Battlefield Pacific

by James Rosone

  Driving down National Road, Eric saw a red-hot projectile launch into the sky from a farm field not that far away from them. Cindy saw it too. “What the heck was that?” she asked, pointing at yet another projectile that flew into the sky in the direction of the city of Lima.

  “That’s a mortar round,” he said, matter-of-factly. He grabbed his radio mic. “Dispatch, this is Six Delta,” he began. “We have confirmation on the Russian Special Forces unit near the intersection of National Road and McClain. Requesting SWAT to our location immediately!”

  “Six Delta, this is Seven Delta. Did you say you found those Russians?” another patrol car asked almost as quickly as they had called it in.

  “That’s affirmative,” Eric responded. “We’re less than a quarter mile away, and we’re observing them launch mortars in the direction of Lima. I’m not sure what they’re hitting, but my money says they’re going after the tank plant.”

  Cindy looked terrified. “How do you know those are mortars?” she asked. “Maybe they’re fireworks or something,” she said sheepishly. She had never seen a mortar—she wasn’t sure if Eric had, either.

  Eric looked at Cindy. “I spent six years in the Marines—a tour in Afghanistan and two in Iraq. Trust me, those are mortars those guys are firing,” he insisted. He picked up speed as they headed closer to their firing point.

  “What are you doing, Eric? We’re just supposed to find them and call it in, not go all Dwayne Johnson on them.”

  “Dwayne Johnson—God, she makes me feel old,” he thought.

  “I’m getting us to the intersection, and then we’ll stop and wait,” he explained. “This way if they try to run, we’ll see what direction they head in.” He could hear the fear in her voice but knew he had to get there.

  As their vehicle approached the intersection, Eric spotted a brief flicker of light, which he immediately recognized as a muzzle flash. In the fraction of a second it took his eyes to see it, he veered the car hard to the left and slammed on the brakes, causing Cindy to instinctively grab for anything she could to steady herself.

  In seconds, the front windshield exploded in tiny plexiglass chunks. Then Cindy’s passenger-side window shattered, peppering her with the same tiny chunks of glass. When the car came to a halt, Eric jumped out of the driver’s side door and then pulled his partner across his seat, out the door. As they hid behind the car, dozens of high-velocity rounds tore through their vehicle.

  He hastily grabbed his radio. “This is Six Delta—we’re taking heavy fire! Requesting backup at once. They have the intersection of National and McClain bracketed. Approach with caution. I say again, Six Delta is under heavy fire. Requesting help!” He yelled into his mic to be heard over the increasing volume of gunfire.

  Cindy lay on the ground with her hands pulled up around her head as she just screamed in fear. Their vehicle was being torn apart by the barrage of gunfire. “Cindy! I need your help!” Eric yelled. “Shoot back at them, so we can get them to stop firing and take cover!”

  He reached down and shook her, trying to get her attention. When she looked up at him, he repeated his instructions. She nodded as she tried to regain her composure and unstrap her sidearm. Eric popped up from behind the hood of his car and fired several rounds in the direction of the gunfire. He saw a couple of figures stop shooting as they took cover. Then a slew of rounds tore into the hood of the car, right where his head had just been before he ducked down.

  Cindy popped up near the rear of the vehicle and fired four or five rounds at the Russians before ducking back down. Eric fired a second barrage of bullets at the attackers before reloading his firearm. He heard several of them calling out to each other in Russian, and he had no idea what they were going to do next. The sound of the mortars continued to whistle in the background, but the gunfire from the enemy soldiers had stopped. Eric popped up to take a quick look and see if he could spot one of the attackers long enough to shoot him.

  Seeing movement to his right, Eric turned his pistol and fired off one shot before he felt something slam into his left arm and his chest, knocking him to the ground. As Eric’s body hit the ground, he wasn’t sure how bad his injuries were. His arm felt like it had been shattered, and it was hard to breathe, but he knew he had his vest on with the plates, so chances were, the bullet hadn’t gone through. He turned to look for Cindy and saw her firing at an unseen attacker. She got off three rounds before he saw the top part of her head explode. Her body collapsed to the ground just a few feet away from him.

  Lying on the ground, unable to really move, Eric knew the Russians must be moving in on them to finish them off. As he lay there waiting for the inevitable, his mind wandered to a couple of days earlier, when he was enjoying the BBQ with his wife and their two little girls.

  “I wish I could be there for them,” he thought to himself as a dark figure rounded the police cruiser.

  The figure lifted his rifle and fired a couple of rounds into Cindy to make sure she was dead.

  “No playing possum with these guys,” Eric realized.

  Summoning the last bit of strength he had, he raised his pistol and fired as many times as he could at the soldier that had just shot at Cindy.

  Eric saw the soldier grab at his neck just before he felt half a dozen sledgehammers hit his body. Everything quickly went black, just like the night sky his eyes were now blankly staring at.

  *******

  Major Sasha Popov yelled at his men. “Hurry up and get in the SUVs!” They needed to get out of there.

