Power Games: Operation Enduring Unity I (4 page)

Florida National Guard Headquarters

21 January: 1700

Within hours of the governor’s “historic” announcement, hundreds of National Guard troops fanned out across Florida to lock down high profile government offices. Being a Saturday, calling up the men wasn’t easy, but the confused part-time soldiers still carried out their senseless operation with surprising speed. The Florida Guard colonel running this circus nearly burst with pride. Not over his soldiers, of course, but over his exceptional leadership skills and farsighted planning.

For such a self-centered man, he did have a gift for guessing what made others tick. He instinctively knew which subordinate leaders needed firing up with pep talks about defending their freedom from tyranny. He sweetly reasoned with the quiet skeptics that someone had to keep the mobs at bay and protect federal lives and property. The scared, he buoyed with assurances of how quick and bloodless this deployment would be. The veterans groaned at that bad luck curse, but they soldiered up anyway.

Colonel Beauregard alone made the decision to fully equip and arm each soldier as if this were a real campaign. What a striking figure he made giving a rousing speech while personally helping to distribute live ammo to his confused troops. If only those pricks at the Pentagon could see him now.

Beauregard never forgot all their conspiring to keep him from getting promoted to general or all those bullshit accusations and then easing him into the Guard when he refused to take it quietly. Oh, he was going to show all his imaginary enemies. Once this silly crisis passed, who would be the most famous, soon-to-be general in America?

It didn’t matter much that the governor, let alone anyone in his chain of command, had never given permission to launch this “mission.” His orders were to simply mobilize his forces and pose for the cameras. No, Patton had it right: “Audacity, audacity, always audacity.” Fortune favors the bold and all that jazz.

Since Beauregard was some type of Caesar/Patton reincarnated hybrid super leader, it required ever-larger feats of daring to maintain his ego’s sense of self-worth. What else could a man like him do when presented with such a unique opportunity?

His leaders in Tallahassee asked themselves a similar question. Telling him to stand down was an embarrassing admission of losing control, if not signaling outright defeat. The news clucked over hordes of anti-government protestors, already fired up by the governor’s rhetoric, hitting the streets with even more fury after the Guard call up. In the high octane, low responsibility world of American politics it was better to be seen as crazy than weak.

While privately cursing Beauregard, state politicians and senior Guard officers fell over each other publically praising him. They all tried even harder than the last to claim credit for forcibly shutting down the “illegitimate” government. To millions of sympathetic viewers, the National Guard’s hawkishness offered a positive, realistic chance to halt government overreach. To millions of others, this unified front offered a shocking glimpse into the flaming abyss of anarchy.

To the soldiers being thrown into harm’s way, the whole thing seemed like bullshit…not that anyone would ever ask.

21 January: 2100

A dozen or so policemen did their best to keep hundreds of riotous protestors from storming the IRS office downtown. They were only mildly surprised at how fast the crowd formed, even so late at night. Gainesville was a university town, after all. The kids were always protesting against something. Facebook and free time were a powerful combination. It sometimes seemed they could organize as adeptly as the police and twice as fast.

The cops only found the speed of the National Guard’s response shocking. Without being called, a platoon of five Guard Humvee trucks came growling towards them. They bypassed the packed roads by rushing through the park. An enormously welcome surprise to the overworked lawmen, at first. When they ignored the crowds though and began taking up cordon positions on each end of the building, the officers were downright perplexed.

The senior policeman jogged over to the one soldier who wasn’t holding a rifle at the low ready. “That was damn quick, but if you guys are supposed to be taking charge of this mess, why didn’t anyone tell us?”

“We’re not taking charge of anything except this building,” hollered the lieutenant. After a glance at the policeman’s cocked head he added, somewhat quieter, “Look, I don’t know what the hell we’re doing here. We were told to ‘secure this building,’ whatever that means. So that’s all we’ll do.”

The cop cocked his head in a show of suspicion and hope at the same time. “So…that means you’ll help clear out these assholes then, right? We’ve got these ‘flash mobs’ popping up all over town. As you can see, we’re stretched pretty thin.”

“Negative. I have no orders to that effect. Our job is to make sure no one gets inside. What happens outside is not our problem.”

The cop raised his radio to call his superiors, but noticed the battery was almost dead. Way too busy tonight. He waved the mike at the nervous, three-weeks-out-of-training officer in front of him. “Come the hell on, man. Most of these people are only on the streets because ya’ll are out here. I’ve never paid much attention to all this political crap and, honestly, I don’t care one way or the other. All I know is that if we don’t stop this crowd… well, I don’t want to think about that. You’re the senior military person on the scene. Who do you think will get the blame?”

The lieutenant tried to appear cool and unwavering, but his eyes begged his platoon sergeant for advice. Whatever order the older sergeant passed back to the LT was invisible to the cop. At last, the lieutenant nodded his head. “Ok, I’ll give you a section, about half my men, just long enough to push this crowd back. Make it happen, Sergeant.”

The guardsmen hastily fixing bayonets weren’t old enough to remember the 60’s. Kent State sounded like some type of rock band to them. What they lacked in public relations skills, they more than made up for with hard-earned experience breaking up riots in Iraq and Afghanistan. As the soldiers formed into a wedge and prepared to push the crowd back, their attention focused solely on finding threats… and eliminating them quickly.

