“I know,” John snapped, crawling next to him and taking aim with his AR. A group of Russian infantry were running behind one of the T-90s, taking fire from both sides of the highway. John looked for the squad leader and saw a soldier waving them forward. That would be his target. He squeezed off four rounds. The first two ricocheted off the rear of the tank and bounced harmlessly into the air. The next two found their target, dropping him to the ground. With the squad leader dead, the rest of the troops attempted to scatter and were immediately cut down.
“Russians are trying to flank the northern embankment by cutting through the suburbs,” the lieutenant shouted. “If we don’t do something they’ll roll up our positions to the north and then do the same to us. What are your orders, sir?”
They were being overrun, plain and simple. Apart from attempting to retreat, there was no tactical decision that could win the day. What they needed was more help from the air. He got on the walkie to Henry. “I want you to find out what air assets we have nearby and patch me through to them.”
Just as Henry acknowledged the order, the T-90 that had been trying to shield the infantry began swinging its gun turret in their direction.
“He’s gonna fire on us,” Moss shouted, getting up and preparing to relocate. The others followed suit.
They hadn’t gotten more than five feet before the Russian 125mm smooth-bore gun shot a round straight into the side of the building.
Shards of searing hot metal and chunks of cinderblock were thrown in every direction. Four men were killed outright, others lay wounded. John caught a scream ahead of him. Moss was lying on his back. A piece of shrapnel had taken his leg off below the knee. Blood gushed from the wound. With ringing ears and blurred vision, John scrambled on all fours to his friend. Reaching into one of his utility pouches, he came out with a tourniquet. Moss was still in shock and hadn’t yet realized what had happened. He tried to stand up and fell back down.
John jumped on top of him, cinching the tourniquet above his wound. “Hold still, you stubborn mule, or you’ll bleed to death.” He applied a pressure bandage with blood-clotting chemicals and shouted for a medic.
John’s walkie came to life. “Colonel, I’m putting you through to Major Donaldson.”
“Major, this is Colonel Mack. We’re in a real bad way here and could use a hand. A Russian armored division is about to break our position in half.”
The walkie filled with static. “The Russians aren’t supposed to be this far south.”
“Yeah, well, tell that to them. We need all the close air support you can give us.”
“Colonel, I’ve got an asset a few klicks from your position, but we’re on strict orders to patrol our current location.”
“Forget your orders, Major. The enemy is here. If you do as you’re told, you’ll be signing the death warrant for thousands of American troops. We’re at the junction of Interstate 81 and 26. Our armor’s been knocked out, so was our artillery, so whatever you see rolling on the ground belongs to the bad guys.”
John didn’t get a response.
The lieutenant from the 101st crawled up next to them, along with a medic, who took over.
“Are they sending anyone?” he asked, trying to mask the desperation in his voice.
“Doesn’t look like it,” John replied. “They’ve got orders to patrol an empty stretch of highway further east. I just don’t understand it.”
With Moss being cared for, John and the other unwounded soldiers made their way back to an intact corner of the building. The Russian tanks and IFV’s were now drawing into two parallel columns, firing back at the Americans in both directions. AT-4 rockets streaked down from rooftops as well as the top of the embankment on both sides. A few vehicles were hit and exploded into violent balls of flame. Others were protected by their reactive armor and riddled the AT-4 teams with devastating fire.
A brave group of Russian troops stormed up the embankment, scaling its steep slope and engaging the Americans on the other side. John and the others fired down on them, drawing the attention of the armored column stretched along the highway. Heavy shells from the BTR’s 30mm cannon ripped into their position and John ducked down, feeling the pebbles from the industrial roof hurled into his back and sides from the explosions.
A second later the BTR exploded in a yellow and orange burst of flame, followed by the T-90 right next to it. Soon the highway was awash with explosions that forced John’s head back down for cover. It was only when he saw the Russian infantry melt under Gatling gun fire from the sky that he began to understand. Major Donaldson had sent an AC-130 Gunship, essentially a Hercules transport plane bristling with weapons. A 30mm Bushmaster 2 cannon, 105mm M102 Howitzer and ten AGM-176 Griffin air-to-surface missiles were only some of what the aircraft could bring to bear.
Overhead, it circled the battlefield, raining death upon the enemy with pinpoint precision. A company of Russian infantry that tried to take shelter under the overpass were obliterated by two shells from the Howitzer. The trail of fire flowed west along the entire Russian column. Soon the few support vehicles that were left turned and fled back north.
From there John took a deep breath and ordered his remaining troops to clear any remaining enemy troops from the suburbs.
“Major Donaldson gives you his best,” the pilot said over John’s walkie.
“Tell him when this is all over, I’m buying each one of you a beer.”
The pilot laughed. “Roger that.”
John scanned the air and saw the AC-130 head west, presumably back to base. He was about to give the order to move all the wounded into a makeshift triage area when Reese came over the walkie.
“I hope you’re sitting down, Colonel.”
“Reese, I’m glad to hear you’re still alive.”
“Not for long. I’ve got a line of Russian armor as far as the eye can see heading our way.”
