Come morning the two squads would break up into two cells, with the Lieutenant in charge of one and he'd be in charge of the other. They would use hit and run tactics on the resistance, if they found any.
They soon saw dusk coming, so the Lieutenant pulled them a hundred feet from the trail and established a camp. There was no talking and any conversations were done in whispers. Once the 'Green Frog' rations were behind them, the Sergeant took a long drink from his plastic canteen, which contained vodka. The metal canteen held water. Each trooper carried two, but only officers and NCOs carried alcohol. Slavavich was no alcoholic, but enjoyed a strong drink following a greasy meal.
He quickly established a list of names for guard duty and threatened to kill anyone he caught asleep, and he meant it. Death was the punishment for sleeping on guard in the Russian army, and he'd shot more than one lad or woman for it.
Then, he had mines placed out, most closer to the trail, and some Russian copies of Claymore mines were placed nearer the campsite. Then and only then, did some of the troops try to sleep. The Lieutenant called in their night position to keep them from being killed by their own aircraft, artillery, or men. The nightly call was a life saver and had been for years. Failing to call in had killed more than one man in the army. It was a matter of life and death that all headquarters knew a unit’s night camping site on a map.
Near 0100 the Private on guard spotted movement in her NVGs and woke the Senior Sergeant, who in turn woke everyone else. They were to remain quiet and in place. The Lieutenant and Sergeant held the clackers to the command detonated mines.
Suddenly, the Americans stopped moving and another man moved forward to speak with the point man. The way their hands were moving, the conversation must have been animated and a bit hot, because the point man kept shaking his head. Finally, the man who'd moved forward sent the point man back and he took over the point position. He continued to move, but slowly and cautiously as he looked for booby traps and mines. The Senior Sergeant noticed the Americans wore NVGs as well, but they'd not spot the Russians in the woods, unless one of them moved.
Five minutes later, the Americans were gone and a good 40 men and women had just passed. Senior Sergeant took the radio headset and in a whisper said, “Base, this is Raven 16, do you read me, over?”
“Have you five by five, Raven. What are your needs?”
“I need big guns on the trail. I just had a group of forty to fifty pass me moving north.”
“Uh, wait one as I check on the guns, over.”
“Roger and copy.”
The Senior Sergeant met the eyes of Kusya and winked. She'd done a damned good job and if they killed any Americans, he'd see she got a medal and maybe a promotion. He was a Non-Commissioned Officer (NCO) that took care of his good people.
“Can you see your target now, Raven 16?”
“Negative, but they are approximately 200 meters from my location.”
“Uh, wait one.”
“Sure.”
“Guns wants to know if you want us to walk the shells up and down the trail?”
“Roger that. That is exactly what I want so my position is not compromised. Use WP (white phosphorus) as the first shot.”
“Copy, and I will let you know when the first shell is on the way. The first shell will be Willy Peter, over.”
“I understand, over.” The Sergeant gave the young lady a big smile and thumb up.
She looked terrible and scared, but if Slavavich remembered correctly, this was only her second or third mission.
“First shot is white phosphorus and on the way. Guns will adjust from there.”
“Just get no further south and all will be well. I do not need to suffer any wounded or dead because of friendly fire.”
“I will pass the word on to Guns.”
The shell struck short and almost in the middle of the Senior Sergeant’s group. Screams were heard as the white hot metal struck Russian bodies. The white phosphorous shot high in the air as his men and women screamed in fear and pain.
“Short round, I repeat short round. Stop firing! Stop firing, you are killing Russians!”
Chapter 6
Colonel Williamson smiled as the Chinese purchased C-130 aircraft were positioned in the huge open field. All engines were running and not a pilot in the bunch was dumb enough to cut his engines. They'd flown low, under Russian radar, and landed in the field. The Russian base was currently taking some small arms fire, mostly snipers, but a concentrated attack would not happen for a few more minutes yet. When they did strike, they planned for it to be hard, concentrated and to last long enough to keep the Russians busy. They had word from American civilians who worked on the base that over 75% of the base was in the field.