  Although Vasiliev’s men had managed to kill the two police officers who had discovered them, they had lost one of their teammates in the gunfight. They would have to leave his body. As much as it pained Popov to leave a fallen comrade, they had to head out to the safe house before the authorities sent more vehicles to their location.

  They were in such a hurry that they left the mortar tubes behind, along with everything else that wasn’t absolutely vital to take with them. When they arrived at the safe house, they would get their next set of orders, and there would be another way for them to obtain further weapons. The only thing that really concerned Major Popov as they rushed away from the scene was the possibility of the police recovering potential forensic evidence. The thermite grenades they’d left to destroy the equipment would do a pretty good job, but there was no way to guarantee they had destroyed everything.

  As they sped down the county road, Major Popov spotted a police cruiser with his flashing lights on. The car sailed right past them at high speed, probably heading toward his comrade. In minutes, they approached Interstate 75 and headed south. The three SUVs picked up speed, but the drivers limited themselves to roughly eight miles over the speed limit so as not to draw too much scrutiny to their little convoy. They would need to drive roughly twenty miles down the road before they would get off and change vehicles. There was a small utility van that had been pre-positioned for a situation like this; it could hold the entire team in one vehicle. Driving in a three-vehicle convoy would attract attention if they did it for too long.

  Thirty minutes went by before they found the black utility van they had hidden the day before. Climbing into the back of the van and piling their remaining weapons and equipment inside, they placed camouflaged netting over the three SUVs, hoping to hide them for a few more days.

  “I wish we could just burn the vehicles,” Major Popov lamented. However, he knew that would create too much fire and smoke, drawing the attention of the authorities.

  Once everyone was in the van, they drove another three hours until they came to the next Airbnb house Popov had rented for the group. They would hole up at this location for three days before moving on to the next safe house. Then they’d repeat the process over again.

  Potential Unrest

  Providence, Rhode Island

  Brown University

  Grad Center Bar

  George Philips could not believe what was going on in his country. President Gates’ ascendency to t
he White House had been nothing short of disastrous. He firmly believed that Gates’ disregard for the law, the judicial system, and his fascist tendencies were a threat to the core principles and beliefs enshrined in the Constitution. Even his doctoral professor had said the President was a disgrace to the office and should be resisted at every possible opportunity. Like most progressives, George had a very difficult time accepting the results of the 2016 election. There was just no way someone so crass, unprepared, and lacking in political understanding could possibly win the election. Yet here he was, sitting in the White House, irritating the country like sandpaper on a festering wound.

  “Well, he’s not my president!” George thought.

  It was now 7:30 in the evening, and a slight drizzle began as George headed to the Grad Center Bar to meet up with some friends who helped him run the local Antifa chapter at Brown. They were planning a large-scale protest to take place during the Memorial Day holiday a little over a month away. He felt that it was an appropriate day for a protest, since the President would be honoring baby killers and war criminals.

  George was a third-year PhD student at Brown University, where he studied political science. When he’d first started college as an undergrad, he had wanted to get a job and work as a staffer in Congress to get some experience in the political world. Once he had completed his bachelor’s degree at Georgetown University, that was exactly what he had done. Hailing from Vermont, he easily obtained a staffer position with the independent senator from his home state and got to see how the sausage was made in Washington. After a couple of years working as a staffer, George decided that the best way he could influence future generations wasn’t working in Congress. Instead, he decided that he wanted to influence future young people by becoming a professor.

  The Vermont senator had given him a book written by Saul Alinsky, Rules for Radicals: A Practical Primer for Realistic Radicals, which had changed his life and the way he viewed politics. George had already espoused many of the more liberal political positions, but the wry old senator from Vermont had regaled him with stories of just how great America could become if the country would move more rapidly in the direction of socialism, and he found the narrative compelling.

  He came to believe that if the government would just take the $700 billion or more it spent annually on defense and spend it on free education and universal healthcare, the country could really improve the lives of everyday people. In his mind, the government squandered so much money on maintaining nuclear weapons and a huge military—for what? Unless they planned on using that military to wage war, it was a waste.

  That was four years ago. Now, as a PhD student, he was nearing his goal of finally becoming a professor. Then Gates had won the presidency, and George felt a new calling on his life, to become an activist and lead a new generation of young people to resist the evils of the Gates administration.

  As George walked up to the outside of the bar, he saw Jillian pull up in an Uber. Through the window, he could see her putting her phone back in her purse and unfastening her seat belt. As she opened the door, she cheerfully called out, “Thanks for the ride!”

  “There you are, Jillian,” George said as he greeted her with an awkward side hug. He couldn’t dare to be accused of sexual harassment.

  She smiled. “How are the studies going?” she inquired. She had been a PhD student like him not that long ago. They shared that same academic bond.

  George pulled open the door for her. “Eh, you know how it goes. Research, write a bunch of stuff, and then your advisor shreds it and you have to start over,” he replied. They both laughed.

  They spotted Daniel Talley, their contact for a British multimedia company, sitting in the corner, and walked over to join him.

  Daniel stood. “Thanks for the invitation,” he said as he extended his hand to shake theirs. “I love this place.”

