by W. R. Benton
Dazed, he let Dodds lead all of them out the open ramp at the end of the aircraft at a slow run. He stopped after about fifty yards and had all of the passengers sit, as he and two other medics looked everyone over. John discovered he was bleeding down his face and tears came to his eyes when he saw the dead civilians; most were women or kids being removed by the emergency personnel. He hoped the cost of their mission was worth the results. The aircraft was burning some place, because a large cloud of grey smoke was moving for the sky.
Minutes later, a short man in a flight suit walked to John and said, “Sir, I am Captain Huang Yi and I was your pilot on this flight. I regret our number of wounded and dead, but we almost didn't get airborne at all. I was unaware we had a large number of bullet holes in the fuel tanks and blown nose tires, but I knew I had two members of my crew dead or dying. I wish to apologize for the unfortunate way our flight ended. It is most difficult to stop with no brakes.”
John liked the short man right off and replied, “The United States Air Force had a motto that said, 'Any landing you can walk away from is a good landing.'”
Yi laughed, “I remember. I went to college in this country and have relatives that lived here, in New York City and California. They are all mostly gone or dead now, but this was once a country of my dreams. It had everything. I earned a private flying license here, many years ago.”
“The key word is 'had.' If you will excuse me, I must get my troops and the prisoners to the base and get them situated. Some will need the hospital.”
“Of course, sir.”
Deuce and half trucks were showing up and loading with John's people and some of the saved gulag prisoners. His people looked tired, while the civilians looked ill and tired. John glanced around, spotted the man who'd shot at him and said, “I want that man arrested and charged with attempted murder. His name is Wilson and he tried to kill me earlier today.”
Security police secured the man and placed him in the back of a patrol car. John spotted the man who'd struck Wilson with a rifle butt back at the gulag and asked, “What's your name? I think I owe you a case of whiskey, young man.”
“My name is Jimmie Ronald Light, but I'm called 'Catfish,' sir. I'm a Sergeant, E4, sir.”
“Is that all your blood I see on your uniform?”
“Oh, no, sir. Most of that is from my injured buddies or escaping prisoners. I wasn't hit during the attack and took a little ding on the aircraft when I guess a bullet fragment struck me in the left arm. It hit me as we taxied for take off. I'll see a doctor later. You need to see a doc today too, and get an MRI done of your head. I'm not sure what struck you when we stopped, but you were bleeding pretty good.”
“I'll go in later this morning. I want all my troops seen first. We were with some brave men and women.” John said, and it was then a General Officer approached.
“Well done, Colonel. Now, if you'll come with me, I'll take you to see my flight surgeon and then we'll debrief you in my office. I'm General 'Bubba' Tranum and I run things here.” a portly man of middle age said as he extended his right hand.
Shaking hands, John said, “Nice to meet you, sir.”
“You as well, John. You about ready to go?”
Turning to the young Sergeant, the Colonel said, “Catfish, you stay on this base and available when I file charges that Wilson attempted to kill me. I suspect he wanted the reward money offered by the Russians. I'll bring charges against him at some point this morning, but I know the military police will want to talk to you too. In the meantime, I want you to rest.”
“Yes, sir.”
General Tranum said, “That reward is some serious money, but I doubt the Russians would pay a penny to anyone. They just want you killed and have no plans to hand over any bucks, especially to a member of the United States Partisans. Wilson must be nuts. With you dead, they'd just kill your killer.” They started walking toward the General's car.
John nodded and replied, “That's what I figured too, sir. No money would have been seen. I'll track you down at the NCO quarters or your club later, Catfish.”
“Yes, sir. I'll be here when you need me.” Catfish said, and saluted.
John returned the salute and climbed in the back of the General's car. Once seated the General offered him some coffee from a Thermos.
“Un, no, sir, but I appreciate the offer. I'm getting a headache now, and need to see a doctor.”
“Sergeant Hess, take us to the post hospital emergency room.”
Chapter 7
Colonel Ippolit was livid and pacing in front of a long wooden table where his commanders all sat listening to him complain about their response to the attack. His hands were behind his back and his face was red with anger. He was deeply displeased by all the actions taken and the fact some cowboys and rednecks had killed so many of his men and women in the gulag raid. They'd struck him right after he'd placed most of his troops in the field, so he had fewer to protect his base. Now, it appeared he'd have to recall some units from the field to assist in adding security to base. After this attack he no longer had enough men and women to guard the huge base.
“We not only lost a number of troops to those, those rednecks, but also over 500 prisoners from the gulag, and that seems to have been their primary target. They knew they could not overrun the base, so they took every man, woman, and child from the place. They have made us look like fools and I want pressure placed on the commanders in the field. I want to start seeing some partisan body counts or heads will start to roll, gentlemen. I grow tired of all your excuses, because you have the strongest army in the world supporting you and I had, what, four partisans found dead after the attack?”
“Sir,” Lieutenant Barisovich said, “they took most of their dead and wounded with them when they retreated. You can be sure we killed well over a hundred of them.”
“Prove we killed that many, Lieutenant. I'm growing very irritated over our poor performance in the field, gentlemen and gentlewomen.” the Colonel said as he leaned on the table with both hands holding him upright. “Eventually, I may resort to shooting.”
