The Monroe Doctrine

by James Rosone

  Gilbert shook his head in frustration. He knew this was one of those things that was out of his control. Here he was, commanding the largest amphibious landing forces since Korea, and the 47,000 men and women under his command were being flung around the Caribbean like toy boats in a bathtub. He commanded the combat power of two full Marine infantry divisions and a Marine air wing, and now all of it was at the ever-loving mercy of the weather.

  Then a thought occurred to him. Why not call the chaplain and have him pray for the weather to clear up?

  Lowering his own head in the silence of the room, Gilbert whispered, “Lord, I have men dying at Gitmo and I can’t send them help until this weather clears. Please, clear the storm for us and allow our operations to continue.” Is it bad that I’m asking God to give us good weather so we can kill our fellow man? He shook the thought out of his mind. They’re communists, they don’t believe in God, so it’s their loss, he justified to himself.

  Ninety minutes ago, the J2 or joint intelligence officer had briefed them on the latest satellite picture of what was going on around the base. It looked like the Chinese had grown tired of their Cuban allies’ inability to swarm and overrun the base and were now taking over. The intel weenies said elements of the PLA’s 112th Mechanized Infantry Division, parts of the 6th Armored Division and what appeared to be a battalion of self-propelled PLZ-07s were on the move to finish the job. While the armor and the mechanized infantry units and vehicles concerned General Gilbert, the battalion of 152mm self-propelled artillery could practically wipe the defenders out if they didn’t find a way to take out those artillery units. Task Force Khe Sanh was in for a world of hurt in the coming day if they didn’t do something.

  As he stared at the map and the pictures the intel guys had left behind, the door to the wardroom suddenly opened, breaking his train of thought.

  “Ah, there you are, General Gilbert,” said Major General Martin, the commander for the 2nd Marine Division.

  Walking in behind him was Major General Roldan, the commander for the 4th Marine Division, who was also the commander of the Marine Force Reserve. Then came in their lone Army guy, Colonel Diego Álvarez, who commanded the 65th Infantry Brigade Combat Team from the Puerto Rican National Guard. A few captains, the staff officers for the generals and colonels, also walked in.

  “Hope you don’t mind us barging in on your private time, General. We’ve all been thinking about the guys on Khe Sanh and the situation they find themselves in, and we wanted to go over an idea we had with you,” General Martin said as everyone filtered into the room and headed to their respective chairs. The Marines had stopped calling the Cuban base “Gitmo” and were now referring to it as “Khe Sanh” in memory of the last time a Marine base had been surrounded and faced annihilation.

  General Gilbert liked to have about thirty minutes of private time to himself before a major planning or staff meeting like this. It was the brief calm before the storm when he’d say a few quiet prayers and ask the Lord for guidance on what to do next. He’d survived too many close encounters throughout his military career not to believe there was some divine hand guiding him through his career. Maybe it had to lead him to this very moment; maybe it was for something much greater down the road.

  Gilbert smiled softly as the officers took their seats. “No, that’s OK. I was just reviewing the latest intel dump we’d gotten and trying to figure out how we can deal with that enemy artillery before it completely wrecks Khe Sanh.”

  Gilbert was just about to take a seat himself when he noticed an empty chair. Just as he was about to say something, Colonel Matt McGrath walked in, a fresh cup of coffee in his hand.

  “I just heard everyone moved the meeting up,” he offered as he took a seat. He was the air component commander for the Marine invasion.

  “No worries, we were just about to get started,” General Gilbert remarked. He took a deep breath in before announcing, “The amphibious invasion of Cuba should have begun four days ago. Instead, it’s been an all-Army airborne show up north around Havana. Operation Tricorne needs to start, and it needs to start in earnest. I know Hurricane Octavio has sidelined us, and yes, I know our leathernecks are getting ravaged with seasickness down in the berthing from the storm. It’s been tough on me as well. But damn it to hell, our guys on Khe Sanh are dying and they’re about to get slammed by a force that outnumbers them at least forty to one if that is in fact an entire PLA division and two brigades moving into the area. I want options for how we can help them and help them now!”

