The Fed commander whistled over every officer nearby. “They’re more than just big guns. This scratch force would fall apart if the troops saw their only real support flee the battle. No, we’ll have to do this the messy way. On foot. Come help me round up more fresh meat for the grinder.”
To his surprise, his troops didn’t mutiny at the idea of charging through machine gun fire across open parking lots. He hadn’t commanded these people long enough really to know their measure.
It seemed like the fighters on both sides instinctively knew that it was make or break time. The fighting was vicious, confused and, sometimes, even hand to hand. Vehicles and high-tech modern weapons aside, the best way to describe it was…medieval.
At one end of the mall, a petite military policewoman crossed the last few feet of the exposed parking lot in a headfirst dive, rebel rounds flying inches above her back. She rolled to cover in the crook between the wall around a dumpster and the side of a Domino’s pizza shop. Without missing a beat, she cooked off her two grenades in rapid succession. She lobbed one on the roof and the other through the shattered side windows and into the kitchen, then turned to the man behind her and screamed for more frags.
The man behind her lay face down in the parking lot, a good 20 feet away. In fact, every other member of her squad laid still or rolled in pain out there. Despite all the covering fire, she was the only survivor of that mad 50-yard dash. Which also meant she was the only one in a position to take the strongpoint.
The lock on the back door of the shop had somehow already been shot off. She inched closer. Men on the roof blazed away at far off targets, despite the grenade, but firing more or less blindly. Without sticking up their heads. At least the covering fire had some little effect. Inside, however, everything was deathly still.
She wasn’t fool enough to think her grenade had killed everyone, or even anyone. They were waiting for her pretty little head to pop in there. Well, she wasn’t the type of girl to keep a guy waiting. She reached into her web pouches and yanked out the only grenade left: a green smoke for marking purposes. Without wasting another second thinking about how stupid this was, she just popped the smoke and rolled it through the door.
The men barricaded inside half expected another grenade, but not this. The sickening phosphorous stink from the deep green cloud disrupted them more than HE would have. They fired blindly at the entrance. Through the ruckus, they didn’t hear the MP dash around the side of the building, strut right through the front door, take a knee and raise her weapon.
The SAW is not a preferred close combat weapon. Something lighter with more stopping power, say, a shotgun or revolver would have been a better choice. However, you work with what you have. Besides, an automatic weapon firing in long bursts into a 40 square foot space still got the job done, but what a messy job.
Feeling around the six bodies, she found all the frags she needed. One by one, she chucked them up the access ladder and among the oblivious guys above. She planned to sit back and use them all up. Kill in style. After the third explosion though, the whole north end of the roof, already stressed with nearly a ton of sandbags and way too many men, collapsed and brought the enemy to her. Picking off the shocked and wounded men trying to climb out of the rubble might have been as fair as shooting fish in a barrel, but she loved to fish.
She kept firing short bursts until the belt ran out, long after the last enemy stopped twitching. While loading her remaining 200 round box, the rest of her platoon came rolling in. She’d been so focused on staying alive she forgot all about the point of the operation. Taking this strongpoint on the wing of the enemy’s position created a gap in those deadly interlocking fields of fire that the rest of the unit could funnel through.
One of her platoon mates snapped a quick photo of her at that moment of exhaustion. She stood in the rubble, surrounded by more than a dozen bodies, and innocently redid her ponytail. It wasn’t the Medal of Honor she would later receive that made her famous, but that “Fucking PMS” photo. By nightfall, she’d be an internet sensation.
The chaplain said a prayer for the young rebel under him, even while still untangling his bowie knife out of the man’s lower intestines. He finally got it loose, wiped the blade on his victim’s shirt and slipped it back into his vest sheath. He gave the terrified boy a mercy double tap to the head and then another pair for his fallen compatriot next to him.
That probably wasn’t even necessary, but he was a thorough man. The preacher had shot him twice point blank in the chest before the now gutted kid jumped over the cash register and surprised him. Few of these rebels wore any sort of body armor. He even thanked the Prince of Peace for sparing his life by giving him the strength to kill these people. After tactically reloading his M16, he repositioned the rest of his grim flock and waited for the next rebel counterattack.
Things were usually pretty bad if the chaplain was the only officer left in a unit. On the other hand, he was one of the few officers anywhere that still held the respect of the desperate support personnel following him. Whether a result of luck or a side effect of being crazier than your enemy, either way, he had an aura of invincibility. He had protection from On High, and everyone wanted a share in it.
In the shaky condition his people were in, that was all it took to command. What made him a real leader though, one that might just inspire his people to overcome all odds, was that he didn’t ask his people to do anything he wasn’t already doing.
North Side of Lake City
The luckless 1–6 Infantry always seemed to miss the fighting. By the time they were ordered to abandon their blocking position on the wrong side of Lake City, the battle had already moved downtown. That didn’t faze the pissed of troops though. It was payback time.
Despite losing a third of their manpower, they were still the largest federal combat force in 20 miles. As they entered the north side of town, they were surprised to see the Georgia Guard battalion still active and moving around. The Georgians apparently weren’t overrun at all. What was all the fuss about?
While the new battalion commander tried to wrap his mind around that, four F-15E’s roared in and hammered them from the air. This time a large Abrams tank drew the attention from a volley of Maverick missiles. The first pass from the fast movers annihilated five of his tanks. The next pass cost two more and a Brad.
As if they didn’t have enough problems, the Georgia Guard laid into them with TOW missiles and 25mm auto fire. Apparently, the battalion bumped into yet another ambush. All they could do was begin breaking contact. Orderly, but quickly. At least they finally had something they could shoot back at, even if retreating.
Thankfully, there wasn’t a third pass from the Screaming Eagles. Someone up at Division HQ heard the battalion’s desperate calls for air cover at the same time and place the forward air controller rattled off kill tallies. It was disturbing how long it took to put two and two together, but eventually some genius up there decided to halt all close air support missions until targets could be positively identified.
The frustrated pilots, still with plenty of munitions aboard, gawked at all those targets moving around below. Maybe they had just whacked a friendly unit, but most of those vehicles down there couldn’t be friendly’s. After 20 minutes of circling, they watched helplessly as a company of IFV’s slaughtered an artillery battalion in town.