by W. R. Benton
Master Sergeant Ruskovich moved with his men down the trail and while they kept their eyes out for mines, they'd seen very few. The partisans were more worried about distance now, but soon they'd start placing mines or maybe try to ambush them. The members of the resistance were smart and just when you thought you were safe, they'd start killing.
“Major Vadik, sir, we need to slow down now and be watchful for mines, booby traps or even an ambush.”
“Rubbish, Sergeant. We are fifty men following ten, so what can they do that will change the outcome? We will simply overrun them when we meet and the battle is won.”
“Sir, with all due respect, that is bullshit. We will follow your orders, but I was in this man's army before you were out of grade school. I know my enemy and this is my third tour in this war. I suggest, sir, that you listen to any ideas I or the other senior NCOs may have.”
“I will listen, but it does not mean I will do as suggested. I did not realize my senior enlisted man was frightened by a dozen or less partisans.”
“Never underestimate your enemy, sir, never. Just when you think you have them whipped they will turn on you and chew your ass off. I suggest we slow down and move cautiously.”
“Keep moving at the speed we are moving now. I want these partisans dead, understand me?”
“Yes, sir, and we will do as ordered, only I have a bad feeling about this.”
“What could possibly go wrong? Hell, we outnumber them more than four to one, and are better armed too. This is almost too easy.”
“That is why I suggest caution sir; it is too easy.”
“You just follow my orders, Master Sergeant, and I will worry about the battle plans. These resistance fighters are just a bunch of cowboys and country redneck farmers.”
Ruskovich shook his head, and knew they were rushing to death and not victory. Superior numbers did not always guarantee victory, and he'd learned years ago that fighting partisans required good sound planning, patience, and more than just a little luck. The Master Sergeant knew they'd soon run into mines or other booby traps or they'd be ambushed. He knew, because that's what he'd do if he were in the shoes of the partisans. They want to reduce the numbers of troops on their ass and even if the method only killed a dozen Russians, it would lower the number a great deal.
Less than an hour later, the point woman disappeared in a loud explosion and dust when she stepped on an anti-personnel mine. When the explosion grew quiet, her screams of agony filled the forest. Both legs were missing, along with half of her right arm. As blood spurted, a medic worked quickly and efficiently to stop the bleeding. Finally the morphine kicked in and she grew quiet, with only occasional moans or groans to indicate she was in pain.
“Base, this is Badger One, and we have need of a medivac now. Uh, we have a priority one alpha evacuation with both legs missing and an arm, over.”
The medic was experienced and as soon as he had tourniquets on the limbs, he began checking her for other injuries. She had shrapnel wounds to her chest, with both breasts torn and bleeding. It was when he squatted to bandage her chest that he felt something under his right foot give a little. The 12 gauge shotgun shell, resting on a nail, was pushed down. The primer exploded, discharging the shell, and the blast caught the medic in the groin and lower belly. His penis and balls were blown off and the steel shot continued into his belly. He fell on top of his patient in shock and while he heard screaming, he didn't realize it was coming from him.
Master Sergeant Ruskovich ran to the downed medic and pulled him off the woman. Blood was seeping from the man's many wounds. Knowing no way to stop the bleeding, the Master Sergeant bandaged the wounds as best as he could. Opening the medic's bag, he pulled out a syringe of morphine and stuck the man in the thigh. He then stuck the needle through the injured man's shirt pocket and bent the needle to keep it in place. Then, removing an blue ink pen from his shirt pocket he wrote 'morphine' with the time and date on the man's forehead.
“The helicopter is five minutes out, Master Sergeant.” the radioman said to him.
“Good, any longer than that and I do not think our medic would survive. Now, move back away from me and stay away. While we wait, I will search for more mines or booby traps.”
Four minutes later the chopper lowered a medic by winch and cable, and the first person raised to the aircraft was the woman who'd been walking point. Then, the badly injured medic was taken aboard the helicopter, and finally the aircraft medic was raised. The pilot then lowered the nose and began to apply more power as the bird began to gain altitude. Within a minute of the power being applied, the aircraft was gone.
“Luka, you have point and Alexei, you are our drag man. Let us move.” Master Sergeant Ruskovich said, knowing the Major was growing impatient with the stopping to treat the wounded.
They continued to move forward and as each minute passed, the Master Sergeant was growing more concerned. They'd just rounded a turn on the trail when the point man, who was maybe 50 feet in front of the others, discovered a discarded backpack in the middle of the trail.
In a firm voice, Master Sergeant Ruskovich said, “Leave it be and continue on. It may be booby trapped.” His warning was a split second too late and as the pack was pulled up, the grenade spoon flew off and as Luka stood watching the grenade exploded.
John squeezed the clackers on the Claymore mines, and screams pierced the air and the two mines exploded micro-seconds apart. It was near dawn, with grey light around them, but the blood blown from the bodies was clearly seen. It was then John started shooting into the mass of Russians.
The others opened up as well, most of the weapons fired on automatic, and death visited the Russians. Five minutes after the first Claymore exploded the firing stopped.
