The Fall of America | Book 8 | Operation Hurricane

by Benton, W. R.

  A minute passed and then Save said, “Base, Save, and I am on the ground and cutting power at this time. I repeat, I am on the ground and turning my power off.”

  “Brave man.” Master Sergeant Ruskovich said to no one in particular.

  “He did an excellent job. Now, let us move.” the Lieutenant said.

  When they moved by the spot where the wounded woman had lain, the Master Sergeant was surprised at all the blood that remained. He spotted one of her gloves, with a hand still in it, and it was smoking. He shivered at the sight and kept moving.

  Chapter 18

  Roberta Kovarov was going home. While he was handicapped and maimed, he remained very much alive, which was more than many Russian soldiers could say. He didn't like missing an arm and leg, no one would, but he knew well he could have been killed or lost all of his limbs. He was grateful that God allowed him to survive, so he'd make the most of his life now, never wasting a moment of time.

  He was a bit apprehensive about flying out in a medical evacuation airplane, because lately the partisans had been shooting at all aircraft with everything they had, from small arms to missiles. Not two weeks ago a cargo plane was downed with a surface-to-air missile, with the loss of the whole crew and fifty passengers. He knew he'd be nervous until they levelled off at high altitude. Then, and only then, would he consider himself a survivor.

  At the moment he was in an ambulance being taken to the aircraft. The walking wounded were already loaded and now the stretcher cases were being loaded. As a Colonel, Kovarov was treated better than the enlisted, and they'd see his last few days in the army were comfortable. There was a big difference between how the enlisted men and officers were treated. The van backed up toward a hospital plane and medics began unloading patients from the van and loading stretchers on the bulkhead of the aircraft. The Colonel was the senior man on this flight, so he was loaded last and would be the first man off the plane in Moscow.

  Ten minutes later they were moving across the ramp toward the main runway. The aircraft moved slowly and at the head of the runway it stopped for a few moments and the engines whined loudly. The brakes were released and the aircraft moved down the pavement slowly gaining speed.

  Seconds later the aircraft became airborne and the wheels rotated up into the wells and the doors slid shut. A series of bells were heard, but only the crew knew what they meant, and the Colonel noticed the take off was at a steep angle.

  He thought, The pilot must be trying to avoid small arms fire and to gain altitude quickly. I have never taken off with the nose as high as this one is today.

  Minutes later, he heard a loud explosion as the aircraft dropped about 500 feet and the oxygen masks fell from their holders. The airplane shook a little and then continued flying.

  A voice came over the intercom and said, “This is your Captain speaking, Uh, we had a missile explode off our port wing, but all is fine. We have no warning lights and a visual inspection shows no damage. Our next stop will be New York City, where we will change crews and you will continue on to Moscow.”

  Colonel Kovarov smiled; for him, the war was over.

  Little did he know in the hold Colonel Josef Ippolit was also going home, but with a warning not to open his coffin for viewing due to his severe head wound. Like in most wars, few of the men spoke on the way home.

  Colonel Williamson was welcomed back to the base with a party of sorts thrown by his staff. He opened a bottle of Kentucky rye whiskey and they all poured a double. Lieutenant Colonel Cynthia Morgan stood with her arms around John as tears of joy ran down her cheeks. After a couple of quick toasts, people began to return to their business, but not a man left without shaking his hand. The two men with him, Strong and Childers, shook his hand the longest and then both saluted him. It embarrassed John more than a little, but he understood the reason they saluted him and it meant they respected him. They were soon gone and John was left alone with Cynthia.

  She pulled him near, placed her arms around his neck and kissed him deeply.

  “I missed and worried about you when you didn't return with the others.” she said.

  “I was hurting too much to try to come home at the time. It took me a week to get strong enough to even stand. If not for a Russian Captain I'd be dead right now, or so I think. He was severely injured too, and took care of both of us. Of course, once I was able, I did my share and we worked together to stay alive. I later blamed him for my being taken prisoner, but I learned later from a Master Sergeant that taking me with them wasn't his idea. I don't think Captain Kovarov was ever told I was locked up.”

