The Best Defense

by Todd A. Stone

  The blonde coughed blood. “Herald, Julie. 779-45-2120. Specialist Four.”

  He calmly set his drink on a table. Then he swung his right hand over his left shoulder and backhanded first one American, then swung again and hit the other. Their heads snapped with the blows, Julie Herald grimacing as the pain shot through her eye. He raised his hand again.

  “Talk!”

  “Crawford, Andrea. Specialist Fourth Class. 124-76-3332.”

  “Herald, Julie. Specialist Fourth Class. 779-45-2120.”

  The door burst open. Steglyr took in the scene.

  “My colonel. What has become of you?”

  Steglyr does not understand, thought Dimonokov. He can never understand.

  “Go. Find the coward Stanev. Stay with him. You two are alike.”

  “But, my colonel…”

  “Get out!”

  Steglyr lowered his gaze and shut the door behind him.

  Dimonokov’s head pounded. He sent down blows like a hard rain, smacking the two women with the back of his hands again and again.

  “Little whores,” Dimonokov shouted, “eighty-two Master Warriors lie dead, with as many wounded.” He split Andrea Crawford’s lip. “Your little games have cost me.” Fresh blood trickled from beneath Julie Herald’s eye bandage.

  “You will embarrass me no further! Talk!”

  “Crawford, Andrea...”

  “Herald, Julie...”

  His open hand tightened into a closed fist. Andrea lost a tooth, choked, and spat it out. Dimonokov hit her harder. Julie Herald passed out from the pain. He motioned to one of the guards, who poured a glass of water and splashed it on Herald’s face. Dimonokov grabbed her hair and shook her back to consciousness, then resumed beating them. Blue-black welts rose on the women’s faces. Ten minutes later he tired.

  “You can end this at any time, if you so choose. You have only to talk to me.”

  Andrea peered out of nearly swollen-shut eyes.

  Julie could see nothing but black and the white streak of agony.

  “C—Crawford...”

  “Herald...”

  Dimonokov hit each of them so hard their chairs fell over. The guards yanked them both back up.

  “It seems we will get nothing from these two.”

  He rubbed his sore knuckles. He stepped back to take a moment to think. Then he smiled.

  “I think we will get much from them. But there is other business first. Bring Captain Volodymr to me. I have designated him as Operations Officer. Guchma is to command his unit.”

  The sergeant was back in five minutes with Dimonokov’s Operations Officer. Volodymr leered down at the bloody women, then looked back to Dimonokov.

  “The status of the reorganization?”

  “Completed within the hour.”

  “You will initiate the contingency plans. One group to move at first light to secure the targeted bunkers. On order, a second group to assault the main area. Brief the leaders. Then place a call to the school. They are to select the best of the current class, along with the necessary number of school trainers, and dispatch them as replacements for First Company’s losses. They are to leave the school tonight.”

  “Da, Colonel. Will that be all?”

  “Nyet. Awaken the members of First Company. Have them report to the inn’s dining area. Ensure it is secured. They are to await us there.”

  “‘Us’, Colonel?”

  “Da,” Dimonokov replied, smiling menacingly. He turned to one of his sergeants. “Your knife.”

  The sergeant handed over his commando knife. Dimonokov considered testing the blade to ensure it was sharp, but dismissed the thought. In the Special Security, he told himself, knives were always sharp.

  “Stand up the blonde,” Dimonokov ordered.

  A sergeant yanked Julie Herald to her feet. Dimonokov stepped up until his face was only inches from hers. He held the knife between their faces, twisting it slowly. Julie’s one unbandaged eye followed its every small turn.

  “So you will not tell us what we need to know, eh?” said Dimonokov quietly. “Most unfortunate. Yet you will still be of use to us. You both are still good for what women are good for.” He slid the knife down, and one by one cut the buttons off her battle dress jacket. Her camouflage blouse open, with his other hand he pulled the neck of her brown T-shirt away from her neck. The commando knife easily cut through the thin cotton material, and with a quick slice Dimonokov cut Julie’s bra open. He spent a moment running his free hand over her breasts, squeezing and hefting them, rolling her nipples between his fat thumb and forefinger. With what strength she had left, Julie turned her throbbing head aside.