“Uh, I cannot, sir.”
“If we cannot prove it, then it did not happen. Get the cells moving, and I mean put some pressure on all of them. If I do not start seeing results, or some of you will lose your jobs and be sent home to Mother Russia as losers.” The Colonel then turned and stomped from the room so quickly that the Master Sergeant was unable to call the room to attention in time.
The group broke up quickly with each commander heading for a radio to motivate their leaders to start getting some positive results. The orders for results, as well as the threats, were soon passed down to the lowest level. For the men and women in the field it was frustrating, because just finding the partisans was almost impossible, and never in large numbers like the Colonel wanted.
Lieutenant Demian and his cell had seen a few partisans but were unable to track or engage them in combat. They seemed to disappear and appear at will. It was very discouraging to trade shots at each other and then the partisans were gone. The Russians were unaware that the Americans had holes in the ground, called spider holes, that they could jump in and then pull a cover of dirt and grasses over the hole. They would, for all practical purposes, disappear.
“Raven 16, this is Fox 2, over.”
“Go, Fox.”
“I am a black shark attack helicopter and just spotted what looked like two squads of partisans heading your direction. They are approximately one kilometer from your position. I spotted them in an open field, and by the time I went around to line up my guns they were gone. They were on a trail that runs due north and south, over.”
“Copy, Fox 2 and we will set up an ambush.” the Lieutenant said, his tone happy because if he could break their chain of bad luck in the field then the Colonel would remember him when promotions were due.
Not a word was spoken as the Russians moved into ambush positions. Each person was left alone with their thoughts, which for most
was prayers they'd kill some partisans and get the Colonel off their asses. The harder the boss rode the Lieutenant, the more difficult he became to deal with in the bush, and just being in the field was rough enough at times.
It began to drizzle rain and, while not cold, it made waiting miserable and uncomfortable for the young Russian troops. The temperature was just low enough to make hypothermia a problem, so each person pulled a piece of hard candy from a pocket and tossed it in their mouths to suck on. The sugar would give them just enough needed energy to fight off the cold damp weather illness. And, they waited.
Senior Sergeant Slavavich lay beside two troops that were as still as oak trees. Neither moved much, not even when the young Private had flipped away a copperhead snake from the grasses in front of him. They knew movement was usually the first sign of an enemy.
Twenty minutes after the call by Fox 2, the point man for the partisans passed through the kill zone, not realizing ten Russians were watching him move with the safeties off on their rifles. He was good though, and scanned the countryside as he looked the trail over for mines or trip wires, and he found nothing. He continued to move.
When the main body of twenty partisans were in the kill zone, the Lieutenant and Senior Sergeant squeezed their clackers, causing two Claymore like mines to explode. The steel ball bearing in both mines were blown into and through the bodies of the Americans. Hideous screams filled the air as arms and legs were torn off by the explosion. Then the Russian guns opened up with loud barks, soon joined by the machine-gun's tat-tat-tat. Clumps of grasses and stones were knocked five feet into the air where the big gun’s bullets struck the trail. The bodies struck by the shells were torn to hell and back, and only mangled and ripped rag dolls remained when the last shot sounded.
The sniper, high up in a tree yelled, “Got the man on point, but the drag man got away.”
“Climb down, Timya, and check your kill.” the Senior Sergeant yelled to his sniper. She was so deadly her nickname was The Black Widow Spider.
When possible, she claimed the wrist watch of each kill, and she already had over twenty watches in her barracks room. She had deadly eyes. She was a small plain woman who never wore make up or lipstick when at the rear. She rarely put on a dress or even went out on a date, because few men understood her. She was usually found lounging around in a field uniform bottom and a tee shirt. While well endowed chest wise, she never considered herself as sexy, and most of the men who knew her were turned off by her being a sniper. Most found it odd an attractive woman could kill and be deadly from a great distance. Ustin Timya was known as the best sniper in her company.
“Move forward as a group toward the Americans. If they move a muscle, shoot to kill.” The Lieutenant said and then asked, “Any of us hurt?”
“No, sir,” Senior Sergeant Slavavich replied.
The bodies were badly torn up, with most of the damage done by the big mines. Of course, the machine-guns had done their share of mutilating the bodies as well.
Counting the bodies, the Lieutenant took the radio handset and said, “Uh, Fox 2, this is Raven 16 over.” The rain was falling a little harder now, and the Lieutenant watched it wash the blood from the dead.
“Go, Raven, this is Fox 2. Did you meet the Americans?” the pilot in the Black Shark asked.
“Roger, and they have over 20 dead. I repeat, over two – zero, Partisan dead, over.”
“What are your casualties?”
“None, I repeat, zero for Russian dead or injured.”
“Do you want me to notify base or will you do it?”
“Uh, I cannot reach them today on my radio. It is either the weather or my radio, so can you notify them for me?”
“I will pass the word on. Great job, Raven 16, this is Fox 2, out.”
Ten minutes later the helicopter pilot contacted the Lieutenant, “Base said congratulations, your squad was the first with a large body count and with no losses. The Commander said he has a case of quality vodka for you and your troops when you return.”
