About three hours before dark, I could see most of the landed Russians were in camp in the field, which was rather dumb. I suspected they were using bomb craters and everything from wrecked choppers to freshly dug fox holes for protection. It felt kind of strange to be using the same ambush spot I'd just used not a week ago. I ordered my troops to crawl as close as they could to the Russians because I was about to blow the planted napalm.
Cynthia was at my side when I squeezed the clacker. I happened to glance at my watch and it was full dark and 1920 hours. A mushroom cloud of black smoke mixed with fire rose about the field and the screams of men and women were heard. Two men were seen in the openness of the field stumbling around engulfed in flames, lighting the whole area for 200 feet or more. I was just adding more pressure on the Russian commander, hoping he was new and a cherry to boot. I had no idea how right I was, but he had some very experienced senior Sergeants along on this trip. Three had actually argued against returning to the same LZ to leave, but the young Russian Captain was hard headed. I then put the four snipers I had to work. Their screams were hideous and I knew the sound and sight was unnerving to my enemies, because no one wants to burn to death. I think most humans have a very natural fear of fire.
Each sniper had orders to seriously injure someone and then kill those who tried to get near the downed men or women. All of my snipers had a Russian scope with night vision and it was like shooting fish in a barrel. With each low poot, all the noise the silencers on the sniper rifles made, I knew a Russian was dying. Most did not die quietly either, but few men or women do when shot. To me, being shot feels like a red hot poker being pushed through my body. I get a burning sensation when struck.
Machine guns on both sides began to fire, so I gave the order to fire at will. Individual weapons now added their noises to the sounds of battle. Grenades were exploding and my mortar crew was about to add even more noise.
On the Russian side of the attack, Captain Bekhterev Petr Artemovich, was in a near panic. The napalm exploding and the two men in flames had his mind jumbled. He started to order an attack and then realized that would be foolish. Then his radioman took a hit to the head and splattered blood, bone, brains and gore all over the place, with much of it on the new Captain.
“Gator One, Base.” The radio squawked, again.
“I need help, we are being butchered out here!”
“Settle down, sir. Work with me, because I have some aircraft to help keep you alive. Slow your breathing and take a few deep breaths.”
“I am taking heavy fire from all the trees.”
“Copy Night Hawk?” Base asked.
“Copy.” Night Hawk replied and then continued, “I am a flight of three Black Shark attack helicopters out of Seattle. I am armed with a 30 mm automatic cannon, rockets, and four 250 kg (550 lb) bombs. We'll hit the north side first. Get your heads down, I am coming in hot now.”
The helicopters struck the north side hard, with rockets spewing from the aircraft and spreading death on the ground below, but few deaths, or at least not nearly as many as suspected by the pilots. They then hit each side and I had my troops slow their rate of fire a great deal to appear to have been hit hard.
We waited, and my ears were still ringing from the bombs that were dropped on my side of the field. Other than make some new stumps, the bombs did little good, but my folks were dug in well and each prayed the Black Sharks were not loaded with napalm; they weren't.
Then the pickup choppers arrived.
The Black Sharks continued working with the Captain until a flight of jets took over so the helicopter could return to base to refuel and rearm. Our firing was held to a minimum until the second wave of choppers landed; then we opened up with all we had, including missiles. I had a launcher and brought a chopper into my sights, locked on and they squeezed the trigger. I watched my missile fly from the launcher, move toward the chopper, and strike the aircraft's engine housing. That was the second Russian missile fired by me and neither was sidetracked by chaff.
Bullets began peppering my position, but on we fought. Four men ran right for my position, having realized I was in charge. A machine gun beside me opened fire and cut them to pieces. I watched as the big bullets removed limbs and heads from torsos. Blood filled the air and the mutilated bodies fell without life in any of them. I heard a scream and a Russian was suddenly in our position, rolling around and around on the ground with Cynthia.
I ran to them and when he was on top, I grabbed the front of his helmet and pulled his head back as I pulled my sharp sheath knife with the twelve inch blade. I cut his throat and watched the blood spurt from him before I released his helmet. He fell to her right side and began to jerk and twist as he fought the loss of his blood. Try as hard as he might, his hands could not slow the flow of blood and he was bled dry a few minutes later. He lay still.
I helped her to her feet and then returned to the radio.
My folks were holding out well, but I knew our time was short or I might meet the bombers Headquarters warned me about. Glancing at the field, I saw another half dozen choppers on fire and a couple smoking badly. Time to light shuck out of here, as my cowboy grandpa would say all the time.
“Badger One to all units, withdraw and return home. I repeat, gather our wounded, withdraw, and return home.”
One by one I got a reply and a call sign. Then we melted into the forest and disappeared.
Over the next few days we counted our losses, doctored our wounded, and rested. Deliveries, resupply really, in the form of LAPES, took place almost daily and we were glad to be resupplied. While most items were deeply appreciated, the Chinese rations left a lot to be desired and since they contained traditional Asian food, many of my folks didn't like them at all. Pickled turnip root is not one of the dishes most Americans relish with an entree.