  “Very good, Colonel,” Volodymr said. “I will inform First Company that they do not need to dress.” He extended his arm upward in a salute, then turned, clicking his heels, and left.

  Andrea felt even more nauseous. “Leave her alone!” she forced out between swollen lips.

  Outside the room, Volodymr heard the woman cry out. He stopped and turned to reenter the room, then halted. He turned around again and walked off to obey orders.

  Inside the room, Dimonokov turned.

  “I will not neglect you, and neither will the members of First Company. Turn her chair, make sure she can see.” He waited until his NCO had yanked Andrea’s chair around. When Andrea lowered her eyes to the floor, the NCO tugged her head back up.

  Dimonokov went back to Julie. He unbuckled her belt, yanked her battle dress trousers down around her ankles. “Put the whore over there,” he said to the guard, “it will be much too difficult standing up, even for me.” The NCO grinned wickedly and wrestled the feebly resisting woman to the bed. Dimonokov sliced the center of her wadded trousers with the knife until he cut them through. Then, putting down the weapon, he slid her panties off over her boots.

  “Prepare the brunette,” he ordered over his shoulder to the guards. He heard them wrestle Andrea to her feet, and seconds later four more buttons fell to the ground.

  Dimonokov carefully laid Julie’s underwear aside, thinking, as he unbuckled his belt, that he would put not only the wearers, but their underclothing as well, to good use.

  For the first time that night, Andrea cried.

  Infernesk Munitions Depot

  The gray dawn came quietly to the depot—no sirens, no shots, only the birds’ chirping, the whispered radio transmissions of the night’s roving patrols as they moved back towards the central area buildings, and the clump of tired footsteps as other soldiers hustled up staircases and took up daytime observation positions on the buildings’ rooftops.

  ~*~

  Christine jerked awake at the noise. Fully dressed, she’d fallen asleep in a chair in the converted office that now served as Val’s command post. The major grinned at her as Christine shook the cobwebs from her brain and rolled the stale taste of too much stress and too little sleep around her mouth.

  “Here, Lieutenant.” With his good arm Denight held out a Styrofoam cup filled with a steaming black liquid. “It ain’t Lavoris, but it’ll kill the taste and wake you up.”

  Christine cocked one eyebrow as she examined the coffee, then made a face after her first sip. “Ma’am, somebody really had to work at this.”

  “How so?”

  One final gulp and Christine made another face as she stared into the cup. “To make coffee this bad. Somebody really worked hard at this.”

  Val choked on her own coffee as she chuckled, and Denight laughed hard enough to make his wound hurt.

  “I heard explosions.”

  “That will be the Russians blowing their way into the bunkers.” Val said. Denight nodded in agreement. “The OPs reported two company-size elements coming out of the forest and moving on the bunkers. Not that they’ll find anything.”

  “Then what happens?”

  Denight sat down and rubbed his bandaged shoulder. “Whoever is in charge, and I’m betting it’s that Dimonokov character, will take a little time to make a plan. He seems to pl
an faster than most Russians—ordinarily they like to take the time to be precise—but he put together last night’s attack in just a few hours. They probably have contingency plans, then, which confirms they’ve been setting this up for a while. His first likely action is to check out the remaining bunkers that could hold the nukes—and that won’t take long.”

  The roar of another blast floated through the window.

  “Not long at all,” Val said.

  Christine took another slurp of coffee. “Then what?”

  “In ‘Nam,” Denight said, “when we’d knock the crap out of Charlie and he had to keep coming, he’d go to work on us. The Russians may act the same way. They’ll try to infiltrate snipers and recon teams into this area to find out where we’re weak, to pick off anyone who gets careless and shows himself—or herself—and then attack at last light. But if he’s real short on time, he’ll come sooner, maybe throw it all at us. If he’s got any psychological Ops know-how he’ll try to break our morale.”

