A little over 18K words…
Originally written on spec for an anthology that is now not happening. So much for my luck… sigh
Anyhoo… Navy centric, San Diego area, in the middle of Calexit, after it becomes real.
One Year Later
Vice Admiral Matt Clayborn, Commander, Third Fleet, winced as he heard and felt a very large explosion. It rattled the windows in the office, prompting cheers from the staff that echoed down the hallway in the old administration building at NAS[1] North Island. The snatches of conversation he heard meant somebody had finally tried to access the bunkers at Coronado. Obviously they hadn’t succeeded. He thought, I’m just glad Rita isn’t here to see this. She called herself a California girl, loved the beaches…
It didn’t seem like it was only a year ago that Calexit had finally happened. Everybody said it was much ado about nothing. Except it wasn’t, when the reality of the split hit both sides. But we buried her in Louisiana, in the family plot. And Cherie and Lester are both well clear of this mess. Thankfully. Trying to get dependents out of this mess was almost as bad as trying to extract the recruiters. Try them as war criminals, my ass!
Cali’d put up check stations at all major roads going out of the former state the first week, originally manned by state law enforcement personnel, but that had migrated in the last year to the Brownshirt Brigade, a quasi-official militia that more and more seemed to be made up of what used to be known as illegals. Except the term illegal was now only applied to the American military personnel still in California at MCAS[2] Miramar, North Island, 32nd Street, and MCB Camp Pendleton.
The first military personnel and bases to be evacuated had been those at Point Loma, where the subs were based. They had pulled out a week after Calexit in the middle of the night. SPAWAR[3] had been next, moving the scientists out of the facilities at the airport, bayside, and topside. He’d been directed by Chief of Naval Operations to abandon his compound at Point Loma, and relocate to NAS North Island the next day, effectively ceding all of Point Loma to Cali. The Marines had closed their San Diego boot camp, pulling everyone up to Pendleton in a quick, quiet, night move.
Next had been the Air Force, eight or nine months ago. It was hard to remember, considering all the riots that had occurred. Travis, yeah, Travis was the first base that got overrun. They’d salvaged most of the airplanes, but lost all the spares and facilities. Beale and McClellan went next, but they’d already evacuated most of their personnel and spares. He didn’t know about Edwards, other than they’d emptied it sometime around then, too.
He’d ordered the F-18s at NAS Lemoore flown out to the USS Nimitz, sent down from Bremerton to pick them up. The C-17s and C-2s had gotten all the spares and extra equipment out before the fires started, and most of the dependents had made it out. They said the Navy started the fires, but the Brownshirts, now known as Brownies were seen in the hangar just prior to the first fire starting.
The first incident in San Diego had been at the Navy Exchange and Commissary at 32nd Street five months ago. He’d interviewed two of the survivors, one young sailor from the Exchange, “It was like a horde of locusts Admiral, they just kept coming and coming. Security went down in the first rush, I saw them getting beaten with clubs. The men were grabbing good looking women and girls and… and… Well, raping them right there. Beating those that didn’t cooperate. The women were taking anything they could get their hands on. TVs, shoes, jewelry, clothes. They didn’t care what the men were doing, and I heard a lot of Spanish yelling back and forth, but I couldn’t understand most of it. We got some of the women and a few kids out the back door, and called security as soon as we saw what was happening.” He remembered the anguish on the young sailor’s face as he’d continued, “They got Danny, he… was the last man defending the door. One of those fuc… assholes hit him with a machete. That was the last thing I saw.”
The wife that had been at the Commissary told a similar story of brutality, mostly by the women, who swept the racks clean of food in what seemed like a matter of minutes, beating anyone with clubs that stood in their way. She too had survived by going out the back loading dock and running.
San Diego PD had been called, but refused to assist, saying it was federal property and they could do nothing. By the time Security had gotten there, they too were overwhelmed, and the Marine Ready Response had to come all the way from North Island, basically in time to pick up the pieces. Fifteen dead, at least thirty rapes reported, millions of dollars of lost merchandise, and both buildings lost to fire.
He’d called General Ericson at Pendleton, who had mobilized the 11th MEU[4], sending them down to set up a perimeter around the housing areas, and helping patrol the main shipyard across Harbor Drive. He’d also bumped up the number of Marines at North Island at the same time.