“Just doing my job, Fox 2.” But, inside he was happy.
“I understand Raven, but take the booze and be happy.”
“Any other words?”
“You are to continue your mission, over.”
“Roger that, over and out.” The Lieutenant handed the headset back to his radioman.
“Let us move, people, and continue moving south.” the Senior Sergeant said when he saw the Lieutenant was done talking by radio. “Same two people on drag and point.”
As they moved, Timya was wiping the blood from the American's watch off on her pants. Her shot had hit him right between the shoulder blades and he was dead within seconds of being hit. She liked and tried for clean kills each time she fired, but some targets made that impossible. As she moved, she wondered if the man had a family and children, but quickly pushed that thought from her mind. He was just a lump of American flesh she'd killed. If she started thinking of her targets as living and breathing humans, she'd not be able to pull the trigger one day.
Once the adrenaline from the ambush wore off fatigue struck most of them, but they were moving and had no time for relaxation. They stopped once each hour for ten minutes and that was because their backpacks weighed almost 22 kilos. While that doesn't sound heavy, try packing one for a few days, and while the longer they were in the field the lighter it became, it never really became comfortable. It seemed to always weigh the same to the soldier.
It was early the next morning when they ran into a Russian roadblock and decided to stay there for the day and leave early the next morning. The Lieutenant knew the tank commander and a big steel beast sat in the middle of the road, with two machine-guns on the ground and nearby. The position was as safe as it ever got outside the wire of a base camp.
Instead of Green Frogs, the men assigned to the road block had food flown out to them each evening. For supper they'd have a decent meal, instead of something out of a can. Tonight the dining hall on base was sending out enough stew for an additional twenty men, long rolls of bread, cheeses, and fresh fruit, so all were excited. Small things made an infantry man or woman happy. The tank crew and men guarding the tank and machine-guns just smiled, because they took the food for granted.
An hour before dark, the faint whop-whop-whop of helicopter blades were heard off in the distance. Then the radio on the tank came to life. “Uh, Tiger One, this is Panther six, over.”
“Go panther.”
“I have some ammunition and hot chow for you, and have you visual. Please pop a smoke grenade so I can determine wind direction.”
“Smoke popped, Panther, what color do you see?”
“Purple, I repeat, I see purple smoke, Tiger One. I will be over your position in one minute. Do you have any sick or wounded?”
“Roger, purple is the color. Negative, no sick or wounded.”
When the helicopter was ten feet above ground, the pilot suddenly shouted as his windscreen blew out, “Taking ground fire. I am taking intense ground fire from the trees off my left, our three o'clock position.”
The tank’s turret turned slowly and the huge cannon fired, adding a tremendous amount of noise to the confusion. A long line of bullet holes suddenly moved down the side of the aircraft, and the gunner screamed as he was struck hard. He fell from the chopper, but like all gunners, was held attached by a one inch nylon strap. His body was twisting and turning about 3 feet below the helicopter.
The food and ammo was quickly kicked off the bird by one of the gunners.
The Senior Sergeant was looking into the eyes of the co-pilot when the man took a round to the head. The bullet struck him slightly to the left of his nose and his head exploded against the headrest. When his head drooped forward, the Sergeant saw the back of the seat was splattered with brains, blood, skull and gore. Blood began to whip around the aircraft due to the rotor blades.
“Uh, mayday, mayday, mayday, this is Panther 6 and I am going down over my destination.”
Before anyone could move, the two machine guns at the road block and all the infantry began firing as the helicopter crashed not fifty feet from the tank. The pilot immediately switch all power off just as they struck the ground. The dead co-pilot was quickly removed and the badly wounded door gunner was cut from his nylon strap and pulled behind the tank. The pilot and the other surviving door gunner were escorted by some of Lieutenant Demian's troops to a fairly safe area behind the tank.
Suddenly, Senior Sergeant Slavavich heard thump-phew, thump-phew, thump- phew and knew instantly what to expect next. “Mortars! Hunt a hole!” he screamed as he crawled under the tank. Since it was dusk, tracers from the guns flew in all directions and if not so dangerous, they would have been a beautiful sight to see. The three mortar rounds were right on the chopper, so the men manning the weapons were experienced. The next three rounds just destroyed what the first three didn't get.
Then suddenly, complete silence.
“Medic's check for any injured or dead. I want a complete accounting in a few minutes.” the Lieutenant said, and then taking the handset from his radioman said, “Hello any Russian aircraft, this is Panther One, over.”
“This is Cowboy and I am a fast mover; do you need assistance, Panther One?”
“Uh, roger that. We have a downed chopper and are taking fire from a treeline to our west, over.”
“Copy, and I am a flight of two. Give me your map location and I will drop some napalm on the trees.”
Quickly giving his location, the Lieutenant smiled and asked, “What is your estimated time of arrival?”
“Uh, two minutes, Panther 1, so get your heads down. We will approach the trees from the north and drop four canisters of napalm. Keep firing toward the trees until we start our approach. It will keep many of them in place too long. Once you see us over the trees, hunt a hole and keep your heads down.”
