Red Thunder (Winds of War Book 4)

by William C. Dietz

  Later, bit by bit, Quinn would learn that her father had been an army AH-64 Apache helicopter pilot. He’d been called in to provide air support for a company that was surrounded, when his ship was struck by a shoulder-launched missile, and crashed.

  There’d been some insurance money. Enough to buy the little house on Filucy Bay. And that’s where Quinn went to school, grew up and, thanks to excellent grades, was accepted into West Point.

  Had her interest in the military been driven by her father’s death? Yes, of course it had. Quinn wanted to be like him, even though her memories of the tall gangly man were vague at best. But, in spite of his death, Mack had always been a presence in the Quinn home.

  And as his daughter toured the living room photos of her father were everywhere. Mack in a football jersey. Mack as a cadet. Mack as a pilot. And Mack lifting his five-year-old daughter high into the air. As if helping her to fly.

  Did Katie Quinn regret her decision to attend West Point, and stay in the army after her first enlistment was over? No, she didn’t. Quinn liked living in a world where honor meant something, where the hierarchy was clear, and where you could read a person’s history from the ribbons they wore. “Lunch is ready,” Cathy announced. “Come and get it.” A long leisurely meal followed.

  Cathy was retired, but had been a third-grade teacher, and knew everyone worth knowing in the community. So, time was spent on the latest gossip, bemoaning the items that were no longer available in stores, and discussing the fact that while the Allies were holding their own, they weren’t doing a whole lot better than that. China’s “big push” into India being an example.

  Then the conversation turned to casualties, the ones Cathy knew, because they’d been students once—or lived nearby. Randy Atkins had been aboard the Stacy Heath when it went down. Cristy Hollings died fighting the Russian invasion of Alaska. Tommy Martinez had lost a leg. And Dustin Zachery, better known as “Zack,” was MIA in Europe.

  The news came as a shock. Quinn felt a sudden emptiness in her stomach. Zack had taken her to senior prom. Zack believed she would graduate from West Point. And Zack was the first person she’d had sex with. Crazy, awkward sex, which left both of them laughing. A marine? Yes, a marine. Something he’d been very proud of.

  “I’m sorry,” Cathy said, as tears trickled down her daughter’s cheeks. “I forgot how close you two were.”

  Quinn spent the next two days sleeping in, eating all of her favorite foods, and binge-watching TV programs she’d missed. Her final evening was spent at a dinner held in her honor at a local restaurant. There were lots of questions. “Were you scared all the time?” “Where did they send you?” “Was there lots of fighting?” And so forth. But it was Cathy’s chance to show her daughter off and, she at least, had a good time.

  Quinn slipped out of the house early the next morning knowing that her mother would understand. She paused to look at the house and fix it in her memory. Then she put her luggage in the back of the car and drove away. California, she thought. Sunshine! That’ll be nice for a change.

  The trip to Sea-Tac was uneventful, as was the flight to San Jose where, much to Quinn’s surprise, a sergeant was waiting to greet her. “Hi,” Quinn said. “I’m Katie Quinn. Are you here to meet me?”

  “Yes, I am,” the noncom answered. “My name is Sergeant Iwate. I’m the Public Affairs Specialist for the Ord Military Community. I hear they’re going to change the name back to Fort Ord in the near future. Welcome to California.”

  “Thanks. I checked a duffle bag.”

  Iwate nodded. “Follow me.”

  Quinn figured that Iwate, like comm specialists everywhere, routinely got stuck with chores that didn’t have anything to do with media relations. Like meeting stray majors at the airport.

  After retrieving Quinn’s luggage, they made their way out to the pickup zone. There a desert tan SUV was waiting in a slot marked “Military Vehicles Only.”

  It was a 70-mile drive from San Jose to Fort Ord, and a perfect opportunity for Quinn to quiz Iwate about the base. “So, my orders are to join the 152nd Training Command. Who is the 152nd supposed to train? New recruits?”

  Iwate glanced her way. “That’s what I was going to ask you, ma’am. The 152nd moved into Building 12 a couple of weeks ago. All sorts of people have been arriving ever since. Including some guys who speak Russian.

