by James Rosone
“Look, I’ve read over your file. You’re an exceptional Marine, and your combat awards and record only bear that out. You’ve seen more action in the last six months than nearly any officer presently at Pendleton, to include me. I need men like you to form the nucleus of my leadership structure. I want to know if I can rely on you for your expertise in turning this new brigade into a fighting force that will defeat the Chinese,” Colonel Tilman explained. He leaned forward in his chair, looking Tim in the eyes, searching his facial expressions for any sense of doubt.
“Sir, I’ll gladly share what knowledge and experience I have gained,” Long answered. “I took part in the beach invasion of North Korea’s eastern shore, a big battle near the Chinese border, and the US-ROK counterattack in January. What specifically would you like my help with?” he asked, still not exactly sure what the colonel wanted from him.
Relieved that Tim was going to be a team player, Tilman let out a sigh, then presented him with his offer. “I need company-grade officers. My brigade is just now forming, and I’m short five company commanders. Will you accept a commission to captain?” he asked.
Sergeant Long was a bit surprised by the question. He’d thought he might take over as a first sergeant or something along those lines, but not as a company commander. “I’d love to accept the offer, but I’m not sure I meet the qualifications,” he replied a bit glumly. In World War II, his great-grandfather had been a mustang officer in the Marines when they expanded the Corps to fight the Japanese. He had been given a battlefield promotion prior to the battle for Iwo Jima. He’d entered the war as a sergeant and finished the war as a captain. Long wasn’t sure he was quite the man his grandfather had been.
Waving his hand dismissively, Tilman responded, “Actually you do. You’ve completed sixty college credits, which means I can promote you to second lieutenant. Because I’m a brigade commander, I can give you a step promotion to first lieutenant, and the division command saw your Navy Cross and has given you a battlefield promotion to captain, pending, of course, that you accept the rank and do not want to stay an NCO,” he explained.
Letting his breath out, Tim smiled broadly as he gave his answer. “I accept, Sir. What do you need me to do next?”
The other officers in the room smiled and welcomed him to their club, the officer club. “First we need you to sign some papers, which Major Lykes from S-1 here will provide to you. Then we’re going to have you go through a couple of weeks of officer basic training to get you up to speed on what’s required of a Marine officer. By the time you complete the training, your new company of recruits should be ready. You’ll join Kilo Company as they start training. Our brigade should finish training by the end of June, and then we’ll deploy to Asia,” Tilman said.
They had a lot of work to do between now and when they deployed, and Long was going to play a big role in making sure everyone understood what they would be dealing with when they got to Asia. As the newly minted Captain Long signed his required paperwork, Colonel Tilman smiled. He felt a little bit like he had just won the lottery.
Ohio Massacre
Lima, Ohio
Spring had arrived in Ohio. The winter snows had finally melted away. With the start of April came the precipitation that lived up to the nursery rhyme of “April showers bring May flowers.” The rain drizzled down on the five-bedroom farmhouse Major Sasha Popov had rented for his team four days ago through Airbnb. Using a false identity, credit cards, and smartphone left for them at their last safe house by their GRU handlers, Sasha had found a great little homestead in the countryside, not far from their next target. The team needed a place to organize for their next mission and still have some privacy from the general American populace.
Once the team had arrived at the farmhouse, they reviewed the surveillance package provided to them by the GRU, the Russian version of the American Defense Intelligence Agency. Their primary target was the General Dynamics land systems factory in Lima, where the Americans were mass producing their main battle tanks. Major Popov had been proud to accept this mission. Destroying or severely damaging the factory would go a long way toward helping the war effort.
Adjacent to their primary target was the Husky Lima Refinery, which produced a large portion of the gasoline for the Midwest. In addition to destroying the tank manufacturing, Popov’s team intended to obliterate the refinery as well. The large fuel storage tanks there would make for a spectacular explosion once they caught fire, which would lead to additional damage to the tank factory across the street. It was going to be a campaign of shock and awe.
Deep in thought, Sasha heard the front door to the farmhouse open, letting some of the cool air enter the hallway that led to the kitchen. A second later, the door closed, and two men walked into the kitchen, looking for an empty coffee cup.
“I do love American coffee,” Major Popov thought as he poured himself a full mug of the black liquid brain juice.
“Are the weapons there?” asked Popov. He was anxious to get the mission going. While his team was not actively fighting in Europe, the work they were doing here in the US was just as important. What they had seen on the American news, albeit with a Yankee bias, did not look good. The US was massing a massive army in Europe, and it wouldn’t be long until they unleashed that destructive force on their beloved homeland.
Lieutenant Egor Vasiliev took two large gulps of the hot liquid before placing his coffee mug on the kitchen counter to answer Major Popov’s question. “Yes. They were in the storage locker, just as the handler said they would be,” he responded. He held up his hand to prevent Popov from asking further questions before he continued.
“We did a quick inventory of the weapons to make sure everything was there. All three of the 120mm mortar tubes were present, and while they are old, they appear to be in good working condition. We checked the other crates as well. There are 36 rounds for the mortars, exactly twelve mortars per tube, exactly as we had been instructed.”
