Modern Warfare

79th Infantry Brigade Combat Team (California National Guard)

San Diego, CA

Colonel Banguey picked up the secure radio.   “Banguey.”

“Ident, Whiskey Sierra Whiskey.”

Banguey had to consult with a card from his pocket for today’s recognition codes.  “Bravo Echo Foxtrot.”

“War Plan Ardent Resolve in effect.  Your command is to prevent possible enemy incursion into the Los Angeles basin via I-15.    You are to defend the I-15 corridor at all costs. Readback.”

Automatically, Banguey repeated, “79th to take a blocking position on I-15 to prevent enemy incursion into the Los Angeles basin.  Defend at all costs.”

“Readback correct.”  The handset in his hand went dead. 

Numbly, turned to his Command Sergeant Major.  “We are to defend the Los Angeles Basin.”

“What the fuck?”  While Command Sergeant Major Selston was under the command of Colonel Banguey, he often thought of himself as a partner in crime rather than as a subordinate.  The Colonel was a good boss.  He made sure that the unit maintained good discipline but wasn’t focused on the spit and polish that so many reserve officers focused on.  “Sir, are we really going to retreat before we even get into the war?”  He pointed south.  Tijuana was only a dozen miles away.  “The bad guys are over there!”

Banguey sighed.  “I don’t like it either, Larry, but it makes sense.  We are wide open here.  Most of the brigade won’t be down here for another full day.  If the ChiComs decide to roll over the border, we are not stopping them with a single cav squadron.”  He consulted a map.  “Here, if we set up on I-15 just south of Temecula, we can defend the pass there and prevent any movement north.  If and when we get the whole brigade online, we can think about moving south again.”

Selston looked at the map.  “I think we should position here.”  He pointed to a section of I-15 just two miles south of Temecula.  “The 15 goes through a little valley here.  We set up arty on one end, put some hummers up on the hills with TOWs and it’s a tough position to assault from the south..”

“Agreed.  Make it happen.”

Pulling out of their HQ in San Diego, the officers and men of the 79th could clearly see the smoke rising from the ruins of Naval Base San Diego and Coronado just beyond.  The surface streets and freeways of San Diego were deserted; most civilians had heeded the order to “shelter in place.”  It was eerie to see a major US city nearly deserted.  As they started up I-15, their path went just past Miramar, a similarly disastrous sight.  It was with grim faces that they navigated their way north, away from the enemy and away from their homes and families. 

Walter Reed National Military Hospital

Bethesda, Maryland

Admiral Harris took a full three days to completely regain his faculties.  The official prognosis was “Traumatic Brain Injury” or TBI.  Fortunately for Harris, Walter Reed had extensive experience with TBIs.  Thousands of US soldiers, sailors and marines had been wounded during the Global War on Terror (GWOT), often involving blows to the head.  By that standard, Harris was quite lucky.  He still had zero memory of the actual attack, but most of his other memories had returned within a couple of days.  When he asked the neurologist  if he would regain his memory of the actual attack, the doctor shrugged and said, “It’s unlikely; that video didn’t get written to the hard drive.”

The attack and pending invasion of the United States had sent a charge through the hospital.  Almost everyone at the facility was a member of one branch or the other of the armed services, but none of them were assigned to combat units.  They were either staff assigned to the hospital or casualties like Harris himself.

Twenty-four hours after the space-based attack, casualties started to arrive.  A day later, the casualties became a flood.

That’s it, I’m not sitting here anymore.

Harris got into as much of a uniform as he could.  Not all his personal effects had made it to Bethesda, but he at least had the basics.  Walking down the hallway, he buttonholed a harried-looking medical corpsman.  “Chief, where is the nearest secure conference room?” 

The chief did a double take.  He looked like he was about to order Harris back into his room but then realized he was talking to an admiral.  “Admiral, there is one on the third floor, southwest corner.”  Harris smiled.  Sometimes he regretted accepting promotion.  Other times, like this, being an admiral was quite nice.  He wasn’t sure what would have happened if he was still a lowly commander.

“Thank you, Chief.  Carry on.”

Navigating down to the third floor, he found the secure area guarded by a Marine in combat fatigues and an M4.  “Open up, Marine.  I need to make a call.”

“Sir, you need to identify yourself to enter.”

“Of course.”  Harris wasn’t sure what would have happened if he didn’t have ID, but luckily, his wallet and all of his ID had been among the items that found their way to the hospital from Mexico.  He handed his ID card to the Marine guard.

“Thank you, sir.  You may enter.”

Moving into the secure area, he was able to find a communications tech.  “Get me a secure video session with NAVNORTH.”

“Sir, video is still down.  I may be able to get you a secure voice circuit.”

“Whatever you have, I’ll take it.”

It took a full fifteen minutes, but eventually he was able to talk to Admiral Johnson who was the current Joint Force Maritime Commander for Northern Command.  He was based in Hampton Roads, Virginia, instead of in Colorado with the rest of Northern Command, which is probably why he was still alive.  “Neil, good to hear from you.  I heard you were in the hospital?”

“Still in the hospital, but no time for that now.” 

“You ready to get into the game?”

“Damn straight.  Where do you need me?”

“We lost most of our Pacific surface warfare leadership when Coronado took two direct hits.  I need a new type commander out there pronto.”  Normally, each “type” of unit (submarine, surface, aircraft, etc.) had their own commander.  All of this was part of the fleet command structure which had recently been badly broken by the Chinese space based attack.

“Is there anything left in San Diego to command?”

“Not in San Diego, who knows if we will get hit again.  All my type commanders are out to sea.  I want you to move your flag to the Zumwalt, she is just off the Channel Islands.”

“You got it, Bill.”

“Thanks, Neil.  Godspeed and good hunting.  I’ll push through a priority transport order for you.”

Harris was in a cab to Andrews within ten minutes.  All civilian air traffic had been shut down due to the attack, but he hoped to pull rank and get himself aboard one of the hundreds of Air Force cargo flights crisscrossing the country.

On the way, he texted Ping Pong.  Assigned new command, 2nd Fleet, Embarking Zumwalt Soonest.  Please take care.

Concerningly, he received no answer.  He hadn’t heard from his wife for almost two days since a short cryptic text that she was in California.