My relationship with Cynthia grew stronger and then one evening, close to bedtime, she showed. She'd been drinking, but clearly wasn't drunk. She'd gotten her hands on a bottle of Crown Royal and dropped by to share a few drinks. We had a few glasses of the drink and then things turned hot, following one deep kiss that brought all our passion to the front, where it ignited into hot burning flames. Moments later, she stood and then led me to my cot.
“Colonel, you'll not believe what the Chinese brought us late last night.” One of my Sergeants said the next morning. “I discovered four pallets of four wheel All Terrain Vehicles, with utility trailers.”
“What else?”
“Two five hundred gallon bladders of fuel, along with bullets, beans and first aid supplies.”
“Do not take the ATVs into direct combat. They'll help us in many different ways. With trailers we'll be able to move our wounded much faster, deliver bullets and food to battlefields, and to move people who need to get some place fast in a fight. Improves our fighting power tenfold, or so I think.” I said.
Near noon I got a call that bad weather was headed our way and to recall all troops and to suspend all missions. This storm was to hit us with high winds and snow; well over 36 inches in some spots was expected. I reached all of my people, except one squad who had reported radio problems. I had them called and called, but no response.
I sent four men out on ATVs to look for them. They had extra food and emergency gear they would need if caught out in the weather. Each vehicle had a trailer with gear stacked high when they left. For some reason I was deeply concerned, and that just isn't me. I knew most missions resulted in deaths and injuries but this was no typical mission. After they left, I started worrying about them running over a mine, so I finally opened my desk drawer and fished out the whiskey bottle I kept in there. Two shots of the strong amber colored drink and my concern was less, but still there. I refused to drink more, because I didn't need a drinking problem as a commander.
Intel called on me to discuss the Russian pilot we'd captured a while back. They'd learned a great deal about him and the Russian Seattle Air Base. He knew very little of any real value,
due to his low rank and position. And no military secrets to really speak of, so now we had to figure out what to do with him. Intel suggested killing him, but I was more interested in keeping him alive for a prisoner exchange. One highly trained pilot would be worth a good dozen partisans, easily, but with the Russians you never knew.
Four hours after the ATVs left, I received a call that stated the unit had been found and they were heading back to base. Mines had slowed the ATVs down to the point that a man had climbed from the trailer to walk in front of them so they could safely move forward. Since the unit had three wounded, the two worst injured would ride home. I smiled then, because nothing was more nerve-racking than having a badly injured person and having to carry them by stretcher to someplace they could be treated properly. Over time they grew heavy, and it also limited the number of eyes scanning the countryside as we moved. Each man carrying the corner of a stretcher was one more fighter out of the picture for a few hours. That was why most of my snipers injured a target instead of killing them, because it took men to care for the wounded. The ATVs allowed me to do more for my wounded, faster, and at a cost of less men. I liked them.
When they walked into camp they looked like hell, and it was just starting to snow. It reminded me of images I'd seen as a kid of American soldiers fighting in Korea in the early 50's. Cold and worn out is how they looked to me, with all needing some hot food and a night of sleep.
“What are you doing!” I heard Sergeant Major Byrd yell out and watched as he neared a man and knocked him down with a hard right.
“What's going on here?” I asked as I neared.
“He was pacing our compound, sir.” Birdie said.
A quick search of the man found a crudely drawn map of our base with the paces to various tents and facilities. A man would start at an easy to locate place on a base, say a discolored tent, a tall tree, or boulder easily seen, and then pace to a series of targets. All a mortar or artillery crew needed was the map and they'd clean me out. I grinned when I saw my tent circled in red ink. I was 500 paces from our main gate.
“What do you have to say about this?” I asked as I pulled my pistol.
“T . . . the Russians have my whole family in a gulag, sir. They said they'd release them if I made a pace map for them.”
Then removing another piece of paper from the man's shirt, Birdie unfolded it and gave a loud whistle. He handed it to me and I found myself looking at a photo of a much younger me on the paper and noticed I was now worth one million dollars, dead or alive. I had to smile at all those people in the past who said I'd never amount to much, because I was now worth a lot of cash money. The man Top had caught was obviously out to make a few bucks at our expense.
I never answered the man, but raised my pistol and fired twice, both rounds taking the spy in the face, killing him instantly. When he fell to the ground jerking and twitching in his death throes, I said, “He deserves and gets no trial. Once he's dead, use an ATV to move his body out about 5 miles and dump him. He deserves no burial and we'll not give him one, either.”
As one of my men drove off a bit later, the dead man on a trailer, I wondered, How much will a one million dollar reward change my life, if at all? But, I will have to be cautious.
Chapter 10
The whole Russian staff was fit to be tied when intelligence reported the estimated number of partisans in the area. Early estimates, from just three years ago, thought there might be 400 or so in the state, but now they were saying 5,000 to 10,000, only how could that be? Just in the last few hard battles they'd fought against the Russians, the partisans lost over 200 people. But the Russian losses were three men shy of 500 dead, with 1200 injured and fifteen missing. The missing were all presumed dead with their bodies blown to hell and back or burned to the point they were cremated. The only known Prisoner of War (POW) was the Russian MIG jet pilot they watched being taken prisoner.