The Secretary of Defense, along with the service chiefs had decided to pull out all the civilian dependents after that, which really caused the next stage of the escalation against Americans left in Cali. Moonbeam, Cali’s leader, had put a policy in place that only allowed military and dependents out with what they could physically carry themselves. Cars, motorcycles, boats, trucks, moving vans had been confiscated and ‘reallocated’ to the ‘needy’ under that ruling. There had been the shootings on I-80 at the border, the first when the Air Force sergeant refused to give up his vehicle and walk his family across the line in the snowstorm. They’d killed him, his wife and three kids, just mowed them down with a Ma Deuce they’d procured from one of the state guard armories.
The Marines at 29 Palms had made a run for it about four months ago, managing to get across the river at Parker before the Brownies had time to react. They’d blown through the checkpoint in column, leaving eight dead Brownies, and a flattened checkpoint behind. They got not only their military equipment, but most of their own vehicles and families out, too. There had been more fires on bases after that.
The military south of LA had it a bit easier getting their dependents out, General Ericson at Pendleton had called up his Mexican counterpart and they’d agreed on a plan to cross at Otay Mesa after a feint toward San Ysidro on I-5. It had been quite the convoy, over six hundred vehicles of various types, escorted by tanks and up armored Humvees and shadowed by Cobra gunships in the middle of the night. The conga line had swung east far enough to pick up the Miramar dependents, then west to pick up the North Island and Coronado dependents. There had been some sniping, mostly random shots, but there had been six deaths, including one four year old little girl, the daughter of two Marine officers.
At the border, the Brownies were smart enough to stand aside as the convoy thundered across, then turned east following Federal Hwy 20 toward the Arizona border. The Mexican Marines did a fuel stop just west of Mexicali, giving everyone a chance to get out and stretch, and take a bathroom break, in addition to gassing up anyone who was short of gas. It had taken them three hours to get there, and it would take another three hours before the last vehicle pulled into the base at Yuma.
Captain Stephanie Jeans, an F-18 pilot with VMFA[5]-232 at Miramar, had been notified her daughter Mandy had been shot and killed during the escape while riding with her husband Paul’s mother. Her CO[6] had authorized her to fly to Yuma, where they had buried her daughter with full military honors. Two weeks later, silently vowing revenge, she’d returned to Miramar and duty, as her husband flew back to Okinawa and duty with 31st MEU. Paul’s mother, who had been living with them, went to Dallas to stay with her sister, and deal with Mandy’s death.
The Cali’s had tried turning off the water and power to the bases, but the Navy and Marines were self-sufficient. They had managed to cut the phone lines to the bases, but once again the military had plenty of communications equipment, and its own satellites, so it wasn’t a great loss, other than those who were addicted to Facebook and surfing the web.
He’d directed COMSURFPAC[7] and SOC[8] to relocate to NAS North Island, too. He’d sent all the ships up to Seal Beach to onload all the weapons they could carry, just two weeks before Point Magu and Point Hueneme had been ceded after they’d evacuated all their personnel.
The admiral wondered if he really regretted allowing the SEALS to, as they said, leave a few surprises for the looters in San Diego. With a sigh, he punched the intercom, dialing Captain James’ extension. After a couple of buzzes, he heard, “Captain James, how may I assist you, Admiral?”
“Mike, can you come down to my office please?”
“On the way, sir.”
Two minutes later, the wiry, five foot nine, slightly grey-haired captain, dressed in the SEALs version of multicam, walked into the admiral’s office, “Sit, Mike.”
Captain James sat on the couch as the Admiral got up and ambled around his desk to lean on the front of it, “Was that the ammo bunkers I heard go up a few minutes ago?”
“Yes, sir. We wired them to go sequentially. That should have taken care of a few of those assholes.”
“Mike, they…”
The captain waved his hand, “I know, Admiral. I know. They used to be Americans. Or maybe not. I’ve been sending out teams every night and most of the ones we’re seeing aren’t, well, let me rephrase that, the pieces we’re seeing, may or may not have been former Americans. They aren’t Americans anymore.”
“What have your folks seen around Point Loma?”