Lieutenant Egor Vasiliev, like many of the other Spetsnaz members, had entered the US nearly four months ahead of the hostilities between Russia and the West. The group of twelve members had entered the US through the H-1B visa program. Their applications had listed them as computer and engineering experts for an Armenian-owned and operated computer software company, LAD Solutions.
Vasiliev, like the other members of this elite Spetsnaz team, was part of the secretive Special Operations Command or KSO within the Ministry of Defense. Prior to being designated as a direct-action sabotage team in the Americas, they’d had to rotate to America and serve a three-month stint with LAD Solutions, where they’d learned more about the specific geographic region of America their unit had been assigned to. They were instructed on the top military targets in their region and the locations of safe houses they could fall back to if discovered. Most importantly, they’d spent a great deal of time driving around their assigned location, so they could better understand the layout of the roads, the surrounding cities, and the people who lived in the region they would be operating in. This familiarization of the battlespace had aided some of their earlier teams in being able to elude capture.
Sergeant Vlad Volkov had been smiling as he thought about the damage they would be able to do with thirty-six 120mm mortars. The mortar system was American, which meant it was reliable. How the GRU had acquired the weapons was not his concern. The fact that they had was all he cared about. “I checked the weapons myself, Sir,” he added, backing Vasiliev up. “They’re in good working order and should not cause us any problems.”
Popov nodded as a slight smile spread across his face. “What about the launch site? Have we found a point that is secluded enough to set up the mortars and still allow us to get away?”
This was the trickiest part of the operation. Granted, each of them would be more than willing to die in the service of their country; however, they wanted to make their efforts matter in the larger scheme of things, which meant they needed to carry out more than just
one or two missions. They needed to be able to do their damage and then escape to fight another day.
Vasiliev chimed in. “On our way back from the storage facility, we checked a couple of the locations our surveillance package had identified. Two of them are a bust. A new housing development is where one of them used to be, and the other had a school on it. The third position they identified is still viable and is probably the best position to use. It’s still somewhat remote, but it’s close enough to the highway for us to be able to put as much distance as possible between ourselves and the attack.”
“Excellent,” Popov responded. “Tonight, I’ll be purchasing the three Suburban SUVs. The vehicles should be ready in a couple of days, once we’ve the added brush guards. When I have the vehicles, I want you to take your team to the storage facility and move the weapons back here. Things need to be ready to go when the time comes.”
*******
Lima, Ohio
Allen County Sheriff Department
Deputy Eric Clark had just celebrated his tenth year on Patrol 6-Delta with the Sheriff’s Department on Sunday. He had several friends and family over for a BBQ, which turned out to be a great time of reflecting on the major milestone he had just hit in his new career. It was hard to believe it had already been ten years since he had gotten out of the Marines.
Eric and his partner, Cindy Morrison, had patrolled together for three years out in Allen County. At first, Eric was not thrilled with the prospect of having a green young woman for a partner—Cindy had only been twenty-two and fresh out of college when she’d joined the Allen County Sheriff Department. Like most idealistic young people, she wanted to change the world, and she was hell-bent on changing the way police interacted with the people they served. Despite a lot of antipolice sentiment on college campuses, Cindy had pressed forward in becoming a police officer, but she clearly wanted to change the organization from within.
After her six-month probationary period ended, she had changed her tune a bit. She realized the vast majority of calls they were responding to involved having to deal with the bottom of the barrel of society, like the backwoods hicks who thought it was cool to smack their women around, or the young gangbangers who felt the world owed them something, or her least favorite, human traffickers who routinely sold women and children into the sex trade. Cindy marveled at how Eric was able to wade through all the crap and still keep a happy demeanor. She respected his willingness to give each person the benefit of the doubt, even if he was a bit old-fashioned when it came to gender roles.
Eric and Cindy worked the night shift together, patrolling from eight at night until four in the morning, a time that most people tended to be asleep. The ones who were out and about tended to be the riffraff who had nothing better to do than to cause trouble. One night, during their shift briefing, an FBI agent took a couple of minutes to speak with them.
“I’m Special Agent Rich Demarco with the FBI, and I’m here to ask for your help,” he began. “We received a report that a Russian Special Forces unit may be operating in the area with the intention of carrying out some sort of sabotage mission against the General Dynamics land systems factory in Lima. While we don’t have any further details or leads at this time, we want to make the Sheriff’s Department aware of the possibility of an attack. If you see something suspicious, please investigate it. Radio it in and verify that nothing nefarious is going on.”
One of the officers raised a hand to ask a question, and Agent Demarco nodded to him. “If we do encounter a Russian Special Forces unit while on patrol, how are we supposed to deal with that? The most firepower we pack in our cruisers is a twelve-gauge shotgun.” He knew he wasn’t the only one to think of that angle.
“That is a fair question, Deputy,” Demarco answered. “If you encounter an armed group of Russians, radio it in and wait for backup. Don’t try to be a hero. These guys are highly trained and will probably be well armed. Since we’ve received this tip, security has been increased at the factory. We also have a joint FBI-Sheriff Department SWAT team on 24-hour standby. The SWAT team can be deployed quickly, so please wait for them to arrive if you believe that you have encountered this Russian group.”