  “And then?”

  “Both the access roads leading from the special munitions bunkers and the main gate are decision points for them. They’ll try to bull through the front door, and if that fails they’ll back off and probe for a weak point. In both cases, we can expect both main and supporting attacks.”

  Christine finished her coffee. “What kind of a chance do we have?”

  Denight and Val exchanged glances.

  “Depends on when help comes and how well we do,” Val said. “By now, CENTCOM is halfway through trying to reestablish contact. Sooner or later they’ll do a satellite or air recon overflight, and after that, they’ll send in somebody to see what’s going on. Our job is to trade space for time until CENTCOM dispatches a relief force, and bloody the Russians’ noses enough so they don’t press too hard.”

  “Ma’am, you taught me to keep asking until I got a satisfactory answer. Yours was vague. How much time do we have, assuming all goes well?”

  The Sergeant Major’s face went hard. “We may slow him down a bunch if he comes high-diddle-diddle, straight up the middle. But we’ll lose the outer ring of buildings—including this one—with the next attack, although it’ll cost him plenty. We can hold the inner ring for a while, then we’ll go into the basement. That’ll go even slower for him—he can only bring a few people to bear at one time and we know the layout, he doesn’t. But he’s got lots of people and we don’t.”

  “How much time?”

  Val sat her coffee cup onto the table, sighed, then put on her best “be determined” face. “Two days, maybe.”

  The radio crackled. “Enemy is withdrawing back into the forest. He’s left some stay-behind forces, I count three two-man positions.”

  “Security in case they want to come back that way,” said Denight.

  Val spoke into the hand mike. “Roger, continue to observe.”

  “So now what, Ma’am?” asked Christine.

  “Nothing to do, Lieutenant,” Val said, “but wait and then fight. We didn’t come this far for nothing.”

  Denight let out a long breath. Val and Christine turned.

  “There is another option, Ma’am. We probably have twenty-four hours before the window for a breakout closes—they’ll have the place sealed off by then.”

  Val’s jaw dropped. “After all the preparation, after all the damage, and with what’s at stake, you want to...”

  He didn’t hear his commander finish. For a split-second he flew back in time to the book-lined walls of the lawyer’s office. Denight saw the document in front of him, felt himself sign away the chance to stand against the lies his children’s mother had told. Just sign it, the attorney said, cut your losses, get out, it’ll make the pain go away. It did, along with his self-respect.

  Denight rose and forced a smile. “Sorry, Ma’am, just testing.” He turned to Christine.

  “C’mon, el-tee. Grab your brain-bucket. Now we do what leaders do while they wait.”

  “Sergeant Major?”

  “We inspire the troops. And check that there’s a round in the chamber.”

  Chapter Eleven

  Vicinity village of Infernesk

  In the shadow of the ancient castle, Stanev’s men sat in small groups under the trees. Stanev thought the way they gobbled down their food was remarkable. No rations had been delivered to his company since their arrival. He was unsure whether this was intended to punish him, or was the result of Dimonokov’s plan calling for securing the depot within eight hours. Either way, his taste buds—and his soldiers’—found the situation a blessing in disguise.

  He’d sent his 2IC—second in command—and two sergeants into the village, hoping they might find a bakery or grocer who would supply them. They’d returned with little more than bread, meat, and cheese, but his soldiers seemed to relish the simple fare. He’d noticed other changes in his soldiers, too. They seemed to be slightly more independent, to have a growing sense of initiative, and to have either developed or remembered traces of a conscience. He wondered if the other companies had missed meals, and if they were experiencing the same thing. He found it difficult to believe missing Special Security meals led to improvements in character, but it seemed to be so in his soldiers and noncoms. His 2IC, however, had not changed his acidic ways. The lieutenant only grumbled that the implant the Special Security doctors had placed in his leg was swollen and itched. Stanev also noted that the lieutenant would scribble notes on a small pad whenever he thought Stanev was not looking.