  Gilbert turned to the latecomer to the room. “Matt, how soon can we get birds in the air and start providing close-air support to Khe Sanh?”

  “Sir, I’d like to start launching CAS missions today, but the damn winds are just too high right now.”

  Gilbert shook his head in frustration. “Best guess, then,” he demanded. “We talkin’ a few hours or another day?”

  The air boss looked at something for a minute before answering. “Sir, we need to be at least seventy miles from Cuba to compensate for not being able to carry out midair refueling operations, and that’s if the wind dies down. If not, our air cover is useless—that isn’t even taking into consideration the HQ-9s and MANPADS covering the entire island.”

  A thought occurred to Gilbert. “What about the A-29s? Will they stand a better chance at negating the enemy radar than our F-35s?”

  “Possibly,” replied Colonel McGrath. “The Super Tucanos are able to fly much lower than our jet aircraft. If the enemy is scanning the higher altitudes for our jets, then yes, there’s a decent chance the A-29s might be able to slip in at a lower altitude and lay a hurt on the enemy. But again, sir, it’s still going to come down to the winds and whether or not the weather is going to cooperate.”

  Gilbert saw a lone hand raised in the back of the room. He turned his head around and saw a man in a flight suit.

  “Yes? What is it?” Gilbert asked tersely.

  “Sir, I’m Commander Mark Adams. I’m the Tucano squadron commander. My pilots and I were chopped to II MEF from Naval Special Warfare for this invasion. Colonel McGrath is correct; we’re too far out with these winds to rely on air support from the fleet. However, my squadron was able to relocate to Port-au-Prince, Haiti, two days ago. I spoke with my XO, and he tells me the squadron is ready to start supporting combat operations. From Haiti, we’re roughly two hundred miles from Gitmo—I mean, Khe Sanh. That puts us well within our combat range if we carry at least one drop tank for fuel. I’d love to lead this air raid myself, but if you want, we can go ahead and send my guys in now under my XO,” the naval aviator offered.

  Gilbert’s eyes narrowed a bit as he looked the man in the eyes for a moment before he noticed something below the man’s naval aviator wings. He was wearing the trident of the US Navy SEALs. Well, if this SEAL thinks it can work, then it’ll probably work, he thought.

  Curiosity now getting the better of him, Gilbert had to ask, “You were a SEAL commander—what happened?”

  A mischievous grin spread on the man’s face. “Well, sir… I forgot how to swim.”

  All heads turned to General Gilbert to see how he’d respond. Gilbert let out a guttural laugh that broke the tension in the room, causing the others to join in.

  “OK, Commander. If you say your guys can make it work, then by God, you can make it work. Get on the first bird back to the Truman and see if they can’t get you back to Haiti to join your squadron. I want your guys up in the air as soon as you are able to. Oh, and Commander, your top priority is to go after that SP artillery. You can take out whatever you want after those SPs are gone, understood?”

  Commander Adams smiled. “Roger that, sir.”

  Just then, Major Barrigan burst into the room with a message for General Gilbert. Gilbert took the message from his aide-de-camp. After reading it, he let loose a string of obscenities as he crumpled the paper up.

  “Gentlemen, the ChiComs and the Cubans have begun their full assault on Khe Sanh.”


  *******

  Three Hours Later

  Battalion Landing Team 2/8

  Task Force Khe Sanh

  Outside Gitmo

  “Incoming!”

  Boom! Boom! Crash!

  The roof of 2/8’s tactical operations center finally collapsed, crushing the battalion intelligence officer and three of his Marines instantly.

  “Take cover!” screamed Sergeant Major Savusa over the thunder of explosions all around them. Rocks, dirt, grass, and other debris rained down on them.

  “Sergeant Major, we need to move to the alternate TOC in the bunker!” yelled the XO. Thunderous explosions continued rocking the base.

  “Aye, sir. All right, gents, you heard the man! We gotta move!”

  The remaining Marines didn’t need to be told twice. They grabbed whatever they could and took off toward the alternate TOC nearby.

