“Sure, of course. Not all of those ex-soldiers put back on the uniform, but the majority have… for one side or the other. While few of them long for another war, even fewer can simply ignore the brewing storm clouds.”
Jessica shrugged. What did she know about the common soldier’s mindset? The colonel suddenly beamed. He had a way to impress her. “For example…”
He flagged down a jogging formation of men and women passing by. “Sergeant Li! Hold up a second.”
The one fellow not in formation shouted at his recruits. “Quick time, march! Mark time, march!” While his exhausted platoon marched in place, the wiry Asian man spun around and saluted the officer. Despite the wheezing troops behind him, he breathed normally. “Sir?”
Jessica’s escort left him standing at attention, hoping to help show off his authority. “Sergeant, this reporter is interested in why warriors like yourself deserted Washington’s army and joined the URA. Care to enlighten her?”
Li quickly masked his snarl at his pompous commander. “It, uh, wasn’t an easy decision to make, but after seeing everything the president was willing to do to stay in power, I couldn’t be a part of that. Unfortunately, with the whole country cut up, it’s not possible to stay out of the way. If I had gone AWOL, how would I have ever gotten a job in the civilian world? This fu… excuse me, this war is everywhere. So, if I have to fight, might as well be for an actual cause, rather than just one politician.”
Jessica was shocked by the passion in his voice. After so much cynical BS in Sacramento, she forgot that some people believed it all. “I see, Sergeant. Were the nuclear attacks on the Chinese fleet the final straw?”
Li raised his eyebrow. “Huh? Of course not. Oh! Yes, I am Chinese, but third generation. I grew in Massachusetts. Don’t speak a word of Mandarin. You ask me, those bastards had it coming. Trying to capture the Alaskan oilfields… that’s probably the only call the president has made in the last few months I can agree with.”
Jessica smiled. Depth to a story, now that was new. “So then, what finally convinced you?”
“There wasn’t any one thing. Look, I enlisted straight out of high school. The military is all I know. I spent a tour in Afghanistan and don’t have anything to show for it. This, though, isn’t some sideshow. This conflict is the defining moment of my generation. All the bullshit aside,” he glanced briefly at his commanding officer, “we’re in an old fashioned struggle of good versus evil. We will save this nation!”
The recruits behind him cheered. Li looked embarrassed. “I need to get these lazy wannabes back to PT, sir. We have range practice in an hour.”
The officer, as uncomfortable as Jessica to hear the political rhetoric spouted off by someone who obviously meant it, just nodded.
Jessica added a few notes to her report:
Unfortunately, the quality of all these fighters in the new army can’t guarantee that the war will be over any sooner. Just that it will be deadlier.
Chapter 3
Lieutenant Donaldson leaned over the ship’s railing and wrestled with his stomach. Nothing came out. After three hours at sea, his gut contained little more to puke up anyway. This Michigan-born, adopted Floridian had never been on so much as a canoe in his 21 years. Flopping about in a rickety, WWII-era Cuban landing ship in the Straits of Florida was too damn much. Someone had warned him to keep his eyes on the horizon. What damn horizon was there to stare at an hour before dawn?
Donaldson cautiously turned around and tried to focus on the small transport’s rusting wheelhouse. The once proudly stenciled name Bahía de Cochinos was now deeply faded and barely serviceable… much like their teetering “Capitán” behind the wheel. Donaldson could smell the rum breath of their hired Cuban crew all the way from the bow.
The ship’s captain waved at Donaldson and stuck up a thumb. He screamed in Spanglish, “Thirty minutos más, comrades!” With a ragged cheer, he also rasped out something in Spanish about death. “Patria o muerte, venceremos!”
Donaldson muttered “son of a bitch” under his breath, but somehow pulled himself together. Show time. He was only a lieutenant, a brand new one at that, but found himself responsible for this band of 200 exiled Florida Guardsmen in his boat. After their failed resistance during the invasion of Florida, the Guard didn’t have much of a chain of command left. Thankfully, Cuba graciously took in thousands of battle-hardened survivors from the now-defunct Florida Defense Force, even though no one had a clue what they should be doing.
At least, that was before some spook types from Sacramento, correction, the provisional capitol of the United Republics of America, flew down to Havana with a plan. A straightforward, grand scheme to liberate Florida from under the federal boot.
Simple enough, on paper. Just reequip this small army without a country and land them in Miami. They’d link up with the guerrillas on the mainland and capture the giant city. With such a spectacular success against “tyranny” setting the example, millions in Florida, and hopefully across the temperamental South, would flock to the rebel cause and take up arms against the Washington regime, or so those excited West Coast agents claimed.
The plan might have been simple, but the execution was far too complicated. The operation bogged down and was already unraveling before the first shot could be fired. A diversionary URA offensive across the Missouri River to draw away federal attention never materialized. Despite their rhetoric, the new nation’s military and political establishment was quite comfortable in their Cold War with the East. Of more immediate concern, promises of URA Special Forces advance teams and air support turned out to be so much hot air. As those damn agents explained at the last second, the URA was too worried about “escalating tensions” and needed to be able to maintain “plausible deniability.”
Donaldson still tried to wrap his mind around the disconnect between legalisms and combat realities when his radio crackled to life. “Moccasin 6, this is Swamp Dog 6, over.”
“This is Moccasin 6. I thought we needed to maintain radio silence, over.”
The voice of Donaldson’s acting commanding officer, only a captain himself, dripped demotivation. “You think that matters now? I just found out the Cubans pulled their support. Cold feet. They’ve been scared shitless ever since what happened to the Chinese. It was only a matter of time. Break… They claim they won’t launch any airstrikes to support us. We’re on our own. Just take a look behind us, over.”
Donaldson lowered his night vision sights down, only one in ten men in their ragtag force had this usually standard issue equipment, and gawked over the stern. All four Cuban corvettes, representing their pathetic but only armed escort, faded over the horizon. Just their six unarmed and overloaded transports, hauling the invasion’s nearly 2,000 troops, remained in the bay. The ship’s crews were essentially well-paid mercenaries and not affiliated with the Cuban government, so they probably weren’t going anywhere. Even if they wanted to, they were badly outnumbered.
Donaldson grunted. “Hell sir, it doesn’t matter much now. We’ll be on the pier in minutes. Those Fedefucks don’t stand a chance. Let’s kick some ass, over!” He had doubts about the last, but other soldiers were listening in. Had to keep morale up as much as possible.
“Moccasin 6, Swamp Dog 6, drop down to battalion internal, over.”
“Aw shit.” Donaldson changed frequencies to a separate channel so he and his boss could have a somewhat private conversation.