  His company was deployed in an assembly area near the road through the Infernesk Heights. The platoons rotated through duty manning a roadblock and preventing traffic from entering or leaving the plain. Stanev inspected each platoon as it took its turn manning the blocking positions, and twice he took his 2IC and the unit’s leaders on a reconnaissance of the route to the depot. The company underwent his weapons and equipment inspection four times. At last he could stand the boredom no longer.

  “I’m going forward,” he told his 2IC, “to assess the situation. If and when we are called, at least I shall have a better idea of what we’re up against. I will take my radioman and one other for security. You will bring the unit forward when called and link up. Understand?”

  “But what of Dimonokov’s orders to remain here?”

  “Sometimes it is necessary to act in the best interest of the unit, orders notwithstanding.”

  “Da.” Stanev’s 2IC saluted.

  Stanev turned and walked away, stopping for a moment to speak to one of his men. He glanced back towards where he’d left his 2IC. The lieutenant was once again hastily writing in his notebook.

  Infernesk Munitions Depot

  In their OP in the attic crawl space of building 17B, Specialist Fourth Class Ann Shapiro wolfed down lukewarm scrambled eggs and strips of greasy bacon. Shapiro knew she was going to miss having a cigarette after her morning coffee—they couldn’t smoke in the tinder-dry attic, even though they’d wetted it down to prevent a dust signature or hot brass from starting a fire.

  Through his binoculars, her partner Sp4. Eddie Cruz studied the edge of the tree line. The forest stopped roughly one hundred and fifty meters from the exclusion line outside the main gate. Their OP was located in a building about three hundred meters inside the depot’s fence. That put Cruz about five hundred meters from the forest’s edge. His rumbling stomach wanted Shapiro to hurry up.

  “Sharpie. C’mere.”

  “I’m eating, Cruiser.”

  Val had decided to keep the mess hall open, even though that meant Staff Sergeant Olender’s cooks would be frying bacon instead of helping move the munitions below ground. The mess section had participated in Denight’s combat skills training, and one soldier had even qualified for the Hornets, trading his mess whites for battle dress. The troops complained about the cooks’ soft duty, but when Olender’s people lugged green mermite cans from building to building—going “the long way” to avoid giving away the positions—then dished a warm meal onto pa
per plates and hand-delivered them to those on OP duty, all complaints, though not the ribbing about tipping the maitre de, stopped.

  Eddie scooted over to their second observation slit. So as not to give their position away, they had cut only small holes in the roof above them. He propped his elbows on the sandbag armrest and lifted the binoculars back to his eyes. Even with the twelve-power magnification, the forest was impenetrable. Cruz could see no more than a few meters into the trees.

  He didn’t need to. The forest’s thickness cut both ways. For the Russians to see, and to deploy, they had to advance to its edges.

  “Forget the chow, Sharpie. We got company. Get up here and work the map.”

  “More of their scout guys?” She gobbled down the last of her eggs. “We called them in to Sergeant Major Thunderbutt already.”

  “Their scouts got friends.” He slid over to another observation slit. “Lotsa friends.”

  Reluctantly, she put down the paper plate and crawled next to him.

  “Lemme see.”

  At first Shapiro couldn’t distinguish the enemy forms from the trees around them. But seconds later a dark spot moved, and with that cue she was able to tell the forest and the Russians within it apart.

  Their radio crackled as other OPs sent reports.

  Cruz looked down at the sketch map, then back out the slit in the roof, then back down at the map. “They’re on both sides of the light poles, strung out for about a hundred meters each way. I call it sector, uh, Red Three.”

  “Yeah, Red Three.” In the close-in fighting that Val anticipated, standard military maps would show entirely too little detail. Instead she’d commissioned a detailed sketch map of the depot, made easily recognizable features—such as the main gate and guard towers—reference points, and then color and number coded sectors of responsibility and avenues of approach. When the final mapping product was done, the admin section ran off copies for each OP and each team.

  “It’s hard to count ‘em all,” Shapiro said, “but call in to Sergeant Major that we got about four, no, five, three-man positions and a whole bunch of squads huddled up out there.”