“I am well aware of the tactics used by guerrillas. At your last estimate, how many do you think belong to the resistance?” Vetrov scratched his cheek.
“The number of members in their resistance varies from a few thousand, say four or so, to most of the state population. It seems those that are not active members support them, except for a few we have bought with money or supplies. I do not trust those working for us either, because they may be gathering intelligence for the other side.”
“So, they have broken into small groups, have most of the population behind them, and are creating a nightmare for my troops. What do you think would be the best method of hurting them the most? I must get control of this sector immediately.”
“Do you wish an honest answer, sir?”
“But of course I do.” He said, and then smiled.
No, you want the book answer, so that is what you will get from me. Killing innocent men, women and children will not stop the resistance. Unnecessary killing will only strengthen the determination of the people, he thought. Then, returning the colonel's smile, Pankov said, “The executions may work, but if it does, it will be the first time. However, we have to try something and what are a few more deaths in this hell hole of a place? Perhaps reducing the amount of food we provide the general population will help, because, how much of it goes to the men and women fighting us? Placing stricter control on all food and water may be the real answer. A hungry people are easier to control, sir.”
“Perhaps by executing the people you think me cold and cruel. The executions are required, if for nothing more than to show our enemies we will make them pay dearly for every small victory they achieve.”
“Fully understood, Colonel.”
“Now, get Lieutenant Ivanov to start gathering up hostages. By no later than the day after tomorrow, I want them, all one hundred of them, dead. I want the front of their capital building littered with bodies and blood to run like rivers down the hill.”
Knowing the conversation with his commander was finished, Pankov stood and snapped to attention.
“Dismissed Colonel; now carry out my orders.”
Master Sergeant Dmitry Belonev jumped from the back of the big truck and landed on the wet pavement with a grunt. His back was hurting him again and he thought, I will be a happy man when I retire next year and move back to the country. I grow tired of moving around the world and living out of my backpack. I miss my Alena, and a man should have a good woman at his side as he grows older.
“Senior Sergeant, have the men break down into squads and start gathering people. If we get all one hundred here, we can return to camp quickly. But, be warned, if all are not gathered here, we will go elsewhere to look for more.” The Master Sergeant ordered. He found gathering hostages distasteful, but his job was to follow orders.
“Why are we collecting people in the middle of the night?” A private asked the Senior Sergeant.
“I do not know, and it does not matter. Our orders are to collect people, and we will do as we have been told to do.”
“Senior Sergeant, move the men!” Belonev yelled. The Master Sergeant was older than his men, on the high side of his forties, and had entered the Russian army at the tender age of seventeen. While he had little education, he wasn't an ignorant man, and most of his knowledge was self taught. For his age he was an excellent example of a Russian NCO, but it was his lack of formal education that prevented him from earning a warrant officer promotion. His hair was brown, with a slight suggestion of red, easily seen in sunlight, and cropped close to his skull. He was thin, except for a slight trace of a potbelly starting to form over his belt, and his uniform was always spotless. Not a short man, his frame was close to six feet; his uniform gave the impression he was much taller.
Warrant Officer Titov walked to the Master Sergeant's side and asked, “You have been in the army many years, so why do you think we are out gathering up civilians in the middle of the night?'
Titov and Belonev often shared a bottle of vodka and were friends, except when in performance of their duties, then it was all by the book. “Sir, I suspect we are gathering up hostages for a camp or execution.”
“I think killing civilians would be rather stupid, do not you think?”
“When I wear this uniform, I do no thinking on my own. I simply follow orders like a good little boy. I suggest, sir, you do the same. It will keep your ass out of hot water.”
Laughing Titov said, “Hell, I know you better than you realize. You are walking around thinking of your wife, Alena, and your farm. Once you are drawing a pension, your army days will be over.”
“You are right, those were my thoughts, but first I have to live long enough to retire, my friend. Nonetheless, I fully intend to survive and to retire, no matter how many Americans I must gather for the commander. However, once I am home, I will make love to my wife for a solid week, eat like a starving pig, and drink myself self silly for a month. But before my dream can come true, I have to serve this last tour in this God awful country. A year is a long time to survive in combat.”
“This was once the land of milk and honey, or do you not know? Just a few short years ago, Americans were the richest people on earth, with all owning big expensive cars, new homes, and making more money in a day than we earn in a month.”
“That may be so, but I am still earning my money while their whole country has fallen. I just hope I am able to retire before the damned Chinese start warring with us. There are too many of them to fight in this place.”
“I have heard the Chinese were warned to leave us alone or we will use tactical nuclear weapons against them.”
Belonev laughed and once quiet again, he said, “So, we use a nuc and kill, let's say a million Chinese; that will not put a dent in their population. The Chinese fear no country and as Asians, I feel they cannot be trusted.”
Titov said, “I had an uncle who served as a military adviser in the Korean war against the Americans. It was a long time ago, 1952, and he's dead now, but as a young boy he told me the Chinese only have one tactic in war—overrun the enemy by numbers. He claimed he once saw a thousand Koreans and Chinese attack a small American outpost, and while they won the battle, the Americans killed almost ten of them for each man they lost. It is not the smart way to fight a war.”