Moans were heard and one Russian seemed to be praying, but none of the Americans spoke the language. The heavy smell of cordite, the stench of released bowels, and the coppery smell of blood filled the air. A thin mist of red floated above the downed Russians, but John knew they'd not killed all of them.
“We wait until dawn.” John said loud enough everyone heard him.
The Russian Major turned and began running at the first hint of trouble, so he caught the attention of Private Miller, the American sniper, who was high in a pine tree. Raising his rifle, the American put two rounds through the Major's back and the bullets blew huge holes in his chest as the misshapen lead exited his body. One bullet struck the trail and buried itself in the dirt, while another struck a rock and then pinged off into space. The Russian fell screaming as two of his men ran to assist him.
One shot was fired by Miller and a Russian fell, a bullet to the head. The ground around him was splattered with blood, brains and gore. The sniper let the other man raise the Major and start dragging him to the brush before he fired once more. The bullet struck the Major in the chest, blew a hole out his back and the round then struck the remaining Russian in the belly. The Major, now dead, fell on top of the screaming man with the stomach wound.
Bullets struck the tree trunk as the sniper climbed down as quickly as he could. Some of the rounds passed through the wood, just missing the man by inches. He finally dropped from a limb about ten feet in the air and hit the ground roughly. He then ran toward the ambush site.
Master Sergeant Ruskovich pulled what troops that survived back down the trail and after about a half a kilometer, he stopped to care for his wounded. Out of fifty men, he had eighteen alive and uninjured. He'd treat his people, let them get over the shock of the ambush and then return to base. Chasing partisans was insane, unless they had no idea you were behind them. He sent three men back to recover the Major's body but the rest would rot where they fell. They'd be listed as killed in action, body not recovered.
John was pissed that the bulk of the Russians were out of the kill zone when the Claymore mines detonated. While he killed a large number of them, some had escaped. His ambush had accomplished his goal, which was to get the Russians off his ass. He also knew h
e was lucky most of the Russian choppers and jets were busy chasing other cells of partisans. Any other day and this battle could have ended differently.
“Move forward and check them now. Do no killing unless they point a gun at you. We'll take prisoners and care for their wounded. Dolly, come.” John said as he stood and slowly made his way toward the fallen Russians, the safety off on his Bison sub-machine gun.
“Colonel, I have Base on the line and Chinese helicopters are coming to pick us up. Their estimated time of arrival is seven minutes.” the radioman said as he neared.
“Roger that, and thank God. Give them our exact location and tell them we will be in the large field to our left.” John said and then thought, I'm getting to old to do this crap. I was barely able to keep up as we ran. I need a different job and I'll talk it over with Base, once we return.
One week later, POWs Sergeyevich and Rostislavovich looked around the compound they were kept near and saw no one moving. It was slightly after midnight and all was still. A light rain fell and off in the distance thunder boomed, and both men were wide awake. They were about to try to escape and they'd even timed the guards as they made their rounds. Sergeyevich had a narrow nail he'd found on the floor of one of the interrogation rooms and he'd learned how to open his lock using the nail. Rostislavovich had a razor blade he'd found in the outhouse one day while emptying their buckets used for toilets. As of this moment, both items were highly prized. There were other Russian prisoners at the camp, but the two prisoners had no idea where they were kept, so they were unable to help them.
All prisoners were kept in wooden boxes, 8 feet by 10 feet cages, made from sheets of plywood, and each came with a door reinforced with iron and an uncovered window with bars. The doors were secured by cheap commercial padlocks. They were fed by an open slot at the bottom of each door. The locks were on hasps which were nailed to each cage and were like the locks commonly found in the United States or Russia, made in China.
While Rostislavovich had the double bladed razor blade, his task would be to kill the guard and take his weapons. His biggest concern was getting close enough to kill, not the art of killing itself, because he'd killed many times before. If he could get near enough, he'd cut the guard’s throat. He was nervous, not because he was to kill, but of being discovered or recaptured. Most countries considered it murder if a guard was killed during an escape, so he was unsure killing was the way to go and if something went wrong, both of them could be killed. Once the door locks were removed, he'd be committed and someone would die.
He heard Sergeyevich moving and then a whisper, “I will have your lock off in a few minutes.”
In what seemed to only be seconds, he heard the lock moving on the hasp and another whisper from his comrade, “Your lock is off and we are free. I will secure the guard and you will have to cut his throat. We will then strip him of anything we can use and move north at first to confuse those on our trail.”
“I hear you. Let us move to where he has been walking the last few hours.” Rostislavovich said, and unknowingly smiled as he left his cage.
They neared the well beaten path the guards used, looked both directions, and then both men squatted beside the trail in some brush. They waited, and Sergeyevich was sure Rostislavovich heard his heart beating. Killing a man with a knife was hard enough, but to slit a throat with a razor blade would be bloody work.
Less than ten minutes later they heard the guard approaching. Sergeyevich was sweating even though the weather did not warrant it, and he knew it was from fear. If he messed this up, both of them could be dead in a matter of a few very short minutes.