  “Oh, and Building 12 is off limits to anyone not assigned to the 152nd. Plus, when I requested permission to write a press release about the new outfit, my lieutenant said, ‘What outfit?’ Then he winked.”

  That was Quinn’s first inkling that the 152nd was something other than an actual training command. And that, unbeknownst to her, she’d been selected for some sort of weird shit show. “That’s news to me,” she replied. “But I guess I’ll get answers soon.”

  The rest of the trip was spent making small talk, and taking in the scenery, which was new to Quinn. She’d been to San Francisco, LA, and San Diego but not Monterrey.

  Soldiers with automatic weapons were guarding the front gate. Quinn had to surrender both her ID and a copy of her orders. Then she had to wait for one of the MPs to make a phone call. When the phone was back on the hook, he turned to deliver a crisp salute. “Welcome to Fort Ord, ma’am.”

  As Iwate drove, Quinn saw lots of construction equipment, newly erected prefab buildings, and yes—some dilapidated two-story barracks left over from WWII.

  Her thoughts turned to the men, some little more than boys, who’d been trained there … They’d done their part and now it was time for their grandchildren to fight.

  After winding through a maze of streets Iwate pulled up in front of a low-slung warehouse which appeared to be in good shape. A freshly painted “152nd Training Command” sign had been hung over the main entrance. “I reckon this is where we part company,” the noncom said. “I’d haul your duffle in but, as I said earlier, the building is off limits.”

  “No problem,” Quinn replied. “I’m used to humping that thing around. Thanks for the lift Sergeant. Watch your six.”

  Iwate grinned. “You too, ma’am. I’ll open the back.”

  With her pack on her back, and the duffle hanging from her left hand, Quinn followed a walkway to a pair of double doors. She pushed one open and stepped inside.

  The reception area was furnished with two plastic chairs, a potted Ficus, and a government issue gray desk. A private sat behind it. He looked up from his computer. “Major Quinn?”

  “Yes.”

  “I’ll need to see your ID and your orders, ma’am.”

  Quinn dropped the duffle prior to passing her ID and orders across the desk. That was when she saw the Heckler & Koch MP5 submachine gun that rested crosswise in the private’s lap. The 152nd was something, that was for sure, but a training command? No way.

  After inspecting Quinn’s documentation, the soldier made a call. She couldn’t hear what was said, but assumed the conversation was about her.

  That theory was proven correct when a middle-aged woman entered the waiting area via a side door. She had short brown hair, a pleasant face, and was wearing what Quinn knew to be a Russian uniform. It was a light-colored uniform in the so-called Tetris pattern, issued to troops for use during the winter. And, judging from the field insignia sewn onto the shoulders, the woman was a kapitan (captain). She popped a salute which Quinn returned. “Major Quinn? I’m Captain Booker. I’m in charge of the 152nd’s headquarters platoon.”

  They shook hands. “That’s an interesting uniform,” Quinn said.

  “‘Interesting’ is one word for it,” Booker replied wryly. “The uniforms were captured in Europe. And, since there weren’t many women in the Russian army until recently, all of them are intended for men. Which would you prefer? No room for the girls? Or something baggy?”

  Quinn smiled. “I’ll take option one. The girls aren’t that big.”

  The private, who had been privy to the entire conversation, kept his eyes focused on the computer
screen.

  “Follow me,” Booker said. “There’s no such thing as rooms in the warehouse. But female personnel have soft sided cubicles. Though less than ideal, it’s better than nothing.”

  “Agreed,” Quinn responded. “But I have a question. What the hell is this all about?”

  Booker looked surprised. “You don’t know?”

  “Nope.”

  “Holy shit. Well, for starters, you’re the XO. As for what this is all about, well, here’s the elevator pitch: The Russians have accumulated at least a ton of a valuable substance called rhenium deep inside Russia. We’re going to pretend that we’re Russians, fly in, and steal it. Then we’re going to fly back to Ukraine. All within 24 hours.”

  Quinn stared. “You’re joking.”

  Booker shook her head. “No, ma’am. This shit is for real.”

  “Who’s in command?”

  “Colonel Alton Flynn.”

  “Like the actor?”

  “Not like,” Booker replied. “He is the actor.”