Chapter 59
John felt his entire world drop out from under him. “What?”
“Those Russkies who hit us just now, well, they musta been the forward tip of a much larger force.” Reese paused and John could tell he was fishing in his pocket for what was likely his final cigarette. “Should we order a retreat?”
“How long do we have?”
“Hard to say. Maybe ten minutes before first contact.”
He thought of Gregory and Brandon. Were they all right? His duties as a father and his duties as a commander pulled him in two competing directions.
A moment later Reese was back on the radio. “Colonel, I got a second massive formation heading in from the east.”
The game was up. The Chinese were trying to break out of the American encirclement. Now it seemed it was John and his men’s turn to be crushed between two irresistible hammer blows.
An orderly retreat was out of the question. The only hope for any of them at this point was to disperse and melt into the surrounding area. With any luck, at least some of them would make it back to Oneida. Or whatever would be left of it.
“Wait a minute,” Reese said. “You may wanna hold that order.”
“What do you see?”
“Those aren’t the Chinese coming from the east. Those are our boys.”
John found a better vantage point and scanned through his binoculars. But Reese was only partially right. What was approaching was the tip of the NATO spear. John swung to the left and saw that the Russian force was now about five miles away.
The sound of approaching aircraft filled the air. Flying low to the ground, a dozen A-10 Warthogs roared over them and John plugged his ears from the deafening noise. Close behind them was a group of Apache gunships. Thick clouds of black smoke soon appeared as the Russian column was torn to shreds. The carnage went on right up until the long line of NATO armored vehicles reached the interstate junction John and his men had been ordered to hold. He gave Moss a final check before he climbed down to greet them.
Many of the fighters who’d been defending the strip came out fr
om cover, staggering toward the approaching troops as though part of a mirage. Many of the soldiers had bloody bandages wrapped over their heads or arms. Others had improvised, using pieces torn from their uniforms to stem a bleeding wound.
To the north, loud detonations continued as the Russian vehicles were devastated by American airpower.
John turned to the lieutenant. “Find out if my sons are all right, will you?” He didn’t want to stumble onto what was left of them if the unthinkable had happened.
The lieutenant ran off just as a Humvee rolled up along the shoulder of the highway and pulled to a stop. Beside it, the long row of tanks and fighting vehicles continued to roll past, among them M1A2s, the British Challenger 2 and German Leopard 2.
The Humvee door swung open and an older officer in fatigues stepped out. John spotted five stars running down the center of his uniform and the name on his chest: Dempsey.
John and the others stiffened and saluted.
Cool and collected, Dempsey returned the gesture. “Where’s General Brooks?”
John’s eyes fell. “He didn’t make it, sir. Neither did Colonel Higgs.”
The general shook his head, scanning over John’s shoulder to the sound of exploding enemy armor. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am to hear that. I won’t lie to you, Colonel, things were touch and go for a while back there. At first the Chinese refused to fully commit to the attack. Our center line must have been pushed back thirty miles before they were all in. If any of those Russian reinforcements had shown up, it would have tipped the scale in the enemy’s favor. We owe you all a debt of gratitude.”
Just then John’s walkie came to life. “Colonel, the Russians are retreating.”
Everyone present cheered, hugging each other, some shaking their weapons above their heads.
Hearing Reese’s message must have made something click in the general’s head. “Colonel Mack?” Dempsey asked, surprised.
“Yes, sir.”
“I expected you to be taller.”
John and the others around him smiled. “If I may,” John replied, “I expected you to be younger.”
Now they both laughed.
The armored column slowed to allow Brandon, Gregory and the lieutenant who found them to cross the highway. When he saw them, John fell on his knees and hugged them both.
“Are you hurt?”
They shook their heads. Gregory’s hands were bandaged. “What happened?”
“One of the tanks near us was hit by a rocket and Gregory ran in to pull the driver out,” Brandon said.
John ruffled Gregory’s hair.
“I did what anyone else would have done,” his son said, trying to hide the surge of pride.
When they noticed General Dempsey standing before them they both stood at attention and saluted.
“At ease, soldiers. You did a fine job.” Dempsey waved his hands over the men gathered before him. “I’m awarding each and every one of you a Silver Star.”
“That’s a great honor,” John replied. “We do have quite a few wounded in need of attention.”
“Yes, of course.” Dempsey ordered his men to assemble the wounded and medics to care for them.
A squadron of F-22 Raptors roared over them as the soldiers below fanned out over the ravaged battlefield, searching for those in need of medical attention.
John was about to follow suit when General Dempsey pulled him aside.
“We intend to push them all the way back to the sea,” Dempsey said. “You do realize that?”
“I expect our boys will chase them all the way home,” John replied.
The general took John by the shoulders. “I could use someone like you, John. I know your rank was only intended to be a temporary measure, but I need someone with guts who can replace General Brooks.”
“I’m humbled by the offer, sir,” John began.
“But you’re going to turn it down.”
His hands fell to his sides. “I’ve served my country whenever she’s asked me to.”
