Invasion

by James Rosone

  Sergeant Schneider held his breath for a moment until he heard the expected thunderous explosions at the nearby base. He could see that several rounds did score direct hits on the hangars, and then the smoke rounds began to land, shrouding the base in thick white smoke.

  At the same time, Schneider’s M203 gunner had fired off three of his own smoke grenades along their portion of the fence line. His goal with the smaller localized smoke grenades was to keep the enemy from knowing what was happening along this side of the perimeter until the rest of their platoon was able to join them.

  Suddenly, five people carrying a mix of different civilian assault rifles rounded the corner of the engine repair shop, headed right for their position. Before Schneider could even inhale, his M240 gunner had opened fire on them, hitting them with a barrage of bullets. The CDF soldiers had a look of sheer surprise and terror on their faces, right before their bodies were riddled with bullets.

  Zip, zap.

  Bullets flew in their direction, hitting some of the trees and underbrush around them. One of the guard towers not far from them had let loose on their positions.

  “Take that tower out!” shouted Schneider with urgency.

  His heavy machine gunner shifted fire, and the M203 gunner aimed his grenade gun at the tower as well.

  Pop…bam.

  The grenade missed hitting the machine-gun position in the tower directly, but it did hit part of its support structure. Within seconds, the tower toppled over on its side, silencing the machine-gun crew inside it.

  The victory was short-lived. By that time, more than a dozen CDF soldiers had started filtering into the grounds around the engine shop and the nearby area, and they were lighting up Schneider’s position. One of his soldiers grunted and then moaned in pain from a hit he took.

  Just as Sergeant Schneider thought he was going to have to have his guys pull back, the rest of their squad filtered into the positions they had taken up. In the span of ten seconds, there were now more than forty paratroopers laying down fire on the CDF soldiers.

  The platoon sergeant shouted, “Advance on these two buildings, one squad at a time! We need to get closer to the base perimeter.”

  Across the railroad tracks, Schneider and his men could see that additional mortars were making contact. They weren’t as large, but they seemed to be doing an excellent job of continuing to cause chaos and confusion at the CDF base, which was the real goal.

  As Schneider and his men took up positions at the engine repair shop and the pallet factory, their numbers were suddenly augmented. The remaining two platoons of the company had finally made it across the river.

  Five more minutes went by, and then Captain Ira Tabankin fired off a blue flare into the sky. That was the signal for all of the platoons to do their best to start breaching the CDF base. Adrenaline coursed through Schneider’s veins as he charged forward—it was finally time to get inside and begin clearing the hangars and surrounding buildings.

  Bullets whipped all around Sergeant Schneider and his fireteam as they ran through the hole in the fence that Bravo Team had created. Behind them, the other squads in their platoon followed through the breach, and they all fanned out through the parking lot to the main flight building and the hangars nearby.

  As they continued their mad dash forward, Sergeant Schneider saw several CDF soldiers spill out of the hangars and buildings in front of them, weapons drawn. Their presence was very short-lived, however. Very rapidly, each of them dropped to the ground in a growing heap as they were gunned down by the advancing paratroopers.

  The slaughter went on for another five minutes as the US soldiers overwhelmed the defenders. After almost a hundred CDF soldiers had been added to the body count, several of the enemy soldiers began coming out with their hands up in surrender, dropping their weapons and clearly hoping they would be spared the same fate as their comrades.

  After a few minutes of this, Schneider’s squad cautiously approached one of the hangars. A white sheet appeared from a crack in the door.

  “We want to surrender!” Schneider heard a man shout urgently.

  Sergeant Schneider and his men spread out in front of the entrance to the building. “Come out with your hands held high!” he barked.

  His pulse pounded ferociously. If they try any funny business, we’re going to light ’em up, he thought.

  The sounds of gunfire quieted down as more and more CDF soldiers threw down their rifles. One by one, the soldiers exited the entrance of the hangar with their hands up.

  “Check them and make sure none of them are still armed!” Schneider ordered. A few of his men moved forward and started patting down the new prisoners.

