From the Sea
Chapter 1

Office of the Commanding General, Northwest Military Dsitrict
Two months after the events in Overt Actions

Lieutenant Colonel Sean Bastle sat on a couch that looked as old and as tired as he felt.  Across the room, and barred by an aide de camp’s desk, was an office door marked with the three red stars of a Lieutenant General.  Above him, a TV mounted so high on the wall he had to crane his neck, played the latest news.  A reporter interviewed the Honorable Mr. Jacob King, the interim President of the Constitutional Government of the United States, and, given a suitable timeline, the likely first President of post war America.  Physically, Sean wanted to sleep.  Mentally, his mind was unstill and racing.  And so, while he waited for his meeting with the general he watched the interview.

“Mr. President, let’s talk for a moment about San Francisco and the Progressive holdouts there.  Since the nuclear exchange between Constitutional and Progressive forces two months ago, the San Francisco Bay Area has turned into a bastion for the remaining Progressive elements in the United States.  Are you and your team negotiating with these holdouts, and is a diplomatic solution even possible at this point?”

“Thank you for that question Jeff.  Yes, we have an open dialogue with Progressive leadership in San Francisco and we are hoping to bring about a final and peaceful solution to this conflict which has plagued our nation for far too long.”

“But Mr. President, some say that the Progressives are simply using the diplomatic process to buy time in order to strengthen their military position in the city and fortify for an inevitable final battle.”

“Jeff, again we are open, and will keep open, every diplomatic possibility to end this conflict without further loss of life.  That being said, if the Progressive forces force us into a military confrontation to finally end this war, then we will respond in kind.  Our military might at this point is overwhelming.  If we are forced back into a military conflict then we will use every element of our power to end this conflict quickly and decisively.  Letting this conflict drag on only furthers the suffering of all Americans.  I don’t want any more bloodshed.  But if we have to call for one last full measure, I’m will not shirk from my duty as the Commander in Chief.”

“Does that include the possibility of more nuclear strikes?”

“After the retaliatory strikes, which were of course a response to the Progressive nuclear attack on San Antonio we have accounted for every nuclear weapon in the U.S. Arsenal.  We have all the nukes and the Progressives have none.  That means that should we chose to we could order a nuclear strike on San Francisco without any fear of a Progressive nuclear response.  That gives us a very powerful bargaining advantage at the conference table.”

“But Mr. President you did not answer the question.  Is the use of nuclear weapons still an option?”

“The use of nuclear weapons is now, and always will be an option we reserve the right to exercise.”

Sean’s mind tuned out the conversation while his eyes continued to watch the banter back and forth.  He was tired.  It was more than just the effects of middle age.  He’d been fighting in what was alternatively called the Second Civil War or the Second American Revolution every day for the past few years.  He spent much of his life before that fighting in conflicts that were further from home but just as exhausting.  He just wanted this war to end.  He wanted to be a husband and a father for once. But the war wasn’t over just yet.

Months ago the Progressives dropped a nuke on San Antonio, the government seat of the Constitutional forces.  That single nuclear strike brought about a nuclear counter strike that was massive in scale.  A dozen Progressive cities had gone up in mushroom clouds after San Antonio.  The Progressives played a sort of nuclear chicken, figuring that the Constitutional forces wouldn’t take it to the next level.  They figured wrong.

After the nuclear exchange most Progressive forces had surrendered, and the war that had been boiling settled down to a simmer.  The most hardcore of the Progressives flocked to San Francisco, which had escaped the nuclear strikes.  In the months that followed each side prepared for the simmer to rise up to boiling again.  The Progressives prepared their defenses of the city.  The Constitutional forces organized themselves for one last attack, and, to prepare to govern what was left of the shattered country afterwards.

For Sean, those months had been quiet ones.  A battalion commander for much of the war, his partisan 14th Battalion had been slowly stripped away.  During the war it had been composed of a rag tag collection of military veterans and volunteers.  The first thing “they” did was rename his unit as the 14th Independent Marine Battalion.  This was in conflict with Marine Corps naming conventions but likely done because Sean was a Marine Officer.  That done, they transferred everybody out who was not a Marine.  Soldiers went to Army units, the Navy took back its Sailors and the Air Force its Airmen.  Anybody without a military connection before the war was transferred into their state’s National Guard.  Other units were being built up for what was assumed to be the big push into San Francisco.  Sean’s force was left to wither on the vine.

The door to the general’s office opened and out walked a Naval Officer.  The man was tall and blond, Scandinavian looking, and he walked out of the office beaming with a confident smile.  He wore a gunbelt with fully customized .45 caliber pistol in the holster. On the checkered grips an eagle held in its beak a scroll that read U.S. Navy.  Even more striking was the man’s uniform.  It was not only clean and pressed, but looked brand new.  This was a stark contrast to Sean’s own uniform.  Sean wore desert pattern camouflage because that was all he had.  His woodland uniforms had all worn down to rags long ago, and even his desert ones were suitable for little more than service in field; faded, with sewn up tears and patched up holes.  In the peacetime military you never would have worn a uniform in such a state to meet a general, but this wasn’t peacetime, not yet.  And Sean had to work with what he had, which wasn’t much.

His eyes tracked the Naval Officer who almost seemed to bounce down the hall with joy.

