Red Thunder (Winds of War Book 4)

by William C. Dietz

  I wonder what Dean’s doing, Quinn thought. Do we have an option in Kazakhstan? Or did he come up empty? “That was an interesting looksee,” Quinn said. “Go ahead and pack. And Pruitt …”

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  “You rock.”

  Quinn went looking for Booker, knowing that Radio Operator Cindy McGuire would be nearby. And she was. Two antennas marked her location. “I need to check in with Delta-Six,” Quinn said. “See if you can raise him.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” McGuire keyed her mike. “Alpha-Five-Five to Delta-Six.” There was no response.

  McGuire tried again. Still no response. “Sorry, ma’am. It looks like his radio is turned off.”

  Or he’s been captured, Quinn thought. Or wounded. Or killed. The last possibility filled her with dread. “Thanks, McGuire. Give him a try from time-to-time.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  Quinn turned to Booker. “Are we ready?”

  “As we’ll ever be.”

  “Then let’s do this. We’ll hoof it to the highway, use whatever transportation Andruko has been able to scare up for us, and follow secondary roads to Shagol Airbase.”

  Booker’s eyebrows rose. “We’re going to attack the airbase?”

  “No. We’re going to capture the airbase.”

  Booker smiled. “My bad. I should have known.”

  ***

  Shagol Airbase, near Chelyabinsk Russia

  General Dedov was zero for two. The pindos had been perched on a hill. Two Havoc helicopters were sent to eradicate them. Both were destroyed. The enemy ran.

  Two additional helos were shipped in. And just in time because the foreign zasranees (shitheads) were riding on a captured train. But, like all trains, it ran on a track. And the track led to a barricade and a platoon of paras.

  Dedov had been there too … Eager to take credit for what was sure to be a decisive victory. Except that it wasn’t a victory. The pindos stopped the train in a tunnel, turned it into a bomb, and sent the locomotive wailing straight at him.

  The horror of what happened next was permanently etched onto Dedov’s retinas. The massive explosions, the rivers of fire, and the screaming soldiers. One of them uttered Dedov’s name as he stumbled forward, arms spread, his body wrapped in flames.

  Dedov backed away, tripped, and fell. The thing was screaming as Dedov shot it. The still burning carcass fell forward to land on top of him. A noncom managed to drag the smoldering corpse free, but not before it had scorched the left side of Dedov’s face, and killed his self-confidence. Now, after returning to base, Dedov was drinking vodka, and mourning. Fully half his unit had been killed, and it was possible that the pindos outnumbered those who survived.

  Dedov’s orders were to remain in place until relieved. An event that might occur in hours, or take weeks, depending on the exigencies of the larger war.

  One thing had gone well however, and that was the fact that Dedov and his men had been able to restore Shagol to operational status. An accomplishment that might be enough to prevent disciplinary action. In the meantime, all Dedov could do was drink, and await whatever the fates had in store for him.

  ***

  Railway Tunnel 2460, north of Chelyabinsk, Russia

  Quinn was studying a map when radio operator McGuire came looking for her. “Sorry to interrupt, ma’am … But Delta-Six is on the horn.”

  Quinn felt her heart leap. Dean! He was alive! She took the mike. “This is Six. Go.”

  “I hope to meet with the decision maker soon, and deliver his answer within the next 24 hours. Over.”

  Quinn felt torn. Should she tell him about her plan to capture Shagol airbase? She wanted to. But Dean didn’t need to know. And, manipulative though it might be, Quinn didn’t want to take him off the hook. If Dean could negotiate an extraction via Kazakhstan, then so much the better. “Roger that, Delta-Six,” Quinn said. “That’s awesome. Keep me in the loop. Over and out.”

  ***

  Highway M-36 North of Shagol Airbase

  Like the rest of the soldiers in the 152nd, Andruko’s men wore Russian uniforms. This fact, along with the fact that they were heavily armed, enabled the men to stop all of the south bound motorists on the M-36. And because they spoke Russian the Ukrainians could communicate their wishes—which boiled down to: “Get out of your vehicle, give me the keys, and stand next to the road.”