  “So, did this sharing with a Russian change you in any way, shape or form?”

  “No, not really, except I now see a human side of them that I never paid much attention to in the past. I still want every last one of them gone from my country and I'll still fight them, only I understand now that each one I kill has a mother, maybe a lover, and possibly kids, to grieve for him or her. But, baby, it's me or them, and it won't be me if I can help it.”

  “Good, now, lets lay on the bed and talk a while. I need the rest, because I've not slept well since you were reported missing. Andy said an old fart like you knew how to take care of yourself, but I know everyone can be killed. God knows I've seen enough death to know that.” She led John to the mattress on the wooden floor and they both sat on the edge of the bed as she spoke.

  John kissed her and slowly lowered her to the bed, and then said, “I've missed you so much.”

  Kissing his ear she whispered, “Show me how much.”

  “Colonel, a Mother of All Bombs, commonly called the MOAB by the Air Force, or technically a GBU-43/B Massive Ordnance Air Blast Bomb, one of four the Russians captured from us, is in this hanger on Fort Leonard Wood Missouri.” a Captain said as he used a long wooden pointer to show a hanger circled in red on a satellite image of the base.

  The young officer was an intel puke of some sort and didn't give his name on purpose. Most were 'pukes', in John's opinion, because they though they were secret agents or did other cloak and dagger stuff, so even his name, in his opinion, was classified. In reality, while their jobs were important, they were no more important than the rest of the troops. They were the first to point out a target on a photograph, but some of the last to enter combat. The man wore his hair high and tight, and his face was cleanly shaven, which meant he had hot water, a luxury most field troops lacked.

  “It was taken there after they overran Area 51, a classified location we had out west. The idea was to place it close to the fighting and yet have it well protected. Four were all we had in our inventory at the time and they've only moved the one bomb for possible combat use.” Colonel Lee said as he met John's eyes. He then added, “The name of this Russian operation, by the way, is Hurricane.”

  The Colonel was tall and thin, maybe six feet and five inches and around 150 pounds, he was a couple of years past middle age, and his hair was salt and pepper. His original hair color had been brown but was now losing to invading grey. His hair was worn short and tapered down to his beard. He wore a short trimmed beard of the same color and as partisans, they had no dress or appearance code. They highly suggested short hair be worn because of problems they had with lice and fleas, but didn't enforce it.

  John nodded and said, “I don't think they'd move it, sir, if they didn't intend to use it on us.”

  “That is my thinking too, so we must destroy it in place, if we can. A bomb like that has the explosive power of a small suitcase nuke bomb, without the radiation. It's rumored one of the bombs was taken to Russia to be copied, too, which leads me to believe they only have three of the things in the states.” the Colonel replied.

  “Have you considered precision bombing by the Chinese to destroy the thing?” John asked, and then took a sip of honest to God coffee. He'd forgotten how wonderful it tasted.

  “I discussed it with my Chinese counterpart and he claims they have no smart bombs. He said he can carpet bomb the whole damned
place, but the Russian hanger is sandwiched between a school and gulag. The base hospital is less than a block from the hanger too, so they placed it in a spot they think will keep it safe. We, the United States and China, are concerned about civilian casualties and world opinion.”

  “Well, if it's to be destroyed, won't it detonate when that happens? I mean when it's destroyed.”

  “No, because it must be programmed before loading on a Cargo aircraft and then once more when over a target. As a fail safe feature, the load-master has to punch in the six digit code to arm the warhead just before it's pushed out the rear of the aircraft. This is done just prior to dropping. And unlike a conventional bomb, this one explodes at preset altitudes to destroy everything below the bomb. The most common setting is 1,000 feet, which will wipe out a large spot under it. The blast is equal to 11 tons of explosives detonating. If taken out by carpet bombing, world opinion might shift from being favorable toward us to something much less, especially if non-combatants are killed or maimed.” the unnamed Captain said.

