide covering fire.
Seconds after kickoff, a 100 pound HE artillery round detonated against the weak turret armor of that overwatching vehicle. It didn’t so much blow the track up as simply disintegrate the Brad. What happened to the three men inside is… best not described. They at least died instantly, even if the bodies could only be ID’d by DNA testing.
By the time the infantry were through the “fire line,” they weren’t about to stop. Most of the rebel force had already extracted themselves, leaving a mixed company to cover their withdrawal. Without artillery or aircraft support, the cavalry had few options to catch the retreating enemy. So, they didn’t try. Instead, they focused all their energy into slaughtering that rear guard. Considering how many causalities they’d suffered, they were incredibly honorable by letting the wounded surrender, even if no one else.
When the shooting finally paused, only 10 federal Abrams and 20 Brads were still fully functional. All of the low flying Kiowa’s miraculously survived the artillery barrage, even if two were forced to land. They were so badly damaged they’d probably have to be blown in place. Almost 200 men dead or seriously wounded in just half an hour.
Every building around the intersection was either flattened or burning. Despite the damp air, a wildfire raged nearby. It would eventually consume hundreds of homes, since no fire departments would operate around here for days. One of the overpass spans had even collapsed and they would still be discovering bodies from both sides for hours. With the damage suffered to the cavalry unit, this would be their first and last combat operation of the campaign, but they jammed this peg into the grid square. Whatever that was worth.
Keystone Heights, Florida
Along a 50-mile front, the same scenes kept playing out. In order to feed General McDowell’s hunger to flush out the enemy as quickly as possible, the federal brigades split into individual battalions and, in some cases, operated independently down to the company level. The strategy sure covered a lot of ground astonishingly fast, but was the worst way to meet a concentrated enemy. While the media’s graphic departments pulled overtime churning out ever more outlandish holographs to spotlight every yard gained, the tiny rebel army was ignored.
At least until they stopped waiting around and began their own advance.
Despite being outnumbered three to one on paper, the Floridian Minuteman Brigade, fighting as one unit, easily gained the numerical edge against the scattered federal horde. A Fed platoon wiped out here, a company ground down there… the piecemeal slaughter adds up.
Of course, the going wasn’t so easy for all the rebel defenders. On at least one occasion, the Feds managed to consolidate their scattered units fast enough to surround a larger rebel force.
Of all the crazy battles in all the wars in all the world, Donaldson had to walk in to this one.
As Florida’s first “war hero,” Corporal Donaldson was one of the few regular soldiers assigned to the recently raised Minuteman battalions. Only a corporal, but his active National Guard status made him a de facto platoon leader among the militia folk. He scratched at the new stiches on his arm, courtesy of flirting with a Fed machine gun. The ricochet hadn’t punctured deep, but Donaldson never even saw the gunner. How was he supposed to be responsible for others when he couldn’t even cover his own ass?
Donaldson stood in the turret hatch and checked the spacing of his four Bradley’s. They all raced down the dirt backwater road exactly 50 meters apart. At least he hadn’t lost any of his guys yet.
Their counterattack against the Feds went great, at first, as disasters usually go. Donaldson’s mechanized infantry battalion stuck together and managed to slaughter one Fed scout platoon or company element after another. That success far exceeded their wildest dreams about simply repelling the invaders. Their excited battalion commander pursued the enemy far too intensely. As if he could somehow whip the whole Army singlehandedly.
Donaldson’s commander ignored the carefully crafted strategy of bleeding the enemy dry. In his wild hunt for more low hanging fruit, he wound up getting the whole battalion surrounded and trapped in some sleepy little town east of Gainesville.
Donaldson pried his eyes from his map and scanned the dense Spanish moss rushing past. They were in old school Florida, little changed from the frontier days. Donaldson expected to see a cowboy riding a gator at any moment. How many of these ancient locals witnessed the last time Yankees and Rebs squared off?
Worst of all, to Donaldson’s admittedly narrow point of view, was how his precious ass needed to be sacrificed to get the battalion out of danger. That was just the type of crap people expected from a hero.
His driver clicked in over the Bradley’s internal net. “How much longer, boss? Kinda creepy being so deep behind enemy lines without seeing anyone.”
In the commander’s desperation, he sent Donaldson to probe the tightening federal noose around them. To find a weak link in that lethal chain. Unfortunately, they found one. Donaldson half hoped they’d hit a solid wall and be forced to fall back immediately. Then someone else could do this bullshit. No such luck. They hadn’t bumped into a single soul during their five mile recon.
Corporal Donaldson clicked his radio and addressed his crack platoon of…well, anyone willing to follow him.
“Stay alert, everyone. ETA to our perimeter is two minutes, if we keep this pace-”
A double whoosh, whoosh from ahead stopped his heart. Donaldson stuck his head out of the turret and stared like an idiot. Even 50 meters back, he felt the concussion as two AT-4’s ripped into his lead Bradley.
Thank God his gunner wasn’t so mesmerized. While Donaldson hesitated, the gunner below laid their coax machine gun on the source of the smoke trails and suppressed the hell out of them. Some other vehicle’s gunner hit another unseen enemy rocket man just as he squeezed a third anti-tank round off towards Donaldson’s track. Being shot at the same time you’re firing tends to throw off your aim a little. Donaldson felt the heat on his face as the rocket missed his turret by two feet and kept on flying.
The close call snapped him out of his dithering. Time to nut up and do something.
“Dismount! Action, right!” Donaldson left his capable crew to handle the vehicle while he dived out the back ramp to fight with his men. He wasn’t a great leader, he was way too junior for his post, but he had one fundamental down: always lead from the front. That alone made him at least an okay leader. When he was on the street he waved at his dismounts and gave that ancient, magic infantry motto: “Follow me!”
As Donaldson plunged headlong into the thick pinewoods along the road, he didn’t look back to see what they were doing. No need to, since everyone was behind him. They jogged in a loose skirmish line for about two hundred meters before he called a halt. Taking only a few seconds to determine that his rapid firing vehicles back on the street still had the enemy pinned down, he organized the men around him.
The Florida Guardsmen bounded towards the federal dismounts, which, judging from sound, were still 400–500 meters ahead. By an incredible stroke of luck, Donaldson and his men somehow surprised the enemy. Just a few minutes more and they’d pay. He only had three fire teams, 12 men total, but showing up uninvited on the enemy’s flank is always a “force multiplier.”