“No need to explain, John. I understand. I’m only sorry you won’t be there with us when we march through the streets of Beijing.”
The two men saluted one last time and John was suddenly aware he was living through a historic moment, one he would tell his grandchildren about years from now.
Chapter 60
General Liang’s headquarters at Berry Field near Nashville was in full panic mode. Officers rushed to destroy sensitive material in the face of the advancing Americans. Liang sat at his desk, smoking a Cuban cigar, a present from Fidel himself during a diplomatic trip to the island in the spring of 2007. The rich aroma and spiderwebs of white smoke filled the room.
His aide, Colonel Guo Fenghui, knocked briefly before entering. “Sir, the convoy leaves in ten minutes.”
General Liang chopped at the smoke with his hand. “Can’t you see I’m busy here?”
Guo stiffened at his superior’s reproach. “If you stay behind you’ll be captured.”
“And if I return?” Liang countered. “What will happen to me then?”
Both men knew perfectly well what would happen. The Communist Party politburo would blame the failure on him, make him a convenient scapegoat and televise his public execution. No, this was not the thanks he’d expected for a lifetime of loyal service. They’d been double-crossed and hampered by a grassroots American resistance movement that required far more military assets than they could spare. They’d invaded an incredibly large country and, like Hitler’s invasion of Russia during the Second World War, China’s victory had depended on a lightning advance. One she’d failed to deliver.
“No, I will wait here and accept my fate without flinching.”
Colonel Guo’s eyes flitted back and forth, as though he were searching for some way to convince the general to flee.
“Finish destroying those sensitive files and then I want you to leave,” General Liang told him. “And that’s an order.”
Guo’s eyes were red, his skin splotchy. “It was a pleasure to serve with you, sir.”
Liang stood. “Likewise.”
Guo saluted and then turned to leave.
“Colonel,” Liang called after him. “Do not forget what became of Japan after she awoke the sleeping giant. One day soon the Americans will land on our shores. Promise me you’ll be there to stop them when they do.”
Colonel Guo promised he would and left.
When he was gone, General Liang finished his cigar, removed his Type 77 service pistol and put a bullet through his temple.
Chapter 61
Knoxville, fourteen days before EMP
John pulled up to James Wright’s house and killed the engine. Exiting the vehicle, he tugged at the brim of his 278th ACR ball cap, stifling the urge to curse. Wright’s front yard had become unrecognizable. The grass was knee high and in some places even higher. Weeds had pushed up through cracks in the driveway. There was no longer any mystery deciphering where Wright’s property ended and his neighbor’s began.
John wondered how many visits from the city he’d already received. No doubt Wright would not be a popular man in this neighborhood as long as his neglect continued to devalue the homes around him.
As his own life had slowly come back under control, John had come by several times in the previous weeks and James had never come to the door. Back then it was his wife Susan who had answered, usually with their youngest son Bradley cradled under her left arm. Even then the yard had begun showing signs of inattention and John had offered to mow the lawn, but Britany would have none of it. It was James’ responsibility. If someone took that away from him, what reason would he have for getting out of bed in the morning?
As it was, James still hadn’t managed to find a job. And that was part of the reason John was here now. His contracting business had started to pick up steam and it was time he began looking for some qualified subcontractors. Some of the properties John was working on needed painters and he knew James had done this kind o
f work before enlisting.
The mailbox by the front door overflowed with letters and bills. Those that didn’t fit were piled in a small heap on the ground. John was beginning to wonder if the family had moved without telling him. Peering in through the living room window, he noticed that a light was on. He knocked nearly half a dozen times before James finally answered the door.
His army buddy didn’t look well at all. He was wearing dirty briefs and a robe, stained with what John thought was peanut butter. Wright’s long and tangled hair along with his heavy beard made him look more like a squatter than the owner.
“I was going to ask how you were doing,” John began. “But I don’t think I need to anymore.”
Wright glanced over his shoulder, squinting at the light. His flesh was pale, nearly translucent, like a man who hadn’t seen the sun in ages.
“I was just in the middle of some stuff,” Wright said.
John nodded, not feeling the need to call out his friend’s lie. “What about Britany and the kids? They around?”
A long pause as Wright brought the two ends of the bath robe together. “Gone.”
“For good?”
Wright nodded, his eyes glazing over.
“You don’t look like you’ve been sleeping well,” John said, reaching down to collect the mail on the ground.
“Can you blame me?”
He handed the letters to Wright, who set them on an even bigger pile next to the door. “I’m not here to blame you, James. I’m here because I’m your friend. You haven’t been returning my phone calls. I’ve come by a bunch and each time all I see is your grass getting taller.”
Wright looked past John at the miniature jungle growing on his front lawn. “Yeah, the phone got cut off.” His eyes found John again. “What’s your secret, John? You’re always cool and under control. Never show a single crack.”
“You couldn’t be further from the truth there, James. I hit the bottom just like you. Hit it so hard I practically bounced and nearly lost everything I held dear. I dare say you might have gone one step further. But you know what made all the difference in the world?”
Last Stand: Turning the Tide (Book 4) Page 20