  “Just between you and I, Captain, I don't give a shit about world opinion; after all the years we slipped billions of dollars into NATO and now they won't help us. Their opinion is currently the world's opinion, but all they've done since the Russians invaded is to talk and condemn them for the invasion. In the meantime, millions of Americans have died in this war, some from combat, hunger, lack of medical care, and prescription medication needs. We need their gear, supplies and men, but we get nothing from them but lip service. Only I don't like the risk of killing folks in a school, gulag, or a hospital. That is something our enemies would never consider and they'd bomb anyway, but if we can't hit that one building from the air, then we need men on the ground to take it out.”

  “That's why you're here, John, because I reached the same conclusion. I feel the safest way to take the target out is with men on the ground. So, I've some ex army rangers formed up, found about a hundred for you, and they're biting at the bit for a mission. Of course, they know nothing about the MOAB.”

  John thought for a moment and then asked, “What will happen to the prisoners in the gulag, regardless of how the bomb is taken out?” His eyes were on the intelligence man.

  “They're expendable because we can't move them or even warn them, which would compromise the mission. It's the same with the patients, but if you use standard explosives few if any will be hurt in the hospital. We'll attack on either a Saturday or Sunday, when no kids are in the area or the school. But, if a few of them are killed, it matters little, because they are Russian kids brought over by their officer fathers and mothers.” the Captain said.

  “Wrong, my friend, because I'll kill no kids at all if I can avoid it, Russian or not. I will do my best to take this bomb out, but I'll kill the fewest people I can on the ground since most are non-combatants or patients in a hospital. I kill my enemies when I can, sir, but I won't murder anyone unless it cannot be avoided to complete a mission. When is this mission to go down and how will we be delivered to the target area?”

  “We have a number of ideas on your delivery, but since you're the mission commander, I'll leave that up to you. We can get you to the target any way you want to be taken. This discussion, and I mean every word of it, is classified Top Secret. It will be downgraded to Secret once you are at the target.”

  “I'm inclined to use choppers, because I think 100 parachutes would be noticed by the Russians or some of their spies. I want no one on the Post to even expect we're around.”

  “If you need any special gear or equipment, let me know and I'll see you get it.” Colonel Lee said and then added, “Good luck, John, and know we're all behind you in this mission.”

  Turning and meeting the intelligence man's eyes, John asked, “I suppose you'll go with me, right, Captain?”

  “Uh, well, no sir, because I'm the chief of intelligence. While I'd love to go, my duties here must be done.” He quickly averted his eyes.

  “Some how I figured you'd not be with me.” John said, and knew his words were embarrassing the young officer. “I don't suspect you have much field experience, and I need men who've faced death before and have stared him down. My Rangers will be enough or the job can't be done.”

  “Gentlemen, I must return to my office for a meeting. Good day.” John and the Captain snapped to attention as the Colonel turned to leave the room.

  The Captain with no name soon left and John sat looking at the map of the fort. It was a standard tourist style map handed out to visitors to the fort way before America fell. It showed the commissary, Post Exchange, class 6 store (booze), and the hospital. While it showed more places, those were the most important buildings on the base back then.

  Finally standing, John made his way out of the Headquarters building and returned to his room. He took off his work clothes, which were a pair of Russian boots, camouflage trousers, and an olive drab tee shirt. He then put on a pair of shorts and a white tee, just to lounge around his room. Later this afternoon he'd go on his two mile run, shower, eat, and then get to bed early. He wanted to spend some time with his rangers tomorrow.

  Two days later at 0600 hours, a flight of helicopters took off and made their way to open fields within ten miles of the army post. They would make a number of fake insertions and then continue making more after the teams were released. The Rangers would move through the woods and meet a half mile from Fort Leonard Wood. Then, if all went well, they would sneak in and destroy the bomb. If things turned sour, the Russians would be calling in a higher body count for this weekend.