The Master Sergeant shrugged and said, “I am tired of the army and of war. I just want a chair in my home, a bottle at my side, and my wife cooking in her kitchen.”
Suddenly shots were heard, followed by an explosion. Screams for help were heard in Russian, and both men moved toward their troops.
Three Americans, one a woman, broke from the front door of a house, each tossed a grenade, and the resulting blast knocked Russian soldiers over like a huge hand slapping toys. More screams were heard, in both languages, and automatic fire was heard from across the street. The three Americans fell, one screeching and jerking, but the other two unmoving. Titov moved to the injured man screaming, pulled his pistol, and shot the him in the head.
“Men, bang on the front doors to the homes and order people out. If they do not come out, toss in a grenade. Then enter the home after the explosion and remove those still alive.” Belonev ordered, hoping to control the confusion among his men. I should be back at the base sipping on a bottle of vodka, he thought.
Titov was walking toward the Master Sergeant when the front of his head exploded, sending brains, blood and gore in all directions. The warrant officer's body fell like a limp rag doll, jerking and twitching as his central nervous system shutdown.
“Sniper!” someone screamed.
Then at an even rate, four shots were fired and four soldiers fell, each fatally injured.
“Senior Sergeant, the sniper is in the church tower. Gather your squad and flank the position, while we keep him pinned down. Now, damn you, move!” The Master Sergeant screamed.
The Senior Sergeant took about ten steps running, then he was struck in the chest, which sprayed the ground behind him
with bone and blood. He fell to the pavement, unmoving. His men continued to run.
The Master Sergeant noticed his men made it to the relative safety of the buildings across the street and then disappeared down the alleys. “Fire at the church steeple! Cover our men!” Belonev screamed.
An explosion was heard near the church and then it grew quiet. Five minutes later three soldiers started toward the sergeant.
Suspecting the sniper was long gone, or dead, the Sergeant stood and ordered, “Start collecting people and do it now!”
Minutes later the three men walked to him. A husky looking Junior Sergeant said, “The sniper was gone before we got there, and we lost six men to a mine as we entered the church. The door opened easily enough, but once the lead man was moving across the main floor it exploded. I think it was an American Claymore mine. It tore our men to pieces.”
“Good job, all of you. You, Junior Sergeant Arsov, are now a Senior Sergeant and will be running a squad as soon as I can get you some replacements. I will make sure your bravery is known to the commander and have an extra ration of drink sent to you after we return. I suspect you will receive a medal for your actions.”
It took the Russians almost three hours to round up the one hundred captives they wanted and it cost them ten more men in the process. Unlike when the Germans had gathered the Jews in the Second World War, the Americans did not go willingly into captivity. They resisted with tooth and nail, when they lacked guns or explosives. Most of the civilians were beaten and a few were near death when the trucks started moving once more.
At dawn, in a drizzling rain, one hundred and twenty people were pushed onto the lawn of the Mississippi Capital Building. Colonel Vetrov was discussing the round up of the hostages and the number of soldiers lost the night before. He was furious, and asked, “What in the hell can be so hard about gathering civilians?”
“Our intelligence indicated the part of town we raided was fairly passive, but we were wrong, and our men were actually dealing with part of the resistance.” Pankov stated, knowing his words would bring immediate anger.
His eyes narrowed and his face grew red as Vetrov turned to his chief of intelligence and said, “I suggest you do a better job of gathering information, Colonel, or the next time I might just add you to the condemned group. I will no longer accept failure in my command. Do you understand me?”
“I understand, sir.” The Colonel replied. You arrogant sonofabitch, my father may be retired, but he has many connections still in the army. I will write him tonight.
“Good. Lieutenant Ivanov, come to me, please.”
A young officer, barely old enough to shave, neared and saluted.
“I understand you had a number of men killed while near a small town west of here, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir, ten men.”
“In a few minutes the Russian army will have it's revenge, Lieutenant, and I would like to give you the honor of being in command as we do so.”
Looking around, the lieutenant saw no one to command. There was a company of men surrounding the hostages, under the leadership of a Captain, a score of high ranking officers and few American civilians. Confused, he asked, “What am I to take command of, sir?”
“The execution of the Americans. I want all of them killed.”
“Y . . . yes, sir.” Lieutenant Ivanov said, but his mind was going a thousand miles an hour. These people are unarmed and this is murder, but I have my orders and cannot refuse. If I refuse, I will shame my family, and there must be a reason for their deaths. I will do this, because a lieutenant does not know all reasons and cannot question an order.
“There are three machine guns in position, so all you have to do is give the command. The gunners have already been informed.”
Lieutenant Ivanov hesitated, so Vetrov added, “Simply move your men a safe distance away from the civilians and start shooting. Once the guns grow silent, have a couple of squads move through the Americans and shoot any still alive.”