“Big Dog, this is Copperhead, over.” John said as he glanced at his watch. The Chinese aircraft were in position early.
“Go, Copperhead.”
“Be advised Cougar 14 is in position, over.”
“Copy Cougar 14 in position. Will now launch Spring Break. Do you copy, Copperhead?”
“Roger that, and it's a go. You'll hear our attack.”
“Once the operation starts, good luck.”
“Roger that, Copperhead out.”
A Chinese jet fighter flight zoomed overhead with its engines screaming as the pilot lined up to strike the main base. Two more aircraft in the flight followed the first. Bombs were heard exploding, Russian rockets climbed into the air in search of targets, only to encounter the chaff and flares falling from the aircraft to confuse the rocket tracking systems. Explosions were clearly heard as each side began to battle the other.
John saw little of the battle, as he was leading his two companies of men toward the gulag. He had men stationed about fifty feet apart to direct the POWs who could walk to the waiting aircraft. He would take enough men into the gulag to carry the invalids out. Hopefully they'd get enough prisoners to make all the injuries and deaths worthwhile, if that was possible.
At the fence around the gulag, volatile explosives which were in long tubes, were pushed into the long coils of barbed and razor wire. The fuses were pulled and the explosives went off about five seconds later, blowing huge holes in the protective wire. When the dust and smoked cleared, men began to run onto the gulag proper.
“Follow me!” Sergeant Lee screamed as he ran through an open hole, dropped to a knee and began shooting at the guard towers. Soon the tat-tat-tat from machine guns on both sides began to fire. The charge was mostly uphill, and the machine gun barrels in the towers could not depress low enough to shoot and hit anyone once they got within 100 yards.
Grenades began exploding as well, as men and women on both sides screamed as they died. Corporal Wright, running beside John took a huge chunk of shrapnel in the face when a grenade exploded, and was dead instantly. The Colonel was fascinated the man kept running a good minute after being struck. Then, they were in the trenches that circled most of the camp. Now the fighting was hand-to-hand and brutal. As the troops fought, John and his selected group moved to the gulags to release the prisoners. He rushed, because they didn't have much time.
Shooting the lock off a barracks door, John entered and yelled, “Follow me! We're here to set you free. We have aircraft waiting that will take you to freedom.”
People followed him out the door into a living hell as Russian guns still fired in all directions. Some of the prisoners fell instantly, were quickly checked by others John led, and those fatally injured were killed. They'd leave no one injured behind to be tortured to death. A tat-tat-tat was heard and a group of women and kids behind John fell, most dead. A machine gun was hard on a human body, and a small body was torn to pieces. There sounded the explosion of a grenade and the gun grew quiet.
At the fence, when John looked behind him, he saw he'd lost a good third of the people from the barracks. Other groups were coming too, so he led his folks to an aircraft where a loadmaster counted them off. Once the bird was full of passengers, it taxied to the
end of the field and took off. Tracers were seen following most aircraft and at times they struck one of the big planes, knocking sheets of preformed aluminium from the fuselage. But on they flew, with some sending smoke out behind them.
Soon all five of the aircraft were gone and John contacted Sergeant Wilson, “Copperhead to Copperhead four over.”
“Go, Copperhead.” Firing was heard in the background.
Suddenly there was a huge explosion on the base and a big tank of aircraft fuel went up in flames. Aircraft flying over the base twisted and turned to avoid the black and dark red fireball as it rolled inside of itself. The noise now was so loud it was hard for John to even think.
“How many more prisoners, over?” John asked, because he only had one aircraft left and they could carry about 100 of the starving prisoners. He didn't want to leave any behind, because they'd catch hell from the Russians.
“Maybe seventy-five, I repeat, seven five. Do you read, over?”
“Roger that, send them on.”
“Uh, Copperhead this is Copperhead five, and four is down and being looked at by the medics. Do you want the rest of these people?”