“There’s a dandy,” Sean muttered under his breath.  Across the room the aide de camp waved him over to see the general. He rose.  As he did he caught one last line from the President.

“I want to be absolutely and unmistakably clear.  The option to use nuclear weapons is still on the table.”

Lieutenant Colonel Sean Bastle entered the general’s office.

“The nuclear option is completely off the table,” General Creighton said after Sean settled in.  General Creighton wore his Army service uniform, as did the Navy Admiral standing quietly behind him. Sean looked the Navy man over and it took about half a second to realize that was one old war horse.  That man looked close to 70 judging by the sparse white hair and wrinkles around the face.  But 70 or not the man didn’t looked like he slowed down on the physical training.  He was tall and broad shouldered and if there was an ounce of fat on him the Navy blues hid it well.  His chest was adorned with a stack of ribbons a mile high and topped with the “Budweiser” device of a U.S. Navy Seal.  The admiral let General Creighton do the talking. Sean didn’t take the Seal officer for a man of many words.

“It’s a political decision,” Creighton elaborated.  “Our interim president thinks the country has been through enough and won’t stomach another nuclear strike, not even against a bunch of dug in Progressives.  We could end this all right now, three nukes on San Francisco, another two each on Oakland and San Jose… seven nukes and this whole mess will be done, but, once again in their good wisdom the politicians have other ideas.  Some horse-fuckery about World Opinion or some such nonsense.  I don’t have to tell you this, but all this nuclear BS is secret so keep your mouth shut about it.”

“He already nuked half the Eastern Seaboard.  What’s a few more if it gets this thing over with,” Sean replied.

“That wasn’t President King. That was General Matt’s decision.  After the old capital got nuked General Matts was the only person able to respond, so he did. Now General Matts is on the outs and General Francis is the man.  Not sure who he is but the President likes him.  He’ll be the one leading the assault on San Francisco.”

Sean emotionally sank when he heard the words, ‘assault on San Francisco.’  General Creighton saw the change on the Marine Officer.  The admiral did to.  General Creighton kept a small wet bar in the corner of his office.  The admiral walked to it and poured some brown liquor out of a crystal decanter into a glass.

“The diplomatic stuff is just a bid for time,” Creighton continued.  “They need time to build up their defenses.  We need the time to marshal our forces and get organized.  Our army is scattered all across the country.  Our industrial base is non-existent and our surface Navy has gone straight to shit…” Creighton turned to the Admiral and made a motion with his hands that said, ‘no-offense.’

“We aren’t taking down San Fran without a Navy and without sufficient forces.  It’s a mega-city, Bastle.  San Francisco is really three cities, with Oakland and San Jose and all the other smaller urban areas connecting the three. A couple million people there, high rises, urban and suburban sprawl for miles… This thing is going to make Stalingrad look like a couple of neighborhood kids fighting over a treehouse.”  Creighton shook his head.  The admiral downed the glass in one gulp then started to pour two more.

“I’d say we need a year to prepare for the assault.  General Francis says he can pull it off in four months.  That was a good answer politically.  Not sure how he’s going to do it thought.”

Creighton sat on the edge of his desk and looked right into Sean Bastle’s eyes.

“How’s your battalion looking?”

“General, we’re thin.  Very thin.  The battalion now is little more than a reinforced platoon now that the other services have pulled all their people.  I’ve got nothing on the medical side.  No heavy weapons, at least none I would trust to last more than one firefight.  No ammo to speak of.  Logistics is only what we can scrounge up ourselves.  Most of my men don’t even have uniforms.”  Sean gestured at his faded and threadbare desert uniforms. “Right now I’m the best dressed Marine in the unit.”

Creighton nodded with understanding.  He looked at the admiral who shot back a knowing look. The general sighed and reached into his pocket, pulled something out but kept it hidden in his palm.

“That’s about what we expected Sean. We can fix those things. The Marines opened a new boot camp in Kodiak Alaska.  The first batch of recruits will be graduating in two weeks and we’re getting the pick of the litter; the highest test scores, the most physically fit, the best swimmers, you know the deal.  Logistics will be tougher, but we’ll get you what you need.  Any former Marines in Washington, Oregon or Idaho belong to me now, and anybody you want to flush out the leadership in you T\O I’m going to give you.”

“Most important of all,” The Navy Man interjected, “We’re going to give you free rein for the next four months to train your people anyway you see fit. We’ve got a mission and we need the right team to pull it off.  Your record speaks for itself.  You can make it happen.  We’re going to give you the widest latitude to put a real team together.”

General Creighton stepped forward and handed Sean what he’d been hiding in his hand.

“Your new unit patch, Colonel.”

Sean took the patch.  It was a blue shield with white highlights.  On the blue was the Southern Cross Constellation, the number 14, and a grinning white skull.”

“A Raider patch,” Sean said looking up at the two Flag Officers.

“You’re new command.  The 14th Raider Battalion, an independent battalion of course,” Creighton replied.

Sean looked the handsome patch over.  It looked nice, and sounded nice.  A Raider Battalion, an independent command, a free-hand in training.  It sounded too good to be true.

“So general, what is it you need me to raid?”

The admiral stepped forward, drink in hand.  He handed the glass to Sean.

“Why don’t you have a drink son,” the old man said.