Part 3. Atlanta Berns
The situation room was tense. All eyes were on the Commander-in-chief. President Sanders stared back impassively at a room full of men who had expressed varying degrees of objection to his suitability for the highest office in the United States of America, but who were now obliged to defer to his will or risk further rupturing America's storied political institutions. That was one thing the president could certainly appreciate in these fellows' uncompromising military minds: even if they didn't always see eye to eye with him, he could at least count on them to hold fast to their central principles. They didn't like him, but they loved America, so they would tolerate him.
"What are we hearing about evacuations and enemy movements?" It still didn't sound right coming out of his mouth. This was not the reason he ran for president.
"It's no man's land, sir, everywhere outside major urban areas. Satellite intel and flyovers show almost zero movement along the primary evacuation routes, which our ground teams have kept well secured. Radio communication from the checkpoints confirms." Altenborough delivered his report with all the gusto of an adolescent reciting multiplication tables.
"Yes, fine, and what about the militias?" Rodriguez jumped into the fray this time.
"A few more have surrendered here and there, but none in the last six hours. We have some unconfirmed reports of friendly fire on the other side. If it's accurate, it may be that the last holdouts are gunning down anyone attempting to lay down arms and reach our perimeter. Enemy ranks may be experiencing a morale problem. Not unusual in the face of overwhelming firepower superiority. If we keep waiting, the whole gang might unravel without us ever taking any offensive action." This comment prompted a buzz of murmurs around the table that faded to silence as the president stood up and walked to stand in front of the giant monitor at the foot of the table.
"Remind me, General Rodriguez, what is my official title again?"
"Sir, you're the president, as well as the Commander-in-Chief of the Armed Forces."
"The president of what, exactly?"
"The United States of America, sir."
"You're damn right about that, except we aren't united at all, not at this particular moment. Every day that this offensive farce drags on, every day that we let a band of prejudiced thugs wave guns around and tell people what the real definition of American freedom is, we lose. We lose prestige with our allies and our enemies all around the planet. We lose leadership on the international stage. But most importantly, we lose the hearts and minds of good, decent Americans who expect the most powerful military in the world to be able to slap these terrorists back into line. I'm tired of losing, General, and America is tired of losing. Today, we're going to win, and it's going to be unquestionable."
"Sir, I wish you'd reconsider letting us deploy ground forces to mop this up." Sanders grimaced, but swept his hand across the table in a gesture of acquiescence.
"Alright then, let's consider. First, enemy casualties. Do you expect to take a significant number of prisoners that might otherwise become casualties if we lean on airpower?"
Rodriguez hesitated. "Well, No sir. Minus the few poor bastards that got shot in the back this morning, we believe that most of the combatants remaining are highly ideologically motivated, perhaps radicalized by propaganda and psychological conditioning. Surrender isn't likely."
"Second, OUR casualties. Do these goons have any anti-air capability to speak of? Anything that can tangle with our bombers?"
"No sir, nothing that can touch us."
"But they can shoot at us, right? If we send our men into harm's way?"
"Yes sir. They lack heavy artillery, but most of them are armed with assorted rifles and sidearms, and may have placed IEDs in combat zones."
"So the primary reason then would be to save the buildings, is that right? That's why you're trying to talk me out of dropping bombs?"
"Sir, winning hearts and minds will be a lot easier if we're not trying to fill in the craters of major Southern cityscapes. We're just trying to apply the lessons we've paid dearly to learn in Iraq, Mr. President."
"See, General Rodriguez, this is where we don't see eye to eye. The way I see it, most of the hearts and minds we're interested in are already making a run for the safety and sheltering arms of American Military Forces. The only souls left breathing in the target zone are a bunch of low-lifes that raised deadly arms against their fellow citizens. I intend ensure that any of these fellows that live to see the other side of today will answer in American courts for their crimes against country and humanity, not to win their hearts and minds. The only people who stand to lose much from me pushing the big red button, besides our naughty secessionists, are the industrialists that are invested in protecting the status quo. Status quo is over, boys, and protecting the military-industrial complex is the least of my concerns. Now give the Wing orders to commence Operation Dutch Oven."
* * *
Hunkered in tiny bands in makeshift bunkers all over the city, the last remaining militia clung to their weapons with sweaty palms, waiting for the assault to begin. None of them had any illusions anymore about victory; they were only waiting for the opportunity to die the glorious death to which all real men were entitled. They could hardly hear the whistling as thousands of tons of munitions came crashing down on them, robbing them of their dying wishes, but purging their ugly hearts all the same.
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