Facilities and hardware were so easily absorbed by legislative fiat, in the politicians’ fantasies, but reality was a “no spin zone.” Occasionally, victories came cheap. Some bases and units with a large percentage of sympathetic staff simply integrated themselves into the local National Guard command structure without incident. Sometimes there was more…push back. In such cases, it was safer to let the military work things out amongst themselves. Let the blood be on their heads.
Still, every now and again, there were exceptional cases.
Just such a special problem brought Sophie to Las Vegas for the first time in her life. Of all the military facilities throughout the rapidly growing New American territories, Nellis Air Force Base on the east side of the city might be the most valuable. The base was best known for being one of the Air Force’s premier training schools. It was less famous for its primary value to the growing new American government: home to a major nuclear weapons stockpile. Any country can have tanks and ships, but only superpowers wielded nukes.
Technically, California’s little occupation force could be considered an invading army. Nevada only voted on their referendum today. Their polling stations were still open. It was almost assured to pass, but the results hadn’t yet been ratified when the California task force crossed the border. Of course, of all the quasi-legal and outright illegal acts ordered by the new Federal Government over the last 48 hours, the raid could be considered small potatoes. The prize was surely worth the bad press.
This wasn’t the first attempt by the new Feds to get their hands on part of the country’s nuclear arsenal, but they learned a hard lesson from the first try. As soon as the state of Washington joined the movement, a mixed team of guardsmen and State Police showed up at the sprawling naval base in Bangor, Washington just across Puget Sound from Seattle. When the gate guards refused them access, the local authorities forced their way in. That turned out to be a terrible mistake.
Security there was far tighter than at most installations, since the base was home to half the US strategic submarine force. That made it the single largest repository of nuclear weapons in the free world. The haphazard breach was not met, as expected, by a senior officer willing to discuss surrendering his command, but rather a Quick Reaction Force of well-armed marines. The loyalty of the defenders to the regime back east wasn’t terribly strong, but politics aside, they had a clear mission: Keep those weapons from falling into the wrong hands.
Needless to say, the entire rebel party was either killed or interned on base. Not only did they fail to secure any nukes, the outright aggression lost the support of most of the post. Solidarity with your comrades trumps politics. This well-armed, independently run base next to a major rebel population center was still a thorn in the side of the new republic. One that no one knew what the hell to do about.
This raid in Nevada would be different. Key agents from the provisional capitol in Sacramento, California contacted the brand new base commandant via back channels ahead of time. For a hefty fee, and the promise of a higher rank in the new Air Force, he handed over his base the moment Nevada looked like they would join the cause. The 300 California National Guard troops in the contingent were along just in case he or any of his personnel had a change of heart. The 50 handpicked militia fighters were along because nobody had the guts to tell them otherwise.
Those militia folk weren’t hastily raised and desperate volunteer forces like in Florida, either. These people were well funded, well equipped and well trained. Originally organized to fight against the state’s security forces, they were rapidly becoming an integral part of the budding nation’s security apparatus. As privately funded units, they were a hell of a lot cheaper than professional soldiers or overtime working police officers. Which was a great boon for the cash strapped new Federal Government.
The only real point of concern was that their reclusive, but well-connected financial backers insisted on maintaining a separate command and control structure. The Freedom Brigades had a parallel leadership hierarchy cooperating with, but not necessarily subservient to, the official chain of command. Curious and annoying, but hardly problematic. There were even historical precedents for such affiliated but private armies. These and more were some of the rationalizations the elected folks told themselves to pretend they weren’t so desperate.
The Californian Guard commander practiced tolerance, at least. He was firm that “no fucking civilian will get within 100 yards of a nuke,” but except for that he treated the volunteers as real auxiliaries. Sitting there guarding the outer perimeter around the ordinance bunkers, the Freedom Brigade fighters felt like part of the mission and not merely a public relations stunt. Not just there to show the “grassroots” nature of the new republic.
Buck Sergeant Sophie snatched a lit cigarette from an older man in her squad and stubbed it out. “No smoking while on duty, Private. All those regular military types are watching us. Time to be professional.”
The man stared down his nose at her. Pretty easy to, since he was a good foot taller. “Damnit, girl! You know how expensive those things are? You get a tiny bit of rank and you think you’re better than me? I was a real specialist back in my Army days.” He yanked out his pack from a shoulder pocket to light another. Sophie ripped the case from his giant hand and tossed it into the truck. Laughing, he effortlessly pushed her out of the way and went to retrieve his precious.
With the black Humvee blocking the real soldiers’ view, she followed closely behind him. As soon as he turned around, she cupped a handful of his nuts and squeezed. Hard. She didn’t like to fight dirty, but he had body armor on over his solar plexus. While he wrestled with his stomach over not puking, she put a knife to his throat.
“I got these stripes by killing a marine during the street fighting. You don’t look tougher than a marine. This isn’t the regular Army, big boy. No enlistment contracts. You’re free to go whenever you’ve had enough, but while you’re here, you will respect my rank or I’ll bury you. Might piss off the Lieutenant, but the worst he could do is fire me. So, are we cool?” Only when his eyes showed sincerity did she release her grip and pull the blade back.
“This is stupid shit, Jamal. If you have a problem taking orders from a woman, then don’t think of me as a girl. Think of me as your worst fucking nightmare!” She slapped him on the back.
“You’re a stupid brute sometimes, but a good fighter most of the time. I respect that. Now, let this shit go. Let’s get back to work. We won’t talk about it again.” She turned her back on the suddenly quiet big mouth, just in time to see their militia lieutenant coming around the front of the vehicle.
Like a good officer, he pretended not to have seen anything. “Hey Kampbell, we’ve got a new mission.”
“When and where, sir?” She kept one critical eye on her squad even while talking to him.
The LT grinned wide. He was ex-military and amazed at the quality of some of these amateurs. With a little time and proper coaching, she’d make a great leader. In a perfect world, the platoon sergeant would be responsible for developing her. In their far from perfect organization, the LT was both platoon leader and platoon sergeant. Similar to being a single parent. There just wasn’t the time to do everything that needed doing.
“Sacramento doesn’t like having all their eggs in one basket. They’re suddenly in a hurry to get these things scattered. We’re going to move some of the bombs back to secure homes in California.” He lowered his voice.
“I don’t want to freak anyone out, but I think it’s only a matter of time before the Air Force, the real one out East, levels this whole place. Despite the lies the base headquarters are feeding them they must be guessing by now that things aren’t kosher here.”