  When they’d all been checked and lined up, his men zip-tied their hands and marched them over to the parking lot and had them sit down. Schneider noted that out of the twenty-six soldiers he now detained, nearly half of them were women. He hadn’t expected that.

  What exactly am I supposed to do with you? Sergeant Schneider asked himself. Their orders on how to handle these prisoners weren’t precisely clear. He knew that if they captured any UN soldiers, he and his men were supposed to treat them in accordance with the Geneva Conventions, but no one had really outlined what to do with CDF militia forces. All he knew for certain was that they had been declared unlawful enemy combatants at the outset of the war.

  A few minutes went by as the rest of the company continued to secure the area. Schneider overheard their commander talking on the radio with battalion headquarters about what to do with the prisoners—he apparently had the same questions. When he got off the horn, he called over the platoon leaders. Shortly, they spread out to disseminate the information.

  “Listen up,” called out Schneider’s platoon sergeant. “For right now, we’re going to transport these prisoners to the local sheriff’s holding cells. Then they’ll wait there to be collected by either DHS or FBI for prosecution.

  “Now that we’ve completed our initial objective, it’s time to get your positions ready to deal with whatever UN forces may try to retreat past our positions. You should anticipate some action soon—the fight down south of us is in full swing.”

  Schneider set to work with his men. Although he learned that the front lines were nearly forty miles away, he could still hear a lot of loud explosions in the distance. At times they would get louder, and Schneider questioned if they were already retreating toward him.

  Will the enemy try and fight it out in the streets of Seattle or attempt to retreat to Canada? he wondered.

  *******

  Two days went by somewhat uneventfully in terms of combat. Sergeant Schneider and his squad got their positions ready to stop the retreating UN force. They’d been probed a few times, but not by a large force.

  It’s only a matter of time until the main body of their army shows up, he thought nervously.

  Schneider continued his work and walked up and down the line checking on his men. His blood pressure rose when he saw a couple of soldiers jaw-jacking instead of filling sandbags like they were supposed to be doing, and he made a beeline over to them.

  “Hey, stop messing around!” he yelled. “Get back to work so we can build those bunkers!”

  The men bristled but said nothing.

  “We don’t know when the UN force is going to show up, but you can bet when they do, they’ll hit our positions hard. You’re going to want those sandbags to protect yourselves,” he snapped.

  The group of five soldiers grumbled a bit, like good privates usually do, but they eventually nodded their heads and went back to work.

  Schneider shook his head. Slackers, he thought. Then he walked away to check on the next group of soldiers.

  Sergeant Schneider had to remind himself that his fate was not entirely dependent on the efforts of a few lazy privates. Things were actually going quite well.

  After their victory at the CDF base, several townspeople had come out of the shadows. “Thank you for liberating our town,” said a man who�
��d apparently elected himself as a spokesperson.

  “Just doing our jobs,” Captain Tabankin had responded.

  “What can we do to help you?” the man probed.

  Not passing up an opportunity, Tabankin had replied, “Actually…do you have any bobcats, backhoes, or dump trucks?”

  “I know where we can get some,” another man answered. “We’ll bring them over to you.”

  When the construction vehicles had arrived later that day, Captain Tabankin had the company begin building a series of trenches and fortified bunkers all along the Snohomish riverbank. They used the backhoes to break through the tough cold dirt and dug a number of trench lines so they wouldn’t be so exposed to the onslaught that was sure to hit them.

  They dug the fighting positions to be five feet deep and two feet wide. Every twenty yards, they excavated a section of the trench that was eight feet deep, twenty feet in length, and eight feet wide. These larger sections were slated to be turned into fortified bunkers, in case they needed to ride out any artillery bombardments.

  For the next twenty-four hours, close to three hundred civilians from the town and the rest of the company had worked feverishly getting the defensive positions built. They’d leveraged the nearby pallet factory for many of their wood products and other material needs. A trip to the local Home Depot helped them acquire any of the other last-minute tools required and the four-by-four timbers for the roofs and walls.