“Roger, that. Send them and speed things up. As the prisoners leave, withdraw from the fight. Retreat with all prisoners, copy?”
“Copy and will do, over. This is Copperhead five, out.”
John expected the Russians to follow his people out of the Gulag, but that didn't happen. He knew then they'd killed or seriously wounded all the officers in the place, or they'd have been hard on their asses. He heard a lone C-130 circle and when he glanced up, it was descending toward the field. One of the pilots must have realized we still had people on the ground. The aircraft, call sign Big Dog, had big balls, because the area was thick with tracers and lead flying in all directions. John had actually thought he was too late to fly back and would have to walk home.
“Copperhead, Cobra two over.” Colonel J. M. Parker spoke. He was running the attack on the fort proper and John suspected he was about ready to pull out.
“Go Cobra.” John said.
“The Russians are bringing tanks into play and while we can resist a bit longer, we'll need to pull back. I can give you ten minutes.”
“Ten minutes will do fine. Copperhead out.” John said, and then ordered a group to move to the fence to provide some cover fire for the last group of prisoners from the barracks. Russian aircraft and Chinese were fighting overhead. Explosions were heard, rockets and machine guns. The smell of battle was strong.
A bullet just missed John's head, but took most of his left earlobe off, and when he turned to look, he saw a young man of about 18 shooting at him. What bothered John the most was the man was a partisan. Another partisan behind the young man ran forward and struck him in the head with his rifle butt hard, knocking him to his knees. John neared the two men and shouted, “Secure him and bring him home with us, he just tried to kill me. Get him on board an aircraft now and you see him home. Understand? You are responsible for that man.”
“Yes, sir. Come on, Wilson, stand, and then you come with me. Stand, I said!” The partisan yelled. John had not seen either of the men before, but that didn't surprise him. Most of the troops avoided officers and he did the same when he was enlisted.
Minutes later, Copperhead Five came through the wire and ran at a trot for the aircraft. Thin and filthy men and women followed him, all showing a bunch of different emotions. Some were so happy they were crying, others were sad, and a few looked to be in shock. Not a one looked like they weighed over 110 pounds. Just then a Chinese chopper swooped down low and used a Gatling gun on the hill side of the gulag. He watched as Russian bodies were torn to hell and back. Of all things, John noticed the hot brass falling from the nose of the helicopter and gun smoke pouring out from under the gun.
They quickly loaded the last aircraft and could hear small arms fire striking the aluminium skin of the cargo plane. A couple of prisoners were struck as the bullets pierced the skin, but other than having a medic look at them, they could do nothing.
“Copperhead this is Big Dog, and we're the last aircraft. Get everyone on this aircraft now, because I'll start to rotate my tires in a few minutes. Do you copy?” The man's English had no accent at all.
The Colonel looked out the side jump door, saw no friendlies and said, “Go Big Dog, go, go go!”
The aircraft lurched forward and began to move slowly. The Chinese helicopters were all over the sky above them providing cover as they moved. Minutes later the engines began to roar louder, as they stopped for a minute or so, and he knew more power was being applied for take off. Instantly the brakes were released and they began to move over the rough field bouncing and jerking all around as speed was gained. Bullets were still striking them as they bounced over the field. Just as they lifted off, he heard a loud explosion and, moving to a small oval window, he saw their number two engine was in flames. He could hear the gear rotating up and into the wheel wells. A bump was felt and a thud heard when the wheels locked in place.
Pieces of melting aluminium fell, along with tubing, from the engine. The pilot, one of the few who could speak excellent English said, “I'm going to try to put the fire out on the engine now; let me know if it works. The instruments will tell me, but I trust a human eye much more than I do a dial or gauge.”
John watched the lower part of the engine cowling fall, and then a white chemical seemed to flood the whole engine, putting the fire out immediately, but he didn't like the smoke. Minutes later the smoke was gone and so were the flames. He then heard a thunk-zing, followed by two more of the same sound, and passengers began to scream. The pilot banked to the left hard and the ground fire stopped.
