Which happened practically every other mile. One ragtag militia group or another tried blocking the way or sniped from the side of the road. Quick problems to deal with, but they paused the entire advance each time. Though not all at once. When the lead elements suddenly halted the column to clear whatever ineffective resistance the militias threw up the rear kept going. They were too far back to even hear the firing ahead. This miles-long accordion effect was as dangerous as it was hilarious.
The danger didn’t come from the constant hit and run attacks. Only one soldier had been slightly wounded in nearly two hours of stop and go fighting. Whereas the Feds recovered dozens of militia bodies. They might not be able to pin the enemy down into a big standup fight, but at the rate they were bleeding them dry, there wouldn’t be anyone left to fight in Orlando.
Not that the Army hadn’t swooped up a surprising number of prisoners, but that only slowed them down further. It sure didn’t provide much useful intelligence. Some of these combatants weren’t even from Florida. Much less have a clue where the FDF main body lurked. A few didn’t even know they were firing at federal forces; thought they were rebels. What a clusterfuck.
First Brigade learned a hard lesson from the Second and Third Brigades’ messes. They wouldn’t scatter themselves in small units across half the state. No, far better to stay a giant armored steamroller flattening anything that dared to get in the way. A ferocious, invincible desert tan camouflaged can of whoopass just waiting to be opened.
Their aircraft above finally reported something of real intelligence value. Florida’s only fully professional brigade wasn’t 60 miles farther south racing to get to Gainesville ahead of the Feds. Apparently they were already inside and waiting. The Fed commander relaxed at the news. He was never pleased with the great plan of merely pinning down the enemy. His force had the edge and he ached to use it. Their brigade was larger, armed with the latest equipment and their men better trained. Unfortunately, for the government troops, the rebels knew a few ways to exploit a compacted target. Terrible ways that do wonders at leveling the odds.
The fighting died down on the outskirts of Gainesville. This far south, well outside the carefully defined “battle zone” the police evacuated, large crowds lined the streets to enjoy the show. Some waved signs welcoming the Army and others suggested less pleasant ideas. The random sign plugged some local fast food joint or end of the world religious message. Quite a few people brought picnic blankets and beer coolers.
All and all, it seemed like a pretty normal Fourth of July parade. Except that these weren’t ageing Korean and Vietnam era vets. The alert and fit young men, reeking of oil and gun smoke, were better suited to a movie than a small town patriotic fair. That’s what attracted the crowds in the first place. That’s also what disappointed them when nothing happened.
Then, exactly like a film, the “building context” lull in the story ended and the action began. It was sad, but not surprising, that those civilians with the best view of the show were the first to die. Had a live observer guided the strike, and seen all those bystanders, then the whole thing likely would have been called off.
Fortunately, for the FNG, but unfortunately for the civilians, the mission had been preplanned on a map. No chance to stop the inevitable. Half a minute earlier and 20 miles deeper south, a battalion of rebel HIMARS artillery rippled off their entire arsenal of 108 GPS-guided rockets. Each of these telephone poles carried 404 DPICM sub munitions.
The computer controlled distribution pattern ensured almost all of the 40,577 bomblets blanketed a front only 100 yards wide and nearly four miles deep. Even after the 7 % dud rate, which was twice as high as the supplier claimed, one bomb still exploded every five square yards.
Each little cylinder contained an embedded shaped charge warhead. When it struck the thin roof of a vehicle, the small bomb detonated in a fashion that sent 65 % of its explosive energy in a narrow downward cone straight into the engine compartment, or as was too often the case, the packed crew compartment. If one failed to strike a vehicle and hit open pavement or grass instead, the devil’s firecracker bounced back up to waist height before exploding, sending shrapnel in all directions.
For those civilians either fortunate or foresighted enough to watch from a safe distance, the entire column disappeared in a never-ending popcorn string of explosions and smoke. Witnessing such a large force seemingly annihilated in seconds was so far beyond their level of comprehension as to be biblical. Most simply fled as fast they could.
Explosions tend to pump out huge clouds of smoke several times larger in diameter than the blast itself. Hence, the perceived devastation is always so much worse than the reality. As the wind cleaned the air a bit, it was clear that the majority of the unit survived in good shape. The soldiers might have been shaken, but drill and discipline stood in for morale well enough. A quarter of the unit just died or were seriously wounded. A third of their vehicles were now smoldering hulks or at least immobilized, but the brigade reacted as if this happened all the time. That discipline prevented complete annihilation.
Lining up in column formation might be the quickest way to move a large force around, but it’s the worst way for a large force to fight. As the FNG advanced in a long crescent, most of their weapons could concentrate on just the tiny forward section of the enemy’s Conga line. Conversely, only a fraction of the other federal fighting power could hit back at any given time. Whether an ancient Greek phalanx or a modern armored force, that was a wet dream for one side and a horror for the other.
The Florida brigade slowly encircling and devastating them was primarily a Guard force, but they were backed up by a single Minutemen armor company. Working side by side with the active duty guys motivated these ex-military types. Earning the respect of your peers is as great an inspiration in the heat of battle as patriotism.
The rebel track commander grinned like a wolf as his swift loader shouted “Up!” and his skilled gunner hollered “away” barely a second later. They were a damn good team already. Less than five seconds after he ID’d their slow moving Fed counterpart as a target, his boys sent a sabot round on its way.
And what a way it went. Almost as soon as the shell blasted out the 120mm barrel the round split apart. The plastic sabot shoe allowing it to fit inside the big gun spun off and left only a tiny depleted uranium penetrator hurtling towards some tan spec in the distance. That little rod aiming to kill a hulking main battle tank was barely an inch in diameter and 31 in length. In this case, size really didn’t matter.
Kinetic energy, or killing power, is a result of mass times velocity squared. With the smallest possible surface area to reduce friction and molded from the densest alloys known to man, this was the most advanced spear imaginable. Thousands of years of chemistry and physics focused on improving the human lot were on terrible display in this “silver bullet.”
The tank’s expensive fire control computer augmented the gunner’s skill. His shot led the target vehicle perfectly. The thin penetrator struck the crawling enemy Abrams over 2,000 yards away dead center in the side of the turret…at 5,700 feet per second. At that speed, the kinetic energy easily dwarfed the explosive warhead of an anti-tank missile. By the time the non-explosive shell worked its way through the tank’s nearly 18 inches of laminated armor and breached the crew compartment the rod was coming apart. Which was fine, since the kill had already been made.