  So, by the time the rest of the unit arrived, no less than 23 cars and trucks were lined up and waiting. Quinn could hardly believe her eyes. Andruko was wearing a big grin. “You get choices.”

  After choosing an SUV style car, and three mismatched trucks, for “an important mission,” Andruko issued hand scribbled receipts to the owners and thanked them for their “… dedication to mother Russia.” With that they were dismissed and instructed to hitch rides with other motorists.

  Meanwhile the ever-efficient Captain Booker had redistributed the company’s supplies. So, with the exception of the Vod, each truck was loaded with personnel, food, ammo, and medical equipment.

  The sun hung low in the sky and the soldiers were exhausted. That meant the unit would have to rest up prior to an attack on Shagol Airbase. The SUV led the rest of the convoy south. And when Quinn spotted a turnoff, she told McKenzie to take it. The two-lane road took them west. Homes could be seen on the left and right. Lights were coming on.

  After a mile or so, the houses started to thin out. Open farmland appeared. Quinn was about to choose a piece of agricultural real estate to camp on when the mall appeared. Not an actual mall, but the beginnings of a mall, which might have been under construction when the war started. “Let’s take a look,” Quinn said. “This place has potential.”

  The mall consisted of a large snow-covered parking lot, bordered on three sides by a U-shaped concrete building, and lit by two pole-mounted lights. And because there weren’t any tire tracks in the blanket of snow that covered the lot, Quinn liked what she saw.

  The empty building would provide the troops with a windbreak and put a roof over their heads. But what about water? Maybe there was some, and maybe there wasn’t. No site was likely to be perfect however.

  Quinn opened her mike. “This is Six. Welcome home. Park the vehicles at the center of the lot. Alpha-Four and the platoon leaders will report to me. Over.”

  Once the officers were gathered together Quinn gave orders. “There will be four watches, each consisting of approximately 20 people, and each lasting for two hours. I will take the first rotation. I want three soldiers on the roof at all times, four soldiers guarding the vehicles, and the rest patrolling the area.

  “Captain Booker will create a roster, Captain Andruko will place the sentries, and Lieutenant Salazar will look for water. Oh, and we’ll need to keep a UAV in the air throughout.”

  Gulin arrived at that point and Quinn nodded. “Thanks for joining us Doctor. Please find a good spot for the wounded, and have one of your medics supervise the digging of temporary latrines.”

  There were questions. Quinn answered those that she could. Then the officers went their separate ways. The first hour of Quinn’s watch was spent checking to ensure that her instructions were being carried out and wrestling with tactical issues like the pole-mounted lights. Should they be on? Or should she order Headshot to shoot them out?

  Good arguments could be made in favor of both possibilities. Finally, after vacillating for a bit, Quinn decided to leave them on.

  The second hour of Quinn’s watch was boring. And she knew her sentries felt the same way. Plus, they were so tired that they were likely to miss things or fall asleep.

  To prevent that from happening, Quinn made frequent rounds, and paused to shoot the shit with each soldier. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Booker arrived to relieve her.

  The upside of going first was the opportunity for six hours of uninterrupted sleep. After consuming half of an MRE, and visiting the female latrine, Quinn was ready to enter her sleeping bag. The combat boots made the p
rocess difficult, but if there was a need to exit the sack quickly, she’d be ready to fight. The only thing that separated the bag from the concrete floor was a piece of cardboard. But Quinn was so exhausted she didn’t care.

  ***

  Captain “Moms” Booker—wife, mother, and executive officer—was on her way from the makeshift mess area, out to the trucks when the Russian cruise missile dropped out of the night sky. It was armed with a 1,000-pound conventional warhead, had travelled more than 800 miles in order to reach the mall, and was under the control of the satellite-based Legenda targeting system.

  Booker was well within the blast zone when the weapon detonated. The blast killed Booker along with three of the four soldiers assigned to guard the trucks. The force of the explosion destroyed the SUV, two of the “liberated” trucks, and threw the VOD onto its left side.