  CHAPTER THREE

  Fort Ord, California

  Quinn’s cube consisted of an aluminum frame with curtains hung around the sides. The enclosure was furnished with a cot, a side table, and a utilitarian wardrobe. Nothing else. And that made sense since the 152nd was a temporary unit staffed with temporary people.

  Quinn’s first task was to make her way over to the supply section and draw her gear. That included an issue of the Russian Ratnik (warrior) equipment minus a radio, which had been replaced with an American unit, to ensure secure communications.

  But according to a supply sergeant named Rawlings, the Russian gear was pretty good. “Your uniform clothing is made out of reinforced-fiber fabric and polymeric compounds that offer some protection against splinters and ballistic shrapnel,” he said pedantically.

  “And your body armor includes ceramic and hybrid inserts, that make it effective against small arms—including armor-piercing bullets.”

  Quinn had to sign for her weapons as well. As the XO she could choose whatever hardware she preferred so long as it was Russian.

  A master sergeant named Wilkins offered his opinions. “I’d like to recommend an SPS pistol, Major. Russian special operations personnel prefer them because they fire the 9x21mm Gyurza armor piercing round. And the 18-round magazines allow you to take care of business without running dry.”

  Quinn nodded. “I’ll take one, thank you. Tell me about the pocket pistol you have on the counter.”

  “That’s a PSS 7.62x42mm silenced pistol which is—from what I’ve heard—a favorite with Spetsnaz troops. It comes with six in the handle,” Rawlings added.

  “It might come in handy,” Quinn replied. I’ll take four magazines for the SPS, and two for the PSS.”

  After much discussion, Quinn settled on an AS Val Special Automatic Rifle, code named, “Shaft.” Were the Russians familiar with the movies? There was no way to know.

  The Val had a rail mounted telescopic sight, an integrated suppressor, and would fire armor-piercing subsonic-ammo. Quinn requested 5 thirty-round magazines. One for the VAL, with 4 on her vest.

  Three models of sheath knives were available, and Quinn chose the Karatel which, according to Wilkins, was a favorite with Russian Federal Security Service officers.

  After hauling everything back to her cube Quinn had to change, place all of her regular army gear into a pre-labeled plastic trunk, and deliver it to Wilkins. “They swear we’ll get our belongings back once the mission is over,” the noncom said. “But I have my doubts. So, if you have anything important in the trunk, you might want to pull it out.” Quinn didn’t.

  It was time for chow by then. And, due to the security restrictions, food was delivered to the loading dock, and brought inside by members of the 152nd.

  As she went through the chow line, and ate with a random group of soldiers, Quinn began the important process of getting acquainted. It soon became apparent that the men and women around her were anything but average. About 75% of the Americans were from the 82nd Airborne Division. Not because the mission would require them to jump, but because they were battle tested, and tough as nails.

  The rest of the American contingent consisted of Rangers and techies drawn from a variety of units. That included a not-so-distinguished group of so-called “motorheads,” two of whom had been recruited from military prisons.

  They were led by a character named “Smoker” Jones who was holding court at a table reserved for wrench-turners. Quinn didn’t approve of cliques, especially those comprised of known trouble makers, and made a note to keep an eye on the group.

  After dinner she was introduced to Captain Danylo Andruko, who was in charge of the Free Ukrainian Forces personnel on the team, and a man she took an instant liking to. Andruko had a ready smile and radiated confidence. “You no worry, Major, we kill plenty Russians.”

  “Actually,” Quinn replied, “I hope we get in and get out without firing a shot.”

  Andruko laughed as if responding to a good joke. “Sure, Major … What you say. We come and go like prizaki (ghosts) in night.” Then he laughed again.

  Quinn took a shower after that, and made her way back to her cube, where a brand-new U.S. army sleeping bag was waiting. It was hard to sleep with the overhead lights eternally on, snoring all around, and a soldier who was shouting in his sleep. “Shoot them, god damnit! Shoot the bastards!” Somebody shushed him.

  Quinn finally fell asleep. She awoke when a deep basso voice boomed over the intercom. “This is Command Sergeant Major McKenzie. You have 30 minutes in which to exfil your bag, get ready for PT, and report to the activity area. Be on time or I will put my boot in your ass. You’re welcome.” Click.