  After a full day’s work, Captain Tabankin spoke to their foreman. “Thank you so much for all of your help. At this point, though, I think you all should leave town and head for Three Lakes or Lake Roesiger. Although that’s not that far from your homes, it should keep you out of the way of what is sure to turn into a bloody fight.”

  *******

  After the townspeople had promised to do their best to stay out of harm’s way, Tabankin had set to work contacting his various counterparts from his new command bunker. Not only was Captain Tabankin the company commander, he was also the senior captain in the battalion—and if casualties across the Army continued, he was most likely going to make major.

  First, he spoke to the battalion commander on the radio. After explaining their current situation and capabilities, the commander had told him he’d call the higher-ups to see what he could do.

  Twenty minutes later, the commander was back on the horn. “Captain, I spoke with Brigade. They informed me the 2nd ID commander shifted the 4th Battalion, 2nd Aviation Regiment over to Naval Air Station Whidbey Island, further north of you. 4th Battalion’s call sign is Death Dealers. They’ve got sixteen Apaches itching for some trigger time.”

  Captain Tabankin smiled. When the UN decided to show its face, he could get the Apaches airborne and have them snipe at the enemy armor with their Hellfire missions.

  “Do we have any fire support, sir?” Tabankin asked next.

  “We have some artillery guns set up several kilometers behind your lines, around ten kilometers to your rear in Machias.”

  “Good copy, sir,” Tabankin replied. He knew that was a good location for the artillery—from there, they’d be able to provide them excellent fire support, but they wouldn’t be near any major cities to put civilians at risk when the enemy decided to run counterbattery fire missions.

  Next, Tabankin spoke to the tactical air control party on loan from the 22nd Special Tactics Squadron. The TACP liaison officer made contact with his superiors and then informed the captain, “Sir, we’ve shifted a squadron of A-10s and F-16s to provide direct air support. We’ve also moved the drones of the 20th Attack Squadron over to Fairchild Air Force Base on the eastern side of the state. They have sixteen MQ-9 Reaper drones. Not only will they be able to provide you with a lot of persistent ISR capabilities, but they’re also armed with four Hellfire missiles and two five-hundred-pound JDAMs.”

  “Excellent,” the captain replied. He felt reasonably confident that with this level of support, they’d be able to crush the UN’s armor and maybe take out their command structure.

  With support in place, all they could do was continue to reinforce their positions until the UN finally decided to show up.

  *******

  On the eerily quiet morning of January 28, it was almost dawn when Captain Tabankin’s radio crackled.

  “Captain, this is Private Connor from OP-Two. We’ve sighted the enemy advance party.”

  “What’re you seeing, Private?”

  “Most of the armored vehicles seem to be a mixture of Chinese, Russian, and Canadian infantry fighting vehicles. They have some armored personnel carriers and a few light tanks.”

  “That’s great, but what strength level? Give me some numbers, Private,” demanded Tabankin.

  “Um, sorry about that. It looks to be about a company-sized element of light tanks and probably two battalion-sized elements of infantry fighting vehicles and other armored vehicles. They look to be five or six kilometers away but steadily moving toward us.”

  “OK. Continue to monitor their progress. We’ll pull you guys back soon,” Tabankin ordered. He had the TACP LNO call up the Death Dealers to get the Apaches in the air on standby.

  Ten minutes went by as the enemy continued to move closer to their positions. When they got within two kilometers, the edges of the American lines started to get bombarded by enemy artillery. Tabankin could hear the concussions from his vantage point, but they still seemed far away.

  Right on cue, the brigade’s lone battery of 155mm Howitzers and their two batteries of 105mm guns opened fire. The rounds flew over their heads with a whooshing noise high above. Their sudden impact amongst the enemy formations initiated the battle, letting the attackers know the paratroopers were nearby.

  A few minutes later, one of the drone operators who’d been keeping an eye on the enemy formations a few kilometers in front of them shouted, “Here they come!”

