The general feigned politeness. This long-serving senator was the most annoying of the Washington bunch. Unlike the rest, he had some military experience. Which only emboldened him to try and give orders left and right. Maybe this politico might have been a hero back in Vietnam, he did spend several years as a POW, but things had changed a lot since then.
“We’re working that issue, sir. Truth be told, we’ve only encountered light resistance so far. Yes, we have easily repulsed all the URA’s hit and run attacks. Any enemy unit that made the mistake of standing their ground was crushed in hours. That said, don’t mistake the enemy’s weariness as weakness.”
“Of course, of course, but….”
Lyon kept talking over him and tried to stop the argument before it could consume too much of his day. “Now comes the hard part. We’re now at the point where we have to break through dug-in forces to try and turn their flanks. Sure, we have numerical superiority, but we’re pushing along a front stretching from Fort Collins to Colorado Springs. With the rebels on the defense and possessing such sizable reserves, we have to slow down and advance more deliberately.”
General Lyon assumed he’d shut the politician up and went back to planning the next phase of the operation. The opinionated senator wasn’t done though. His whiny voice became extra nasally when arguing.
“You are being far too cautious. That’s a 150-mile long battlefront. Are you telling me you can’t find any weak points? We need to be more aggressive. Much more ambitious. You can bet the enemy isn’t thinking small.” He waved around at all the expensive monitors and communications equipment. “Let’s put all these whiz-bang gadgets to use. We have far more resources than the traitors do. If we don’t make a big splash, we just look weak. ‘Shock and Awe’ was the whole point of this operation, don’t you remember? How about at least pushing some units south and linking up with the NORAD complex at Cheyenne Mountain? They’ve been under lock-down for months. Rescuing the last military facility under federal control in rebel territory would be a tremendous propaganda victory. You have so many troops; surely you can spare some for such an objective?”
Lyon reluctantly dropped the paperwork. Yet again, he was going to have to waste his precious time convincing a politician that he knew how to do his job. “Sir, our numbers are as much a liability as an asset in a long-running battle. The old saw is still true today: ‘An army marches on its stomach.’ All our troops and vehicles are at the end of an extremely stretched out supply network. Historically the best time for an enemy counterattack. At the moment, enemy resistance isn’t slowing us down. Our own thousand-mile long supply chain is hampering the advance. We need to stockpile more gear up here before pushing on in earnest.”
The senator gripped his shoulder as Lyon tried to slide away. “I’m hearing a lot of excuses. This isn’t World War I out there. Most of the rebel army is in one location. Major combat operations shouldn’t last for more than a few days. So how much more ammo do you need to horde before you feel safe?”
Several officers cast him questioning glances. The operations meeting was starting. Lyon finally had an excuse to leave, but damn if he’d let this old politician have the last word. “Do you have any idea, sir, how much tonnage one modern mechanized division consumes daily on the offensive? A mountain of supplies. 600,000 gallons of fuel alone. Toss in other necessities like water, food, ammo, medical supplies, spare parts, etc… and you’re looking at 4,300 tons at a minimum. Per day. For each division. Put another way, 400 of the Army’s largest supply trucks need to drop their loads at the front every 24 hours to support each of our thirty-five divisions hacking their way west. The slightest interruption in this conveyor belt halts us faster than any minefield. Now, if you’ll excuse me, sir….”
General Lyon simply turned his back and walked away, leaving the old man arguing with himself.
With such a rapidly moving front line, the US Army couldn’t just stockpile all these supplies in centralized warehouses, like the URA forces sitting on the defensive. Every day the chain from supply dumps to trigger pullers, already two states long, stretched wider. As if the entire exercise wasn’t difficult enough, the overworked and sleep-deprived US logistics tail had to deliver all this crap while taking heat from rebel aircraft. Before too long, from insurgents on the ground as well.
While it took a few days for any real guerrilla movement to pop up in occupied lands, and they were still far from skilled or organized, these diehards sprouted up all over the place. Fed a steady diet of motivational propaganda and target lists from “Free America Radio,” out of Colorado, they were also well informed. With further guidance and support from small bands of stay-behind URA forces, the bushwhackers waged a nasty, but effective war far behind the lines.
Hourly forecasts broadcasting on open channels throughout the Midwest gave away the URA’s raw intelligence on US convoy movements to anyone who would listen. Whether an IED, lone sniper, sabotage or coordinated ambush, someone was always putting that information to good use. Sacramento even gleefully put a bounty on the head of every federal supply truck driver. The supply convoy escorts grew ever larger and more aggressive, but with every mile the front crawled west, the fewer trucks made it to the line.
And that was all before URA Special Forces took advantage of the situation.
Two armored federal Humvees slowed as a hasty Traffic Control Point rose from the endless flatness ahead. Some other tan federal Humvee ahead blocked the only opening in the serpentine pass through the razor wire. Cruising closer, a logistics master sergeant jumped out of the lead Humvee and ran towards the checkpoint.
“What’s going on here? Move this shit! All hell’s breaking loose at the front. I’ve got 200 tons of serious whoopass for our boys to use.” He gestured at the forty or so idling supply trucks behind him.
The dirty, but surprisingly sharp-eyed military policemen at the checkpoint let his rifle dangle by his shoulder strap. Judging from this new guy’s spotlessly clean uniform and armor, there was no threat here.
“Sorry, Master Sergeant. The road’s closed. Another damn insurgent IED.”
“I didn’t see nothin’ about that on the Blue Force tracker.”
The young sergeant read the old-timer well. He should. He had a lot of experience working with foreign armies. “What can I say? New technology, but the same old shit, Master Sergeant. The computers are only as useful as the operator is. Probably some snot-nosed second lieutenant up at headquarters forgot to update the threat overlay before naptime.”
The older man snorted. “Yeah, I bet! Shit never would have happened back in my day. The new Army has forgotten all about the fundamentals. Well, thank God you boys were here. Better to bump into your ugly faces than a bomb! How long until it’s clear?”
“No idea, Master Sergeant. Waiting on the EOD technicians. Just like everybody else.”
“Yeah. Hmm. Well, our main supply route, I-70, is also closed because of all those damn airdropped mines the rebels keep spraying around. This was our alternate route. You know any way around here that ain’t a death trap?”
Pretending to consult his tablet, the young soldier creased his brow. “Well, our Intel has County Roads 181 and 157 clear. Sets you back maybe 10 or 15 minutes, but a hell of a lot quicker than waiting around here.”