“Well, those people have finally got a chain mostly across the harbor mouth out there. So, technically, we’re trapped in here. Except that we can blow that thing in about ten minutes, anytime you tell us to.”
“I’m worried about the ships at Thirty-Second Street. Apparently there were a couple of mortar rounds lobbed in there last night, or at least that’s what they think it was. The Marine guards did a counter battery fire on it and hit the top of an apartment building a half mile from the gate. The Brownies tried another probe from the NASSCO[9] pier, but the Marines pushed them back pretty handily. I just don’t know how much longer…”
Captain James shrugged, “Good riddance. Those bastards…”
Admiral Clayborn pushed himself off the desk, “Mike, do I need to relieve you? I know you lost Trish and Mike Junior, and God knows I would do everything I could, if we could bring them and the others back, but I can’t. But I don’t want you to commit a massacre either.”
Captain James came slowly to attention, tears rolling down his face, “Admiral, do what you think is right. It was bad enough to lose Trish and Mikey to those bastards, but to have them broadcast their being beaten to death real time was… was… It should have been me! At least I’d have taken a few of those… Ah, fuck it Admiral, maybe you do need to relieve me before I go nuts and go charging down the Gas Light District shooting everybody I see.”
The admiral put a hand on Captain James’ shoulder, pushing him gently back down on the couch, “Dammit Mike, I need you. We’re the last outpost out here, and you’re my senior combat commander on the Navy side. I know how your folks feel about you and I know they’ll follow you anywhere you lead. I know you have been leading some of those recons yourself.”
“Lead by example, Admiral. Wasn’t that what you said when you took over Third Fleet?”
Admiral Clayborn sighed, “Yes, I did,” he smiled ruefully, “Hoist on my own petard, aren’t I?”
“We’re SEALs Admiral. If I can’t lead them, I don’t need to be in charge of them. Our code lays out a pretty simple mantra we live by every day. Loyalty to country, team and teammate. Serve with honor and integrity on and off the battlefield. Ready to lead, ready to follow, never quit. Take responsibility for your actions and the actions of your teammates. Excel as warriors through discipline and innovation. Train for war, fight to win, defeat our nation’s enemies. Earn your Trident every day. I’m just trying my best to earn that Trident every day.”
“Okay, Mike. Just, just do the best you can.”
“It’s all I know how to do, sir.”
“Are you going to send a team in again tonight?”
Captain James nodded, “Yes, sir.”
“Give me a body count as soon as you can, I’ll need to alert the Pentagon. I know Moonbeam’s people will be screaming.”
Captain James came to attention, “Aye Aye, sir.”
Admiral Clayborn waved him away, “Thanks, Mike.”
***
Admiral Clayborn walked slowly back to the beach cottage that was now his home, nodding to the Marine security guards that patrolled the beach as he passed them, deep in thought. He sat down in one of the beach chairs and watched as the sun set into the Pacific Ocean as the ready duty destroyer cruised slowly off the beach. An hour later, he finally got up and drove back into the office, which was thankfully quiet, except for the duty officer and watch team. Pulling up the daily briefs from the four stars in Hawaii, he reviewed them again, looking for a way out of the situation they were in. As the only American units left in Cali, he didn’t know which way to push, or how far. Concerned about what Captain James had said about the Brownies blocking the harbor, he drafted a quick personal message to COMPACFLT[10] at Pearl Harbor requesting permission to sortie one ship a day in and out in order to keep the channel open. Balancing that against the fuel available meant he had about a month before some serious decisions had to be made.
A young Navy commander stood at the door, “Admiral? Sir, I have Captain James’ report,”
“Thank you Commander, I’ll take it. Sorry, I was lost in thought there.”
Handing the report over the commander said, “Not a problem sir. Will there be anything else?”
The admiral glanced at the report and nodded, “Please send the duty yeoman around. I need to get a P-four out to the CNO[11] on the latest casualties.”
[1] Naval Air Station
[2] Marine Corps Air Station
[3] Space and Naval Warfare Command
[4] Marine Expeditionary Unit
[5] Marine Fighter/Attack Squadron
[6] Commanding Officer
[7] Commander, Surface Force Pacific
[8] Special Operations Command
[9] National Steel and Shipbuilding Co.
[10] Commander, Pacific Fleet
[11] Chief of Naval Operations
