The head general tried to keep up an optimistic exterior despite the weight of doom on his shoulders. “You’re both missing the key point. That bombing is a sign of desperation. Means they have no other way to stop us. If they counted on this throwing us back on our heels, well, we aren’t going to oblige the Feds. We still have some tricks up our sleeves. The Freedom Brigades will be entering the fight for the first time in the next few hours. Not to mention that little rear-area airborne surprise is starting to have a major effect on their supply situation. No, people. We will strike now; with everything we have left and then some!”
He paused and contemplated his crowded command center. “As a matter of fact, how many people are working here at the moment? Probably half a battalion. Way too many non-essential personnel. Every section head stays, with two assistants only. Sergeant Major, have everyone else dig up their weapons and send them to the line. Cooks, clerks, drivers, officers- everyone, regardless of rank. I want this headquarters looking like a ghost town in 30 minutes. Get on the horn. Have every lower-level headquarters, mechanic shop and supply depot do the same thing. That has to be a few thousand fresh shooters right there!”
Just as many terrified faces stared back at him as excited ones. This was an all-volunteer army, sure, but most had volunteered for support roles. Before any of them could screw up the courage to whine about their contracts or start questioning their resolve to the cause, General Stewart locked and loaded his own rifle.
“I’m dead fucking serious people. The next 48 hours will decide our fates. If we win this revolution, we’re heroes. If we lose, we’ll all hang as mutineers. Believe me, there’s no middle ground left.” This grey-haired, four-star general snapped on his spotlessly clean body armor. Pausing at the doorway, he waved an arm over his head and swayed the last skeptics. “Follow me! Tonight we dine in Kansas City or in hell!”
Future movies would only recall the crowd’s “Hooah!” chant and the general’s savage grin as he strutted out the door. The “God help us all,” he muttered under his breath never made it to the Big Screen.
A few minutes later, some khaki-clad private security analyst slipped into the nearly empty bunker with only the slightest flash of his badge. These mysterious folk, sent to work pro-bono by an even more mysterious coalition of patriotic conglomerates, had carte blanche access everywhere in the URA military. Orders straight from President Salazar’s office. The strange man hunched over a laptop and whispered with several officers from the intelligence section.
Minutes later, the whole team came over and interrupted the harassed operations section.
“…Maybe, but both armored cavalry regiments will have to cross miles of open ground to get into position to strike the enemy’s flank. There’s no way we can pull this off without them being seen. The Feds will have plenty of time to reposition. Shit, fancy speeches aside, the general’s plan is one impossible Hail Mary play.”
The head MI officer cleared his throat. Which was practically a scream by his quiet standards. “Gentlemen, we have some game-changing intel here.” The smirk on the usually dower Intel chief’s face was as close to beaming as anyone had ever seen.
“Intelligence reports aren’t what we need at this point, Jeff. Unless your spook friend has some magic way to shut-down the enemy’s command and control network for a couple hours, I don’t think we have a chance of pulling off this operation.”
The Intel officer crossed his arms. “Oh, maybe not shut them down ourselves, but could you do anything with the grid coordinates to their joint command center?”
“Goddamn, Jeff! We don’t have time for games. If you want additional recon assets, it’s too late for that. We’re jumping off in less than an hour. Everything we have is already committed. Oh, and good luck going over my head. General Stewart is up at the front giving pep talks.”
“I don’t need to go over your head. I just want you to pull it out of your ass.” He slid a piece of paper across the table. Just 10 simple digits. It took a minute for the meaning to sink into these exhausted men.
“I want to believe you. God almighty, I really do, but I can’t task any of our limited fire support assets on a hunch. We have too many priority targets as it is. What’s your source?”
“Highly reliable. That’s all you need to know.”
“Come on, enough with that nonsense. How the hell did you get the location, to the meter, of the Fed’s best kept secret?”
The freelancing spook in the background stepped forward. “Discussing methods is a major breach of operational security, but I understand where you’re coming from, sir.” He raised his laptop’s lid while lowering his voice.
“You know that old SIM card tracking trick in smartphones? Well, we found one reporting from their joint command center. Simple as that.”
The head operation’s officer waved his free hand. “I don’t buy it. We don’t allow any GPS-trackable personal devices anywhere near our headquarters. We search everyone; embedded reporters, our own soldiers, even you. I can’t believe the Feds would be so careless.”
The spook nibbled his lip. If these soldier boys didn’t use his information, then he wouldn’t be paid. His employer’s contract was quite clear.
“The US Army has the same protocol, but there are always exceptions. In this case, no one apparently bothered frisking the congressmen tagging along with their invasion. One of those grandstanding politicos who can’t pull himself away from Twitter is messaging hourly. Have a look at his public account.” He pulled up some offline screenshots.
“Sitting with Gen. Nathaniel Lyon. Our heroes are almost ready to crush the rebels. #USAnumber1.”
The tweet was accompanied by a selfie pic of a one-time presidential candidate and a pissed off general.
“Sure, public access to the congressman’s location is blocked, but I have, uh….” no one needed to know which companies he worked for, “an asset inside his data plan provider. Now, can you do anything with this information?”
The operation’s officer didn’t even bother calling up General Stewart. He just grinned and hollered at the rest of the headquarters. “All right! Where’s the artillery officer? Standby for fire mission….”
Jessica jammed her hands against her ears and screamed into the satellite phone. “What?” Across the baseball field from her, a man-made hurricane generated by some rebel MLRS rocket battery drowned out all thought. In barely a minute, they rippled off the last of their giant ballistic missiles at unseen federal targets 60 kilometers away. Jessica leaned against the Humvee’s dirty tailgate, grateful for a chance to speak finally. Her military escort quickly shattered that dream.
“Let’s go! You know the drill. ‘Shoot and scoot’ before the enemy hits back. Believe me; you don’t want to be on the receiving end of counterbattery fire. Hurry up and get in the Humvee!”
Jessica cussed at the game, but slid in the backseat anyway. She forgot where she was in the phone conversation, but not what pissed her off.
“That’s enough of this damn embedded nonsense! I’m sick of playing army. I’m stuck so deep in this war I can’t learn anything about it. I’m heading back to Sacramento, no matter what Salazar’s media people threaten.”
On the other end of the line, her producer sat in comfort and safety back in Los Angeles. He laughed at her frustration. “Oh Jessica, always so melodramatic, but this isn’t a war of words anymore. Viewers don’t want to watch any further spin by politicians. Every station that’s anyone has reporters in the field.”