  “It is a pretty great hangout,” Jillian agreed. “The drinks are cheap, but I will warn you that they make `em strong here.”

  “Did you have a hard time finding it?” asked George.

  “I would have, but your directions really helped,” Daniel responded with a chuckle. “I can definitely see why this is more of a university haunt—most tourists would probably get lost on the way here.” He smirked.

  “Glad you aren’t the average tourist, Daniel,” said George. The Grad Center Bar was more than just a cool dive bar; it was also the unofficial meeting place for a lot of the Antifa members. George was very careful who he invited there.

  “I think we’ve been standing here long enough,” Daniel joked. “Why don’t you take a seat, and I’ll order us some food and drinks?”

  “Thanks, Daniel,” Jillian answered. She and George sat down. “I’m always up for free food.”

  “So, what’s going on with our brothers across the Pond?” asked George. He was eager to hear what the Antifa groups in Europe were doing. Sometimes their approaches to demonstrating and protesting would also play well in the United States.

  The waiter came, and they paused long enough to place orders for appetizers and drinks. Once he left, Daniel cleared his throat.

  “Things in the UK are going well,” he began. “Same with France. As you know, we’re organizing a large EU-wide protest to take place during the May Day celebration. What with the war going on, it seems appropriate that we’d have a demonstration to remind people of what these fascist regimes are doing to our countries…” He paused, looking as if he were about to require a tissue. “The loss of life is just horrific. So many young people being killed, and for what? Corporate greed? Nothing is worth the loss of our generation of young people.” He looked genuinely depressed.

  “It really is terrible,” Jillian agreed. “Two of my cousins were just drafted when that tyrant in the White House announced the second draft. George’s little brother is currently serving in the Marines. Has he been sent overseas yet?” she asked.

  George sighed. He felt terrible that his little brother had been caught up in the war machine. His brother had just graduated from a trade school and had been hired for his first job as an electrician when he’d received his draft card. George had told him to tear it up and move to Canada until the war ended, but their father had ultimately convinced him that his legal troubles would only continue to follow him after the war, and that he should instead try to find a clerical job and do his best to ride out the war that way.

  “Not yet,” George answered. His drink had arrived, and he took a big swig of it. “He was lucky and got selected to be an electrical technician on fighter airplanes. He’ll be in training for the job for a few months before he deploys. Right now, it’s looking like he might be eligible to deploy toward the fall.”

  Jillian nodded and put her hand briefly on George’s shoulder to comfort him. “I’m so sorry, George,” she said. “We have to fight this with everything we have. This next protest on Memorial Day has to be huge. People have to know how President Gates engineered a war in Europe and Asia at the request of the military-industrial complex and their Wall Street masters.”

  George nodded and smacked the tabletop with his fist. “This war is destroying our country! Almost 170,000 soldiers have been killed, not to mention the horrific devastation that has befallen the San Francisco Bay Area after that nuclear attack. What are we going to do to make this one count?” he asked.

  “Short of someone assassinating Gates, I don’t see anything truly slowing the US war machine,” Daniel responded glumly. Then he seemed to have a sudden inspiration. “However, what we can do is cause a work stoppage to protest what is going on. It’s nonviolent, and it will make headline news. Who knows—it might even spread to other countries if we can get it to take root here.”

  Jillian beamed. “A work stoppage—just like the Occupy Wall Street days,” she said, seemingly drifting back to fond memories. “People can bring their tents and camp out.”

  “Exactly,” Daniel replied, “but in this case, everyone camps out in the pa
rking lots of these companies that are manufacturing war materials and tries to stop people from doing their jobs. The country needs to know that these weapons they’re creating are responsible for tens of thousands of deaths.”

  George took another large sip of his drink. “Someone should kill that fascist criminal in the White House,” he responded angrily. “My brother could end up dying in this stupid war.” He downed the rest of his drink.

  The meeting went on for some time as they planned the work stoppage. Their time was productive, but at the end of the meeting, George needed a little help to make it back to graduate housing.

  *******

  Daniel Talley observed his surroundings one last time before entering the flat he had rented for the month—he was sure that no one had followed him. He dropped his bag on the table near the entry way and completed the usual security check of his place. No bugs or signs of disturbance.

  “Paranoid habits die hard,” he chuckled to himself.

  He changed out the sim card on his cell phone and made a call.

  “Vasily,” said the voice on the other end, cheerfully. Vasily smiled at the sound of his real name. “It’s good to hear from you, comrade. How was your meeting?”

  “Things are going well,” he responded. “The Antifa movement will be organizing a work stoppage on Memorial Day. They think it is their idea.”

  His Russian intelligence handler laughed. “You do have a talent that way,” he responded. “What about the other objective?”

  Vasily answered, “Things are progressing better than I expected. I do believe we may have a candidate to attempt an assassination of the President, given enough time and grooming. George is becoming mentally unstable, and he jumped at the suggestion I placed in the conversation.”

  “Excellent, Vasily. Call me after your next meeting.” The phone clicked.

  Vasily Smirnov smiled. There was still a lot of work to do, but so far, things were going even better than planned.