General Sanchez and Colonel Achmed were in fits. The invasion hadn’t gotten off to a very good start. The coordinated bio / nuclear attack had been an initial success. Biologicals — the West Nile Virus’ more virulent cousin — had decimated the population. The invasion needed to wait a week for it to die out. It was estimated that only a tenth of the population had natural resistance. The high altitude energy pulse destroyed all electronics. In that week of quarantine, all semblance of government and society was expected to collapse. There were forty similar invasion forces aligned on all four sides. Muslim, Spanish, and Chinese — all aligned to rid the world of the largest imperialist power. It had all been planned and executed without a single electronic communication. Human couriers didn’t allow the Great Satan’s “intel” in on the surprise.
The Mid Atlantic task force showed up at the appointed time and place. A small seaside beach community on an island just off the mainland. Operations began at 0800 local; delayed two hours as the fleet was waiting for an unexpected fog to lift. Such were the fortunes of war. It didn’t. The motorized landing craft began their runs. Over the dead land, the noise was unmistakable, a wake up call, and call to arms. Someone uninvited was coming.
Unbeknown to the invaders, many survivalists and prepers had planned their bug outs to go to the seaside. Fish, birds, and water. The fish could be caught to supplement; birds trapped. Seawater desalinated by sunshine. Surprisingly, while not friends, there was a modest amount of trade and mutual assistance in the week following the troubles. A rather small island had a surprisingly large number of survivors.
The fat old man was the only survivor on his block. His family, that bugged with him, were buried in the backyard. He heard the engine noise from the sea and thought of Private Ryan. He grabbed his M1A and his ammo and went to a nearby condo. He had forced the doors open scavaging earlier in the week, so it took no time to get to the third floor front, open a window slightly, and start firing at the beach. He could hear he wasn’t alone. About 30 shots in 30 minutes resulted in an anti-tank rocket ending his resistance.
The Greatest Generation had a few tricks left up their collective sleeve. A bunch of loons at the American Legion had a ceremonial howitzer. It wasn’t so ceremonial. They took out the bridge off the island. The VFW had a half-track. It didn’t run any more, but it’s machine gun did. A whole company of invaders found that assumptions about no resistance could be deadly as an 80 year old gunner and and 79 year old feeder got a whole lot of joy out of remembering an old skill.
On the beach, a General and Colonel were getting reports of fierce resistance from survivors. A woman, a child, old vets! Suicidally fighting for no good reason. Leaderless. Without hope. Individuals, pairs, small teams. Damn fog. They couldn’t risk close air in it for friendly fire. The recon found the bridges to the mainland down. That really snafued their plan. As the general signaled the withdrawal, the radio reported many similar failures. Who’d have known that urban drug gangs would turn into such fine light infantry? With automatic weapons too.
Just about that time the American Legion artillery and the VFW scouts had coordinated their efforts. It was their land after all. And, plotting a location with coordinates was a handy skill to have. A runner with a walker “ran” them back. The “location plot” team took out a few more. The American Legion howitzer sent the General and Colonel a special “Welcome to America”. A lucky shot? Devastatingly lucky! Murphy is always around. In this case, the spirit of Audey Murphy. Maybe Sargent York too. As the General lay dying, he thought back to a famous Admiral, awaking a sleeping tiger, and riflemen behind every blade of grass.
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