Knowing he had no choice, Ivanov moved to the front of the mass of people and called out, “I want all soldiers to move away from the Americans, now.” He watched as his soldiers moved and once well out of danger, he stood looking at his enemy. He saw old men, children, and women. Looking closer, he spotted a small American flag held in the hand of a pregnant woman near the center front.
It was deathly quiet, except for those about to die, and he heard them praying. He didn't understand English, except for a few words, but if he had, he would have noticed they were not praying for themselves. They were praying for the preservation of their country, for unity, and that their deaths, like thousands of others, be avenged by the resistance.
They'd already made their peace with God, and were ready to die.
Vetrov said, “Lieutenant, give the order when you are ready.”
Pulling his pistol from his holster, the young soldier shouted, “Fire!”
The three machine guns opened up at the same time and the gunners were excellent, firing short bursts that knocked the doomed from their feet. Bullets went through five or more bodies before striking the wall behind the people and ricocheting into the air with a loud zing. Ivanov saw body parts flying through the air and heard the screams of the seriously injured and dying. He closed his eyes and attempted to shut out the noise. Finally, it grew quiet.
An occasional moan or groan was heard as Lieutenant Ivanov yelled, “You men on the left, move into the people and put them out of their misery. I want none left alive. Now, move!”
Turning to Pankov, Vetrov said, “Colonel, that is the way a Russian officer obeys orders. I suspect you could learn a great deal from our young lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir, I have noticed.” Pankov replied as he thought, This will eventually take you down, Colonel, and it has never work in any country I have studied. The people will now rise up in a mass to crush you, you dumb bastard. Unfortunately, it will take all of us down with you.
CHAPTER 3
Moving forward, Jay rigged two claymore mines and placed the clackers close at hand. As a man who'd survived more than one ambush and numerous attempts on his life, it was hard to believe ten years ago he was an English high school teacher. He removed the tape holding the spoons down on his grenades and placed two at his side. Then, picking up his rifle, he flipped the safety off. He was ready, but he already felt the sharp teeth of anticipation gnawing on his stomach. Once a battle started, his anxiety always disappeared with the sound of the first shot. It could be another cell of ours or Russians, he thought, and it's better to be prepared if things turn to shit.
Dolly gave a low growl, so John said, “Easy, girl. Quiet.”
The approaching group was closer now, less than a two hundred feet, and all saw they were wearing a mixture of BDU's, jeans, and other civilian clothing, which meant they were likely their own troops. Then, John spotted Lieutenant Joshua Holland in the center of the group. His point man was nearing so he called out, “That's close enough. Who are you, and why are you on our asses?”
The man froze, looked around as if he was unsure of John's position, and then replied, “We're a cell from Colonel Parker's group. I'm Sergeant Macon Brown, but who are you?”
“Who I am isn't important right now. Is that ugly man in the middle of your group Lieutenant Joshua Holland?”
The man relaxed, smiled, and then replied, “Uh-huh, that's him.”
“I'm going to stand, but keep your finger away from the trigger. Right now, there are five rifles and shotguns aimed at you. Do you understand?”
“Stand, you're safe enough.”
He stood, gave a big grin, and asked, “How have you been, Brown?”
Dolly sat up beside John, but remained quiet and didn't move.
“I'm livin', so I guess I'm doin' fine. The Lieutenant will be here in a few minutes.”
“Son, ya need to start payin' more attention to where you're walkin'. Didn't you see any sign of our passing?”
“No, very
little sign that I could tell.”
Either we're good, or this boy had his head up his ass as he moved, John thought, but asked, “Why are you following us?”
Scratching his cheek, Brown said, “I was given a compass headin', and I've been followin' it the whole time.” He was of average size, thin, with long brown hair and beard.
John guessed his age to be mid-twenties and he had a reputation as being sharp. Well, somewhere along the way today he screwed up, if he didn't know we were in front of him, he thought.
Holland was close now and the man smiled in recognition. He was tall, just over six feet, wore a nicely trimmed beard of black, and sported a crew-cut. This day he was wearing a camouflage ball cap, BDU blouse, and jeans.
“John, excuse me for not saluting, but what are ya doin' out this way?” He asked, his teeth white and even. His smile was contagious, so John smiled in return.
“Movin' to our area after the break up, and you?”
“Same. Are you headin' straight north?”
“Nope, so why don't you pass through us and go about your business? We'll be behind you for a while, then change directions.”
“We can do that.”
“Joshua, your point man Brown never knew we were in front of him, so either we're good or he's got his head up his ass. Usually he's pretty sharp, so I feel the need to warn you.” John said in a voice just above a whisper.
Shaking his head, Holland replied, “He lost his wife during our prisoner exchange, and when I asked him about it, he said he could still do the job.”
“Well, I suspect he can't do the job. You do as you wish, but I'd replace him with somebody else for a week or so.”
Turning, Joshua spotted a man and said, “Hart, take our point. Brown, you slip back and walk drag a while.” The Lieutenant then winked at me.
“Jay, pull the claymores and the rest of you saddle up; we'll leave after these folks pass.”
The Fall of America | Book 2 | Fatal Encounters Page 3