  ***

  General Oleg Dedov watched the explosion via a drone. Finally! A direct hit! Thank God for that. He requested four cruise missiles, and the assholes in Moscow approved one, citing wartime shortages. The same shortages that kept them from sending a relief force. So, had the missile gone astray, he’d have been out of luck.

  An eye for an eye, and a tooth for a tooth, Dedov thought, as he remembered the burning soldier. Come for me if you dare.

  ***

  Quinn heard the massive BOOM, felt the ground shake beneath her, and awoke knowing that something terrible had transpired. She fumbled for her radio even as she kicked the bag free. “This is Six … What the fuck happened? Over.”

  “This is Alpha-Five,” McKenzie replied. “I think they dropped a bomb on us. Over.”

  “But just one,” Andruko commented. “That strange. Over.”

  Quinn was on her feet by then. “What have we got on the UAV? Over.”

  “This is Alpha-Eight,” Pruitt responded. “I don’t see massed troops. Or any activity at all, except for isolated vehicles, which are probably civilian. Over.”

  The flickering glow from the burning wrecks lit the parking lot as Quinn left the building. A call came in. “This is Charlie-Six,” Salazar said. “I’m sitting in the remaining truck. The Vod is lying on its side. Hook me up and I’ll drag it away from the fire.”

  The next 15 minutes were spent rigging a cable and dragging the Vod away from the conflagration. Once that was accomplished Quinn had time to consider other matters. One of which was the lack of input from Booker. “Alpha-Five? This is Six … Where’s Four?”

  There was a long moment of silence. And, when McKenzie answered, his voice was tight. “Four was near the point of impact. I’m sorry, ma’am. We all are. Over.”

  The news hit Quinn like a blow from a sledgehammer. Booker was the quiet presence that got things done, the glue that held the 152nd together, and the unit’s beating heart. Life without her was unimaginable. She fought back the tears. No, she thought. I can’t cry. Not again.

  Quinn struggled to swallow the lump in her throat. “Shit. Alright, Bravo-Six will take over as XO. All officers plus the CSM will report to me. Over.”

  Quinn’s first instinct was to gear up and run. But to where? And what about the air base? What if protecting Shagol was the motive behind the attack? Above and beyond the desire to eliminate her unit.

  And that, as it turned out, was the consensus among the unit’s leaders. “The zhopas (assholes) are short of missiles, troops, and toilet paper,” the Ukrainian said. “If they have resources, they put on us. But we, how you say, smaller potatoes. So, local commander protect airport, and keep runway open.”

  No one disagreed. So Quinn gave orders for half of the remaining force to hit the sack for three hours while the other half prepared for the next day.

  Once the much abused Vod had been emptied, Segal figured out how to right the vehicle using a system of pulleys and cables powered by the surviving truck.

  Then it was time to test the Vodnik which, much to Quinn’s amazement, started up. The process of loading the rhenium and gold back onto the battered vehicle followed.

  Finally, at about 0300, the work was complete. Quinn was so tired by then she could barely stand as she crossed the parking lot. And that was when something cold kissed the tip of her nose. A snowflake, Quinn thought dully. Just what I fucking need: Snow.

  Then the truth occurred to her. Snow was what she needed.

  After calling for Andruko, and giving him a set of orders, Quinn returned to her sleeping bag. Sleep claimed her moments later.

  Quinn’s wakeup call was delivered by none other than CSM McKenzie. “Up and at em, Major. We’ve got some Ivans to kill.”

  Quinn groaned and told him to, “Fuck off.”

  McKenzie grinned. “Yes, ma’am … Right away ma’am. Your coffee is waiting, ma’am.”

  The prospect of coffee, plus the very real need to kill “some Ivans,” was enough to get Quinn going. Andruko was waiting for her in the makeshift mess area. “Good morning, Major.”

  “What’s so good about it?” Quinn demanded, as she poured coffee into her mug.

  “Three inches snow on ground,” Andruko replied.

  “And the visibility?”

  “Near zero.”

  “And our plan?”

  “On track. Trucks gone.”

  By sending the trucks east, toward the M-36, Quinn hoped to convince the Russians that what remained of her command was on them, and headed for Kazakhstan.