When the guard was in front of them, Rostislavovich waited until the man was a step past him, and then sprang up behind the man, threw his hand over his mouth and pulled his head back. The razor in Sergeyevich's hand slid across the man's exposed throat and warm blood spurted onto the POW's hands and chest. He began to make moaning sounds and Sergeyevich slit his throat again, wishing the man would die quickly. Three minutes later the man was dead and his struggling stopped. He was picked clean of anything the two escapees could use. Rostislavovich took the man's pistol and handed his rifle and magazines to Sergeyevich. Now armed, both men found the determination to continue trying to escape.
Pulling the dead man's fanny pack from him, Sergeyevich secured it around his waist, and checked his rifle to ensure it was loaded. He would check the contents of the fanny pack later, if he survived the escape.
“Let us move, now! I have no idea if he usually meets another guard as he walks or not.”
“Watch for mines and booby traps or we will end up dead. I think we should avoid all trails and walk in the woods.” Sergeyevich said as he started walking toward the woods.
“Wait, I see movement near the outhouses. Someone is awake and walking this way.”
“I can kill with the guard's knife if I must.”
“Let us take them prisoner if we can. I think our comrades would find that funny, no? Returning with a prisoner will force them to go easy on us for being captured.” Rostislavovich said and fully understood that most ex-POWs were sent to gulags by the Russian military. If they returned with a prisoner, maybe they'd go easier on them.
“Do we just stand here? I see a weapon in his hand.”
“I know enough English to tell him to stop and come with us. He will be smart enough to know he is being taken prisoner. Squat and when he nears, I will tell him to drop his weapon.”
Minutes later, as a dark figure moved toward the tents, Rostislavovich said, “Stop, American, and drop your weapon or we will kill you.”
The man dropped his Bison sub-machine gun and Sergeyevich moved forward to secure the man's hands behind his back. He then took all the man had and divided it with Rostislavovich. He'd hoped to find some grenades but the only weapons he had was his Bison and a Russian pistol. Now both of them had a pistol, sheath knife, and long gun. They realized most men going to the toilet would not be heavily armed and they were lucky he had a sheath knife and pistol. They pushed their prisoner ahead of them and were soon swallowed by the darkness.
It was hours later, 0600, before the prisoners were missed, and Cynthia knew the minute she heard the two POWs were gone that they'd taken John with them. She'd seen the dead guard and his throat was all sliced up as if the killer couldn't get him dead soon enough. Earlier, when John had gone to the bathroom, he'd left Dolly with Cynthia, as added protection for her, and said he'd be right back. She'd fallen asleep, but missed him immediately when she woke, because he'd not returned. She thought maybe he'd been called to the communications tent, but he wasn't there.
She prayed for John's safety an hour later as a rescue team was organized. Then, with Dolly's leash in her hand, they moved north. The big German Shepherd was best controlled by her with John gone, and beyond any doubt they'd catch the POWs. Each of the twelve men was determined to kill the Russians now, and recapture was not on their minds. One of their own was a captive, and they took that sort of action as a threat against all of them.
Word was sent back to the main base by radio and the Chinese were sending helicopters out to search as well. The whole state was now on alert for the Russians, and while Cynthia knew John would be found, she hoped he wasn't killed in the battle that was sure to come. Tears made the trail blurry as she moved, feeling Dolly pulling hard on the leash.
The End
Be sure to watch for Book 9 of The Fall of America series
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About the Author
W. R. Benton was born on his grandfather's farm, delivered by his grandmother, near Vida, Missouri down in the Ozark Mountains. He attended public schools in the local area and graduated from Rolla Senior High, Rolla, Missouri, in 1971. After graduation, he joined the United
States Air Force and began a career that would span over 26 years.
He has an Associate's Degree in Search and Rescue, Survival Operations, a Bachelors Degree in Occupational Safety and Health, and a Masters Degree in Clinical Psychology completed, except for his thesis. It was his safety training that improved his above average writing skills, because he learned to sequence mishaps in formal reports. His first western released was Silently Beats the Drum, and 34 more books have followed.
W. R. Benton is popular among readers who love hard continuous action and adventure. As a young reader, he would often turn pages to find more excitement. So, when he turned to writing, he decided his readers should be entertained, made to think, and feel the emotions of his characters. Many readers say his work grasps them in the first paragraph and maintains their interest until the last paragraph, which is exactly what W. R. strives for when writing.
Mister Benton lives in Mississippi, with his wife, dogs, and cats, on an imaginary ranch with thousands of make-believe cows and horses. Visit him at: www.wrbenton.net
or on Facebook at www.facebook.com/wrbenton01
Audiobooks by W.R. Benton
The Fall of America: Book 1
The Fall of America: Book 2
The Fall of America: Book 3
Available now at Audible.com or iTunes
America Has Fallen: Vol. 1
Announcing a new series by the author of "The Fall of America"
James is a Sioux teenager living on a rural reservation, when the America he knew and loved collapses in a financial meltdown. Soon hyper-inflation and unemployment take their toll on every aspect of the national economy. The Federal government falters, then the state and then the local. Transportation networks grid to a halt and store shelves go empty. Things turned even uglier when there is no power for long parts of the day... then forever. Police, doctors, and trash collectors just stopped showing up for work when their paychecks were delayed too often, or stop being honored by banks.