“Copperhead to pilot, the engine fire is out and smoke is gone. We do have some wounded passengers back here due to ground fire.”
“I can do nothing for the passengers because my hands are tied keeping us in the air. We have lost hydraulics as well, which means our brakes are out. I think we'll need a lot of runway to land. Uh, when you get a chance, send a medic to the flight deck, because I think my engineer is dead. I know my copilot is bleeding hard, and I have no communications with my navigator. I can see him, but I see no blood or reason he can't speak to me.”
Spotting Corporal Dodds, his medic, John yelled to be heard over the straining engines, “Go to the flight deck and treat the wounded. Let me know their status as soon as you can. I believe the cockpit took some rounds when we were on the ground.”
“Sure thing, sir! These Chinese have some big balls.”
The Colonel nodded as he moved for the ladder. A light smoke was filling the cargo area and the load master lowered the ramp a little to let the slipstream carry the smell away. Looking at John he said, “No hab brake now. Smoke from hot hydraulic fluid.” Then he grinned like it was all one big joke to him.
The Colonel discovered he had ten wounded and most of them were hurt after they climbed on the aircraft, but they were in the air and that was what counted at the moment. He sat by the others and tightened his seat belt. He prayed they'd be able to land in one piece.
Half an hour later, Dodds came up on the radio and said, “Colonel, this is Dodds, and the Navigator is dead. He took a round in the face; the co-pilot is alive and alert now, but was struck in the upper left shoulder and is bleeding a lot. The pilot is fine, but the Engineer is living on borrowed time. He has massive internal bleeding from taking a single machine gun size slug in the gut. Not a thing I can do for him but give him some morphine. They might be able to save him in a hospital, but I really don't know. I need some men up here to help me move the wounded and dead.”
“Copperhead to pilot, can you and the co-pilot fly this beast alone?”
“Sure, but it's a harder job with the navigator and engineer out of the picture. We'll be home in less than an hour, unless we have other problems come up.”
“I understand, and have two men moving for the flight deck now.”
“Copy, Copper
head.”
About an hour later the pilot said over a loud speaker, “Attention all passengers, we are making an emergency landing at the airport below, which is in northern Texas and under American control. Our landing will be rough and we'll only get one chance to do this. I don't think we have enough fuel to go around again. We were struck in the fuel tank just before we took off and we're flying on fumes now as it is. Once the aircraft comes to a complete stop, go out the troop doors or the soon to be open ramp. Meet about 50 meters from the rear of the aircraft. Take all the wounded with you, but leave any dead.” There was pause of a few seconds and then he added, “Good luck.”
The back ramp began to lower.
Minutes later John heard the wheels going down and saw they were lower and lining up on the runway. He felt the aircraft shiver violently as they barely slipped over a metal security fence. The aircraft gave a loud screech as the rubber tires touched the runway, and then it shuddered hard and long as they moved down the concrete. One by one he heard the engines stop running, until all the noise came from the aircraft bouncing down the runway. The engines were out of fuel. He heard the pilot speaking in Chinese to the co-pilot, but had no idea what they were talking about. He for damned sure wasn't going to ask. John was terrified they'd crash and burst into flames, and had a death grip on his red nylon seat.
He heard a loud screech, followed by the smell of metal burning, and was not aware their brakes were on fire. He could hear the sirens on the rescue vehicles as they raced along beside the aircraft. He met the eyes of Sergeants Dodds who sat across from him and gave him a big ill felt grin. Like the trooper he was, the medic gave the Colonel a thumb up. After what seemed to be forever, they ran out of runway and struck a barrier, which forced them to stop instantly. Bodies and gear were suddenly airborne and John took something to the side of his head. He must have passed out for a minute or so, and when he came around, panic filled him when he realized he was still on the aircraft.
The Fall of America | Book 8 | Operation Hurricane Page 8