  And to that end, fully half of the 152nd had been kept inside since the early morning hours so the enemy couldn’t count them from above. Now, with near zero visibility, it seemed likely that the Russian UAVs were grounded.

  That meant Quinn, along with her remaining soldiers, could hike south without being observed. And two of them should be there already. “How ‘bout Hiller? And Melnik?”

  “They’re in place, Major.”

  That made Quinn feel better, although the loss of Booker, and three soldiers weighed heavily on her mind. “Good. Thank you. And the burials?”

  “There’s a section of bare soil in the north wing of the building,” Andruko replied. “We buried them there. The Doctor said a prayer.”

  Quinn felt guilty for missing the ceremony. But Quinn was responsible for the living, as well as the dead, and needed the three hours of sleep.

  Gulin, four soldiers, a medic, and two wounded soldiers were in the trucks. If everything went according to plan, they would find a place to hide and join the rest of the 152nd after the airport was secured.

  They left 15 minutes later. Sergeant Mahowski was on point, with two of his best soldiers behind him, and Quinn in the 4-slot. As XO it was Andruko’s duty to bring up the rear where, if the unit was cut in two, he would take command.

  Every soldier was carrying a forty-pound pack loaded with water, one MRE, and ammo. Lots and lots of ammo. Plus their weapon which, in the case of an M4 carbine, weighed more than three pounds. The plan was to proceed at a slow pace in order to arrive with enough energy to fight.

  It was cold. Damned cold. But, because there was very little wind, the snow fell almost straight down. The trees were white by then. As were the gently rolling fields the soldiers crossed. But thick though the snowfall was, Quinn could see the dim shapes of houses to the east, and an industrial complex to the west, the purpose of which was unclear. Had it been targeted by the B-2s? Possibly, but Quinn couldn’t tell from that far away.

  One foot in front of the other. That was the way Quinn had been able to complete many marches over the years. And, even though the snow made walking more difficult, the column was making steady progress.

  Then, after half an hour or so, Quinn spotted the airport’s control tower through the swirling snow. Somehow it had managed to survive the bombing. The tower was an obvious place to station lookouts. And, as the unit neared the field, the chances of being seen were extremely high.

  Could they win the ensuing battle? Quinn thought so. But, if the 152nd could maintain the advantage of surprise, casualties would be lower. “This is Six,�
� Quinn said. “We’re going to take a break. The CSM will establish a security screen. And remember what General Wellington said about preparing for battle: ‘Pee when you can.’”

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Shagol Airbase, Russia

  The 152nd was hidden in a grove of evergreens, and Quinn was sipping coffee, when Hiller appeared. Her hood was thrown back to reveal her white-blond crewcut and cold blue eyes. Rumor had it that “Headshot” had been a vet tech prior to the war and hoped to be a vet someday. Quinn tried to imagine that and failed. “Corporal Hiller, reporting as ordered ma’am.”

  Quinn nodded. “Would you like some coffee?”

  Hiller nodded. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “We don’t have any cream, but there’s some sweetener.”

  “Black is fine,” Hiller said. “So long as it’s hot.”

  In the wake of Booker’s death, Master Sergeant Wilkins had accepted command of the supply section reporting to Andruko. He offered a metal cup. “It’s reasonably clean.”

  Quinn poured coffee from a thermos and steam rose. Hiller took a tentative sip. “That’s unusually good.”

  “Starbucks instant,” Wilkins said. “From my private stash.”

  “Thank you.”

  “So, tell me what I need to know,” Quinn said.

  Hiller drew a double-edge commando knife and knelt in the snow. “This is the runway,” the sniper said, as she drew a long rectangle in the snow. “The Russians have fighting positions here, here, here, and here.”

  Each “here” was accompanied by a stab from Hiller’s knife. “That’s the bad news,” Hiller said, as the knife returned to its sheath.

  “But there’s some good news too. There’s a lot of real estate between each pit, and only four or five soldiers stationed in each position. I haven’t seen any attempts to relieve them since Melnik and I arrived six hours ago,” she added.