22 January: 0800

Florida Governor Robert Rhett could not be enjoying himself any more. He had the frigging President of the United States on hold while he chatted with Senator Dimone’s senior staff. How many people could say that? Not even those highfalutin’ Beltway insiders could get away with this. Now the president was the one having to show some respect to good ‘ole Rhett.

The president wasn’t the only one waiting in line, but he’d answer him next. Probably. It was a prestigious phone queue, after all. A round dozen billionaires and key legislators also waited their turn to bend the ear of the man-of-the-hour. Not bad for the guy the president once called at a Correspondent’s Dinner, “The worst thing to come out of Florida since West Nile Virus.”

Some would say it was too early to pour a celebratory drink. Metaphorically and literally, since it was still morning. That was no hair off the governor’s back. He was on top of the world as he filled up his second Southern Comfort. Kicking up his alligator skin heels, he snipped a cheap cigar and swiped a mess of leaves off his prodigious belly. He could afford better, but he’d always loved the raspy rawness of these cheap Haitian knockoffs.

No sooner had he hung up with Dimone’s crew, with an impressive goody offer on the table, did his secretary point out that Pierce’s people were waiting. Well, time to get a competing offer. Guess the president could wait a little longer.

His staffers came back and forth while babbling excitedly about some federalization order of the State Guard. Whatever. The soldier boys already served their purpose. They helped make him a player in the big game. Nothing that lame duck president could do about that now. As a matter of fact, why waste his time talking to that nobody anyway?

Rhett spent the rest of the afternoon ignoring the repeated calls from the Administration; he invested that time in more lucrative pursuits. While carving out a thick slice of power from the baking political pie, he only half-paid attention to the news on the streets. He sideways watched, on mute, the crowds supporting their “brave governor.” He never noticed they were willing to offer more than just moral support.

22 January: 2000

“If you ask me, we’re pointing our weapons the wrong way. ‘Ought a level this place to the ground. You know, what we…”

A calm, but venomous voice came from below in the Humvee and cut the gunner short. “Ain’t nobody asked you shit, Private. Now, shut your trap and scan your AO! If I catch you fucking off again I’ll ram that machine gun so far up your ass you’ll need to release the safety to take a piss!”

The young soldier managed to eek out a “Hooah, Sergeant!” before the Non-Commissioned Officer disappeared back to whatever pit of a hell he came from.

The private didn’t have long to seethe over the dressing-down. With half the platoon trying to ride herd on that mosh pit in the parking lot, that left only two National Guard soldiers covering the entire north side of the building. He hurled his water bottle at the giggling driver below just as a bright light exploded further down the block.

The driver stopped laughing. “Ah, hell! The news people are here. Wherever they set up shop, trouble always follows.”

Sure enough, moments later a large group of howling and shoving youths came jogging around the corner. Chased out of the parking lot moments earlier by bayonet-wielding guardsmen, they weren’t exactly in the best of moods. Rather than impressed by the soldiers’ restraint and thankful that no blood had been shed so far, they were only emboldened by their luck. With the exotic thrill of cameras on them, the mostly drunk crowd whipped out their wittiest quips. Some shouted for the two nervous guardsmen to shoot up the building, some screamed “go home.” Still others had the far less practical advice to, “Go fuck yourself, GI Joe!”

Someone flung an empty beer bottle in the general direction of the IRS sign. The shattered glass sparked some type of collective decision in the crowd. They began launching a barrage of rocks and bottles at the IRS building as the driver called for backup on the vehicle radio. The chastised gunner weighed the risks of firing off a warning shot when a couple of older, homeless-looking guys broke off from the crowd and dashed straight for the building’s entrance.

A flick from the amateur anarchist’s Zippo lighter crystallized the gunner’s thoughts. He let go of the machine gun and aimed his rifle for a point a few feet ahead of the outstretched arm.

Thankfully, the target stood on soft grass and only a few yards away. Little chance of having some bystander endangered by a ricochet. The sharp
craaack
of his warning shot shocked the would-be bomber as if he’d been hit. The idiot let the Molotov cocktail fly in what should have been a hilarious, slapstick-comedy way. The comedic value dropped considerably as he accidentally sent the flaming bottle sailing through the Humvee’s rear passenger window and showered homemade napalm on the gunner’s boots.

Seeing his buddy shriek and bolt out of the hatch, literally with heels of fire, pissed the 19-year-old driver off to no end. In a couple of quick strides, he slammed the butt of his M16 into the gaping jaw of the stoned arsonist. Whipping his rifle around, he covered the homeless dude’s other pals, still with unlit bottles in hand. He snarled, “Drop it, motherfuckers, or I’ll drop you!”

The glare from the Humvee bonfire behind him limited his range of vision, but the light from the excited camera crew frantically panning back and forth caught his eye. “Ah, damn…” he murmured as the camera obviously zoomed in for a close up.

Despite never seeing combat in his short enlistment, the soldier hit the ground first as the ammo in the Humvee cooked off in the fire. That dive saved his life and would have been a good example for the obsessive cameraman to follow. Instead, he tried to catch the action of the stampeding crowd. His camera missed the real action of the belt fed ammo
rat-a-tatting
in the fire. Busy as he was videotaping the other folk dying, the reporter missed a great vantage point when three rounds struck him in the chest.

The young soldier high-crawled over to the wounded wannabe Pulitzer Prize winner and tried to stop the bleeding. Despite the grim situation, the guardsman couldn’t suppress a grin at the reporter’s tenacity as he shoved the camera into the soldier’s face with his last dying breath.