  Major Trout saw Lieutenant Colonel Bonwit almost frozen, transfixed by the carnage happening around them and the shock of the sudden artillery barrage that was hammering them. He ran over to him and grabbed him by the arm to shake him free of whatever had gotten ahold of him.

  “Mike…Mike, you good?”

  Bonwit looked at his XO with a blank look for a second. It was like he recognized his lips moving, asking him something, but couldn’t hear what he was saying over the ringing in his ears or the fog that was threatening to overwhelm his mind. He shook his head briefly, trying to regain control of himself.

  Trout motioned for Bonwit to follow him outside, pointing in the direction of the bunker, their alternate TOC and command post. Bonwit nodded, still not fully able to communicate just yet.

  When the XO pushed the partially destroyed door open and led them outside, it was like a moonscape. They’d emerged in a completely new place. Marines everywhere were screaming for help. One young man was lying on his side, trying to push his intestines back inside his stomach while he cried out for his mother. Another had lost both of his legs, blood spurting out of the torn-up stumps with every heartbeat.

  Lieutenant Colonel Bonwit threw up. “My God—please let this be a nightmare,” he stammered. “This is hell on earth.”

  *******

  Fox Company

  Defensive Position

  Outside Gitmo

  First Lieutenant Chuck Grimm had been in command of Fox Company 2/8 for all of thirty minutes. Their commander, Captain Heller, had been killed while carrying a wounded Marine off the line. The initial attacks consisted of hundreds of Cuban militias charging the line. The nearby Chinese Army units were using the poorly trained Cubans as cannon fodder to force the Marines to expend precious ammo they were already short on.

  If so many of his Marines weren’t dying from these fruitless attacks, Grimm would almost feel pity for them. They weren’t a professional army—they were just a people’s militia hastily thrown together and poorly equipped and sent off to go attack the big nasty Americans.

  A Marine pointed off in the direction of the enemy lines as he shouted, “Sir, enemy armor!”

  Looking through his binos, Grimm spotted two platoons of Chinese Type 15 light tanks followed by the more traditional Type 08 armored personnel carriers.

  Damn it, how are we supposed to stop that? he asked himself.

  The armored vehicles tore across the open terrain as they raced towards the American lines, hoping to take advantage of the latest Cuban militia assault.

  Lieutenant Grimm felt a knot form in his throat at the sight of so much armor heading towards them. They were in for it now.

  His company radio operator, Corporal Hickey, laughed out loud at the sight of what was rapidly approaching them.

  Annoyed, Grimm turned and asked, “What’s so funny, Corporal?”

  “Well, sir, I was just thinking. It sure was a good idea to get rid of our Marine tank battalions a few years back,” Hickey replied with sarcasm dripping off his lips.

  Grimm laughed at the irony of the decision by the previous Commandant of the Marines. “Corporal, since when did you decide to start thinking?” Grimm joked.

  Hickey looked over the lip of their fighting hole at the tanks approaching them.

  “About thirty seconds ago, sir, right before those damn tanks showed up.”

  Grimm chuckled—more out of frustration and a sense of dread than at anything comical. In a few minutes, they’d have to hope and pray the last few tools they had left in their tool chest just might be able to slow those bastards down.

  Grimm grabbed for the radio handset being held out for him. Connecting to the remaining Marines in his command, he barked, “Squad leaders, I think it’s time we go ahead and blow the tank ditches now! Pass the word, Javelins up! Start doing your thing!”

  “Fire in the hole!” one of the company demo Marines shouted right before he depressed the ignition device that would light up their tank traps. Every Marine along Fox Company’s line dropped into their fighting holes as they readied themselves for what was about to happen.

  Fox Company had a defensive line at the perimeter fence that was roughly seven hundred meters long. It was a big area to defend, and they knew if the enemy attacked with armor, they’d have to go through a particular spot in the line that was about two hundred meters in length. Knowing where the enemy armor would have to travel because of the terrain, their demo guys had rigged and buried a series of fuel drums across the line.