  “Are you sure? I can’t see anything,” replied Captain Tabankin, looking off into the horizon with his binoculars.

  The specialist didn’t even look at the captain. He was wearing a VR headset while his right hand controlled the small drone he was using to spot for them. “Well, I see at least a battalion’s worth of armored vehicles heading toward our position. Um…they are probably about two kilometers away but picking up in speed.”

  “Crap!” replied one of the platoon sergeants. “They’re probably going to try and see if they can overrun our positions with their tanks.”

  Turning to find his weapons platoon leader, Tabankin called out, “Make sure our Javelin operators are ready for what’s coming.”

  Next, he turned to find their TACP LNO. “See if those F-16s can go after some of the larger formations to the rear of the enemy positions,” he ordered.

  The Air Force NCO nodded and reached for his radio that would connect him to the various aircraft operating in the region. The sergeant had a map of the area laid out on a small table they’d gotten during the Home Depot run they’d made the day earlier. Another airman was working on getting the approximate location of the enemy armor with the soldier wearing the VR headset controlling their surveillance drone.

  “Here they come. They’re about to pass through Phase Line Alpha,” announced the soldier manning the drone.

  The Air Force LNO announced, “I’ve got two Reapers that are about to engage the enemy armor right now. Then the Apaches are going to engage them next. Once they’ve expended their ammunition, the A-10s will swoop in and plaster what’s left.”

  “What about those F-16s—do you have an ETA on them?” demanded Captain Tabankin.

  The TACP LNO nodded. “They’re being scrambled out of Fairchild. They’ll be on station in about twenty minutes.”

  This is going to work, thought Tabankin.

  Captain Tabankin walked outside of the command bunker to watch the carnage. He winced briefly when an explosion erupted less than a hundred feet away. One of the enemy tanks had fired a round right into another one of the bunkers, blowing it apart. />
  Then he saw what he’d come to see—a wave of probably more than twenty Hellfire missiles raced over their heads as they flew toward their intended targets. As they sailed toward the enemy, Tabankin’s optimism shrunk a bit when he saw several of the missiles fall prey to enemy flares and dazzlers. A couple more were blown up by some sort of antimissile system. Still, he counted twelve explosions. More than half of the missiles had impacted against their targets.

  “I see ’em!” Tabankin shouted back into the bunker. “Tell our Javelin crews to start lighting them up.”

  Pop…swoosh...boom.

  Eight of their Javelins raced across the two thousand meters that separated the two opposing forces. Next came the second wave of Hellfires from the Apaches, intermixed with a slew of antimateriel rockets. This volley was quickly followed up with a string of red tracer rounds from their chin-mounted guns.

  More infantry fighting vehicles, tanks, and armored personnel carriers exploded as they crossed into Phase Line Bravo. Tabankin could tell they were now approaching fifteen hundred meters because they were in range of their heavy weapons. Unfortunately, they only had two of the venerable Browning M2 fifty-caliber machine guns with them. The gunners started shooting at the lighter-skinned armored personnel carriers, avoiding the tanks they knew they couldn’t penetrate with their AP rounds.

  Several missiles from the charging enemy vehicles fired at them, headed right for their remaining machine-gun bunkers. Those dugouts also housed their fifty-cals, which meant they were going to be down their last two major weapon systems. Seconds later, both bunkers exploded in spectacular fashion.

  More enemy tank rounds, 20mm and 30mm cannon fire raked their positions as the enemy force raced toward the two-vehicle bridges that crossed the Snohomish River. They were closing in on one thousand meters distance. Once they got a bit closer, they’d disgorge their infantry to help them secure the bridges and their escape to Canada.

  Captain Tabankin heard the familiar whine of the A-10’s engines and turned to look behind him. Two of the Warthogs were coming in for an attack run. They must’ve swooped down from a much higher altitude because, like a German Stuka bomber, they were coming in at a forty-five-degree angle. Several Maverick laser-guided missiles fired from beneath their wings as the tank killers swooped in to get within range of their seven-barrel 30mm tank-busting nose guns.