They were all seated at stand up, the main purpose of the meeting a good hour behind them. They were brainstorming now, trying to figure out how to get the upper hand with the resistance.
“Shoot hostages.” Intelligence suggested.
Colonel Yakovich said, “Colonel, it won't work. In Mississippi, a part of the United States that was a once part of the Confederate States of America, they went to their deaths by the thousands and it changed not a damned thing. My cousin saw them hanging the Americans one morning. They were on a cobblestone road in town and hanging them from telephone poles. They'd toss a rope over the pole, put a noose around the person's neck, and then push them off the back of a flatbed truck. He actually saw and heard the doomed men and women pledging allegiance to their flag or singing their national anthem as the noose was placed on them. They were still pledging or singing as they were pushed off the truck. He said it gave him the chills, and he suspected then we could not win a war here.”
“I know they do not fear us, no matter what we do. On my last assignment here I was stationed in part of Texas. We started executions and so did they. For every one of them we killed, 10 Russian soldiers died, and in the same manner as we killed their people. Once we put 100 people in a church and set it in flames; the next week at midnight they put 217 Russian soldiers in an old building, poured gasoline on the structure and then set it in flames. They left a letter that said the rest of them would burn to death as soon as they captured more Russians. They kept their word, and 1,000 Russian men and women eventually burned to death. No, executions we want to avoid at all costs, because they do not frighten Americans.”
“Let us poison gas the bastards, then.” a Captain suggested.
“That worked in Mississippi, but all we killed were civilians. The partisans had our chemical/biological protective clothing and masks, which they stole from convoys, trains or supply houses. All it did was just irritate them, as it did us. No, these people are hard when need be. I can remember years ago, I used to think all Americans were fat and soft, but those Americans are dead already. We are dealing with the lean and mean citizens now, and they are a handful of determination.”
“I want all of you to know that Jackson, Mississippi even used a nuke on them three years or so back and they are still fighting there. They turned around a few months later and used a nuke on us. Now most of Mississippi is radioactive and a serious danger to anyone stationed there. We need a different approach to these people. I suggest we keep fighting as we have been, traditional warfare. We bandage their seriously wounded and leave them. If we take them as POWs we had better damned sure take good care of them. Starvation rations will bring down harsh attacks from the resistance.” the Commander said. He then asked, “How many prisoners do we have of theirs?”
“Sir, we have 5,000 civilians and 326 soldiers.” the commander of the gulags said.
“How many more can we keep in custody?”
“With a little crowding, we can double our current numbers. If we stop feeding them and do not care about their comfort, maybe we can house four times that many.”
“Did you not hear me when I said if we take them as POWs we had better damned sure take good care of them? Starvation rations will bring down harsh attacks from the resistance? I have seen it happen too, and they eventually freed the prisoners. No, they will be treated humanely by me as long as I am the commander here. We can beat them on the battlefield, and we will. But if anyone comes up with something new, let me know. I want my infantry commanders to remain seated while the rest of you are dismissed.” Colonel Yakovich said as he pulled his cigarettes from his jacket pocket. He lit one, took a deep puff, and let the smoke release from his mouth and nose. He wanted a drink of vodka, so he pulled his coat open, removed his flask, and took a drink. He was the only man to do so.
“Gentlemen, tomorrow morning at 0600, over two thousand Russian paratroopers will jump over Washington State, and then break into small ten men and women squads. We will use the paratroopers with attack helicopters to hunt partisans. The Russian units in Mississippi had great success working togeth
er, so we have high expectations, as well. Also, our total armor force will start rolling at the same time. The jumpers will land in the northern part of the state, while our armor will start in the South and move North. We will see what gets trapped between them. The name for this operation is Operation Fish Market.”
“Is that all, sir?” the weather chief asked and then glanced at his watch.
“Why, do you have a hot date, Boris?” the Commander said and then laughed. He knew the meeting was double the length of his usual meetings, but he'd covered a lot of material.
“No, sir, but another storm is headed this way from the arctic and I expect heavy snows. The last I saw near noon, it was passing Alaska and dumping 76.2 to 101.6 centimeters, or 30 to 40 inches, of snow within 24 hours.”
“That much, eh? I guess we can wrap this up then. Gentlemen, support Operation Fish Market in all ways. Dismissed until tomorrow.”
“Colonel, if you will wait a minute, I will walk to the weather station with you. I want to see this storm of yours on radar.”
“Yes, of course, sir. It is a wide storm and heading right for us. I see no other fronts between us and the storm so we will be hit, just exactly when I have no idea, but maybe 48 hours.”
“Much snow? You said Alaska got a lot, but what about us?”
“I think we'll get well over 101.6 centimeters before it is over and that's within the first 24 hours. There is a second front right behind this one that looks even more menacing to me.”
“Surely our paratroopers and armor are aware of this weather change? I need to warn Headquarters this evening and our troops will need skis or snowshoes. I am sure they know of this and may be using it as a cover for their attacks.”
The Fall of America | Book 7 | Airborne Page 10