  For extra incendiary nastiness and explosive power, they’d added in nearly two hundred pounds of C-4, some mortar shells, and anything else that would explode. When Lieutenant Grimm’s demo sergeant triggered the trap, the entire daisy chain of explosives erupted in a series of enormous fireballs as fuel and flames were thrown all over the place.

  The first wave of Chinese light tanks and APCs had just reached the line when three of the tanks and a single APC were thrown a hundred meters into the air by the force of the explosions. Several more were tossed aside like toy cars thrown by an angry child. The earth shook so hard it threw debris hundreds of meters high in the air as a massive new trench line was carved out of the earth in front of them.

  The tanks and APCs a little further back stopped to prevent themselves from falling into the ditch that hadn’t been there a few minutes earlier. Lieutenant Grimm signaled it was time to start raining down their few remaining 81mm mortars on the now-clustered enemy vehicles.

  As the mortars started to fall, several of the enemy vehicles elevated their guns to fire on the Marine positions. They were doing their best to go after his heavy machine-gun bunkers, mortar pits and Javelin crews.

  The 105mm tank rounds started slamming into his bunkers; some flew over their heads, only to explode when they hit one of his mortar teams further back. The tank crews were doing their best to lay it on thick while the infantry dismounted from their APCs to charge forward.

  “Get those Javelins firing!” roared Lieutenant Grimm.

  The antitank assault men emerged from their fighting positions and fired their Javelins. The weapons all spat from their launchers with a great whooshing sound and then arced upwards. The missiles gained altitude and speed as they raced towards the enemy tanks before the weapons angled downwards toward the tops of the tanks and found their targets.

  The tandem explosive charges of the warheads detonated on the thinner armor on the tops of the turrets. The first charge penetrated the top armor, followed by the explosive shaped charge, which spewed a stream of molten copper into the crew compartment of the tanks.

  Two of the rockets penetrated the tank magazines and the heat from the warheads ignited the ammunition, turning the mechanical monsters into huge Roman candles. Flame, smoke, and sparks shot out the turret hatches from the explosive overpressure.

  One of the tank crewmen tried to get out of the tank after the missile hit. As he opened the turret to crawl out, a jet of flame engulfed him. The soldier tumbled partially out of the tank, flailing his arms and screaming as his flesh melted away from his body.

  The two r
emaining tanks that managed to survive the first attack popped their emergency smoke screens, hoping the IR-inhibiting smoke would protect them from any additional missiles that might be aimed at them. The drivers tried to steer away from the carnage but ended up causing a bottleneck as the ZBLs tried to avoid the wreckage of the burning hulks.

  The ZBDs joined the tanks in launching their own smoke grenades from the mounted canisters on the turrets. The entire ambush zone was rapidly filling up with smoke as the Chinese soldiers sought to conceal their positions long enough for their dismounted infantry to try and take the launcher crews out.

  Lieutenant Grimm was ready for this too. As the Javelin gunners prepared a second volley of missiles, the 81mm mortars continued to drop rounds on the Chinese armor. While the heavy weapons platoon was laying it on thick, Grimm’s next attack kicked into gear.

  He had eight Marines equipped with the venerable Mk 153 shoulder-launched multipurpose assault weapons, or SMAWs as they were called. These were a much-improved version of the older bazookas from previous wars. The Marines made sure to aim for the remaining APCs and infantry fighting vehicles and those last two tanks, trying to thoroughly slaughter the PLA infantry in the kill box before they had a chance to mount any sort of organized counterattack.

  Seven of the leathernecks scored direct hits to the ZBLs and ZBDs as the crews began to disgorge the soldiers within their troop compartments. Some of the enemy soldiers were on fire from the detonation of the SMAWs, but many more were being shot to pieces by the M240B machine gunners, who’d opened up on the Chinese infantry.

  The sole remaining tank emerged from the smoke and got off a single shot from its main gun before it was hit by a Javelin. The tank blew apart in a spectacular fireball, completely ending the Chinese attempt to breach their lines with an armored force.