  It was raining slightly when the choppers landed and John's team un-assed the chopper. It would make a half dozen more fake insertions before returning home, just like the rest. John missed and could have used Major Xue, because none of the pilots spoke fluent English. A few spoke broken English, so they had to make do with what they had.

  “Lieutenant Stacy, get Private Rogers on point and make sure he stays on the proper heading. I want Lowery counting our steps, so we can call in for help if we need it at any time. I want to know every second exactly where we are if I ask you. Understand?”

  “Yes, sir. Okay, Lowery and Rogers, ya heard the Colonel, so move your asses.” Stacy was a well figured blond with mostly muscle and curves, but she was also one of the smartest troops John had. She'd just completed her PhD in Clinical Psychology when the country fell.

  They moved well and quietly through the brush and avoided all trails. They had a compass heading that would take them right to the meeting spot, so they'd stay on that course. At times they had to cross trails or a road, but the last man across tried to cover their foot prints as well as they could. With the light rain, that was almost impossible to do, but hopefully after a few hours the rain would wash the tracks away.

  No one wore ponchos on this mission. Each wore a coat and trousers of a rain proof material insulated with Gortex and Thinsolite. It was warm when the hood was pulled up and adjusted for the rain water dripping from the very top of the suits. Their clothing was a special Chinese camouflage design that most called 'shit on the wall.' It was a woodland camouflage, with more brown than greens. The sizes were strange when they first receive them for issue. Most men wore a USA medium or large, but an XXL or XXXL in Chinese sizes. Some of the women were able to wear the Chinese size mediums, but only a few. They wore face paint, camouflage gloves and boonie hats. Some, like John, wore their favorite hat, and his was a brown cowboy hat. Dolly had almost been left with Cynthia for this mission, but John was glad now that he'd brought her.

  Each Ranger carried an AK-47, three grenades, a good dozen full magazines, and a sheath knife. Each group carried two RPGs and one shoulder fired missile. Then all the groups had various amounts of mines and C-4 explosives, along with thermite grenades to destroy the bomb. Any one single group had all that was needed to destroy the bomb, if they could just gain access to the thing. John also carried bolt cutters in the event they could get in quietly and open the storage building.


  By noon, all the groups were together about a half mile from the building housing the bomb. They would remain there until dark, and then they'd cut the fence wire and enter the Post. Dog teams were not frequent on this side of the base, but they had a number of .22 and.380s fitted with silencers to kill the dogs and the handlers. If all went well, at midnight they'd attempt to enter the post. The rain was coming down harder, but the weather guesser with the group called for it to all end by 2000 hours. John and Dolly were under a big pine eating an old MRE, and he was feeding most of it to the dog. Like a military person, Dolly always ate what was on hand, even if she didn't always like it. John avoided giving her anything with beans, because her gas would make him gag. Tonight she was having a braised beef patty and mashed potatoes. As she ate, John scratched her ears and spoke to her in a whisper. Soon the meal was done and she placed her head in his lap and went to sleep.

  He leaned back against the tree trunk, closed his eyes, and simply rested as well as he could. He was proud of his men and women, because by listening, no one would ever guess there were 100 men and women in the area. He would lead ten troopers through the fence, onto the post, and then into the building. No photos showed a guard, but if needed they had silenced pistols or knives to take them out.

  He must have fallen asleep, because he felt someone shaking his shoulder lightly and when he opened his eyes, Major Henry Cox was beside him.

  “Time to rise and shine, sir.” Cox said. The Major had been a E-8 before he retired and the partisans welcomed him back as an officer. He was every bit as intelligent as his blue eyes indicated. He seemed to take in everything around him. He wore a crew cut, was cleanly shaven, and his features were tanned and rough, his face lined with wrinkles. He was old enough to be the grandfather of some of the troops he led.