With that said, the briefing broke up, and the officers went about their normal patrols, hoping that today would be like any other day.
Four hours later, Eric paid the cashier at the 24-hour Denny’s and proceeded to head back to their patrol car.
“I love the Eggs Over my Hammy sandwich,” Cindy said to her partner. She held the door open for him as they exited the building.
Eric laughed at his partner’s addiction to the fat-laden, calorie-inundated meal Denny’s called a sandwich. “Enjoy it while you can, Cindy,” he said with a smirk. “When you get to be as old as me, your metabolism will change, and suddenly you’ll get fat just drinking water.” He patted his stomach. It felt like he had just gained a few extra pounds, even though he’d just had a salad.
Walking over to the passenger side of the patrol car, Cindy opened the door and climbed on in. “Come on, Eric, it can’t be that bad, and you’re not that old,” she said, snickering a bit. She knew her partner was self-conscious about his weight. He really wasn’t advanced in age, having just turned thirty-six, but he was packing on a little bit of a beer belly.
As they got themselves settled in for another couple more hours of patrolling, the radio came to life. “Any units in the vicinity of Amherst Road and McClain Road, please respond. There are reports of suspicious activity in the area,” came the call from dispatch.
“Wow, could they be any more vague with that description?” Cindy remarked.
“It’s probably nothing, but we should check on it. We’re only a few miles away,” Eric replied.
He picked up the radio handset. “Dispatch, this is Six Delta. We’ll check it out,” he answered, hoping it was just a wild animal or something benign.
*******
Lima, Ohio
Outskirts of General Dynamics Land Systems Factory
It was nearly 0100 hours as the Russian soldiers pulled the mortar tubes out of the back of their black Suburban SUVs and got them set up. A soldier used a mallet to pound in a rod used to hold the baseplate in place, making sure it was nice and snug in the ground before they set the tube up and began to use it. Once they fired the mortars, the blast from the propellant had a way of shifting the baseplate, which would affect its aim. Seeing that they were firing these mortars from near their maximum range, they didn’t want to spend a lot of rounds having to rezero the mortars if the baseplate moved.
Lifting a small encrypted radio to his lips, Major Popov whispered, “Viper Two, are you prepared for fire mission?” he asked.
Sergeant Boris Stepanov had positioned himself in a forest preserve that was directly across from both their primary and secondary targets. During his recon of the area, he had spotted a tree that he could climb, which would provide him with an excellent view of the targets. He had marked the tree with a chalk mark a couple of days before and had found his way back to it easily enough. He had waited up in his perch there for several hours before his radio had finally crackled to life.
Stepanov smiled. “This is Viper Two. Send one round, grid OH 4561 6823. Stand by for adjustments,” he directed. Depending on where it landed, he would fine-tune to make sure the next set of rounds would land amongst the factory they needed to destroy.
“Fire one round. Stand by for adjustments,” Popov responded.
Sergeant Vlad Volkov lifted the 31-pound HE round above his shoulder and dropped it down the tube. The second the round hit the base of the tube, the charge wrapped around the stem of the round ignited, ejecting the projectile high into the air at a heavy angle. The round whizzed through the air for what felt like an eternity before it traveled the nearly five kilometers to land in the parking lot of the tank plant with a thunderous explosion.
As the initial flash dissipated and the fireball swelled into the night sky, Sergeant Stepanov calle
d in an adjustment to the next fire mission. The Spetsnaz team fired another single round, hoping this next one would hit the mark so they could drop their ordnance as quickly as possible and get out of the area before they were discovered.
A minute and a half later, a second round hit the roof of the tank manufacturing facility, causing another bright flash and a fireball.
Sergeant Stepanov smiled broadly. He lifted his radio to his lips. “Start dropping the rounds in,” he directed.
Major Popov yelled at the mortar team. “Fire right away!”
As the rounds continued to sail through the air, Popov made sure they reserved the last four rounds for the secondary target, the fuel refinery. With each thump of the mortars, he could hear the echo as the noise bounced around the forests and the few houses near them. He looked down the dirt road they had traveled down and saw Lieutenant Egor Vasiliev with three other soldiers, guarding the entrance to the field they had set up in.
*******
Looking at his watch, Vasiliev could see that nearly five minutes had gone by since they first started firing the mortars. “We need to hurry this up,” he thought. “We’re going to have police on us anytime.” He knew that the American police, unlike those in Russia, had a pretty good response time if they were called to investigate something.
Just then, he saw a set of headlights turn down the county road toward their position. As the horizon lit up with yet another mortar round, Vasiliev realized that whoever was traveling toward them would definitely have seen the mortars launching out of the forest.
“Stand by and remain ready,” he said to the three other soldiers with him. “That could be a police car coming our way. If it is, we need to destroy it quickly before they can radio in for help,” he ordered, making sure everyone knew what was at stake.
*******