  Quinn grinned. She’d heard that speech from at least a hundred noncoms during her years in the army, all of whom enjoyed putting their own spin on it. Some people laughed. Others swore. But all of them arrived on time. And that included Quinn. She took her place next to the Command Sergeant Major and wondered where Flynn was.

  McKenzie had a shaved head, coffee colored skin, and stood at least 6’2”. His voice boomed between the warehouse walls. “For those of you who haven’t met her yet, it’s my pleasure to introduce Major Katie Quinn, our XO. Major Quinn is an army ranger, a combat vet, and we’re lucky to have her. Let me hear it.”

  The Ukrainians didn’t know what “it” was. But the Americans did. They shouted, “Hooah!” in unison. Even the Rangers, who thought they were too cool to yell “Hooah,” were willing to celebrate one of their own.

  McKenzie turned to Quinn. They shook hands. “Welcome to the 152nd ma’am. It’s a pleasure to meet a fellow alumnus of the University of Texas. “Hook ’em.”

  Quinn replied with the “Hook em Horns” hand gesture, which resulted in a chorus of cheers laced with boos.

  “Pay the rabble no mind,” McKenzie said. “They know not what a good football team looks like.”

  That produced laughter mixed with more than a few groans. Quinn grinned. “Thank you, Command Sergeant Major. It’s an honor to join the 152nd.”

  What followed was the most intense workout Quinn had taken part in since Ranger school. And she couldn’t falter, much less dropout, without losing face. So, all Quinn could do was power through, and pray to God that McKenzie would eventually get bored.

  Finally, after “Twenty just for the fun of it,” the CSM dismissed the group to chow. Quinn needed to shower, but wanted a cup of coffee even more, and followed the rest of the soldiers to the buffet line. Quinn found herself right behind a woman who was busy shooting the shit with a Ukrainian in Russian.

  Once the conversation came to an end, she turned to introduce herself. “Good morning, ma’am. I’m Doctor Anna Gulin. Or should I say, ‘Captain Gulin?’ The army is so complicated.”

  Quinn laughed. “‘Doctor’ is fine. I’m glad to hear we have one. Tell me about the medical department.”

  Gulin explained that each of the three platoons had two experienc
ed combat medics. They took her orders where medical matters were concerned, but reported to their various platoon leaders for everything else. The medics could fight too, if it came to that, which Gulin hoped it wouldn’t.

  After getting their food the women went over to a table where Captain Booker was seated. A leytenant (lieutenant) was seated next to her. He had a buzz cut, even features, and a dotted line tattooed around his neck. The words beneath his Adam’s apple read “Cut here.”

  Booker hooked a thumb in the other officer’s direction. “This is Lieutenant Salazar, ma’am. He’s crazy. Keep that in mind.”

  Salazar stood. And, when he smiled, his teeth were very white. “It’s a pleasure to meet you,” Quinn said, as they shook hands. “Is that true? Are you crazy?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Salazar admitted. “Crazy in love with the army.”

  “You’re right Captain,” Quinn said, as she took a seat. “He is crazy. And what, pray tell, does our crazy man do?”

  “I command the 2nd platoon,” Salazar answered. “Which is to say the best platoon in the 152nd.” All of them laughed.

  After breakfast Quinn took a shower, got dressed, and was pulling on a pair of high-topped Russian combat boots, when she heard a voice. “Major Quinn? I’m Corporal Rooney. Colonel Flynn would like to see you.”

  “Hold on,” Quinn replied. “I’ll be with you in a minute.”

  After tying her boots Quinn stood and wished there was a mirror. But there wasn’t.

  The soldier waiting for her outside stood about 5’5”, and had a moon-shaped face. A Nikon dangled from his neck. “What’s the camera for?” Quinn inquired.

  Rooney’s eyes swerved away and came back again. “The Colonel likes to document things,” he replied evasively.

  “I see,” Quinn said, although she didn’t. “Please lead the way.”

  Rooney led her to the end of the warehouse opposite from supply. A sign said “Office.” The door below it was closed. Rooney knocked once. “Corporal Rooney!” he said loudly. “And Major Quinn.”