by Dave Edlund
The transports came in three at a time, approaching the runway more like helicopters than fixed-wing aircraft; the twin tilt-rotors turning progressively, steadily rotating to vertical, allowing the transports to slow and hover before descending the final ten feet to the tarmac. With the engines still roaring and the huge propellers whipping up violently swirling air currents, the rear hatch opened. Even before the ramp door hit the hard surface the Marines were running out, two-by-two, fanning out to both sides as fast as possible. In less than a minute, 54 combat-ready Marines were on the ground.
With the troops clear of the Ospreys, the pilot of each transport revved the engines and rotated the tilt-rotors forward to accelerate for a short takeoff—there were six more planes to land, 108 more troops to unload.
Shouting to be heard over the screaming aircraft, Captain Diaz ordered his men to move toward the terminal building. They would use the burning hulks littering the open grass shoulders for cover as much as possible, but eventually they would run out of cover as they neared the three-story structure.
With the advance troops safely on the ground, and not encountering any resistance, the path was clear for the remaining transports to come in quickly. No sooner had the roar of the first three Ospreys diminished when the next wave of three aircraft came in to land. This was the moment Zolnerowich anticipated, when the Ospreys, filled with American soldiers, were easy targets. Maintaining a safe distance between aircraft, the transports lowered toward the runway.
“Fire!” Colonel Zolnerowich ordered over the radio. “Destroy those aircraft!”
At once the four technicals gunned forward from their camouflaged positions within the tree line, the sound of the truck engines unable to compete with the thunderous rumble from the turboprops. Even while they were driving forward the 23mm anti-aircraft guns opened up on the approaching aircraft. Explosive projectiles tore into the Ospreys where they detonated, shrapnel ripping into wire harnesses, hydraulic lines, and men.
Caught in a murderous crossfire, the pilots gunned the engines attempting to reverse downward momentum and gain distance from the AA guns. As bullets slashed through engine cowlings, two of the three aircraft lost power and slammed into the runway, bursting into flames. The third transport continued to claw at the air, the crew desperately willing the Osprey to accelerate away from the threat. They made it another 500 feet before fuel leaks inside the fuselage caught fire.
As the conflagration spread throughout the cabin, men screamed in pain and terror, electrical wires burned through, and hydraulic pressure was all but gone. As the engines were starved for fuel and with multiple electrical malfunctions, the metal beast cratered into the grass strip beside the runway, engulfed in a fireball that mushroomed upward in the pale blue sky.
Witnessing the carnage through the pilot’s windscreen, the lead Osprey in the last group of six, aborted the landing, banking away from the runway to wait at a safe distance.
Immediately, Diaz was on the radio to coordinate the close air support while his platoon was shooting at the technicals.
“Bravo squad, Charlie squad! Into the tree line ASAP!” he ordered over the radio. Moments later mortar shells rained down, landing short of the Marines but adding to the deafening racket.
“Stinger One!” Diaz shouted into the radio. “You’ve got to take out those mortars—we’ve got no cover here!”
“That’s a roger. Do you have a visual?” The pilot’s voice came back calm, measured.
“Negative!” Surrounded by his three squads firing rifles and grenades at the technicals, it was nearly impossible for Diaz to hear. “My men are within 300 meters of the burning aircraft! Between the wreckage and the terminal along the edge of the runway!”
The two gunships dropped to 11,000 feet searching the terminal building and nearby hangars using the targeting camera in infrared mode. Warm bodies stood out as white silhouettes against a grey background.
“Ghost Rider, this is Stinger One. We’re picking up some activity on the central portion of the terminal roof, looks like a mortar team. Preparing to fire.”
“You have to clear that roof!”
“Roger,” came the disembodied reply from Stinger One.
The captain of the gunship opted to deploy the 30mm automatic cannon rather than laser-guided missiles. As the cannon opened up, the black and white video on the targeting display showed white splashes obliterate the images of the soldiers manning the two mortars. It took several seconds for the heat and smoke to dissipate. All that remained were white stationary blobs that had once been living men.
“Target neutralized,” announced Stinger One.
“Stay on it!” Diaz shouted. “If anything moves kill it! I have to get a platoon of Marines on that roof!”
“Roger, Ghost Rider. Advise position.”
It was a fierce firefight and Diaz and his squads were not letting up. One technical was totally destroyed, a charred hulk of twisted metal, the spilt gasoline and rubber tires still burning fiercely. The other three were on the move, picking up speed. Muzzle flashes from the tree line marked at least a dozen infantry. If they had mortars, or other heavy weapons, Diaz knew his men would be in a world of hurt. Already there were scores of dead and wounded, and his corpsmen could only reach a few.
A high-pitched screech rose above the sounds of battle as three white streaks reached down from the heavens, terminating at each of the technicals in a horrifying explosion—Hellfire missiles launched from Stinger Two.
Although the remaining Ospreys were not visible, Diaz was certain they were holding position only a few miles away. He needed to open up a safe landing zone, and fast.
“Stinger One! We need you to clear the trees for 400 meters both in front of and behind my position! Estimate 30 to 40 infantry. They have us locked down!”
“Confirm your position, Ghost Rider.”
“I’ve got four squads between the tarmac and the tree line, popping smoke now.” Diaz nodded to the radioman, and he threw two smoke grenades.
From 11,000 feet Stinger One and Stinger Two saw the purple smoke cloud a few hundred meters from the burning wreckage, just like Ghost Rider had said.
“We’ve got a visual on purple,” Stinger One said.
“Affirmative, you are cleared to fire.”
There was a short pause, and then the pilot came back over the radio. “Uh, negative, Ghost Rider. That haircut’s a bit too close.”
Diaz felt his anger rising. “Stinger One, this is Ghost Rider! Clear that tree line, now, goddammit! Now!”
“I say negative, Ghost Rider. We’re at 11k and I can’t guarantee those shells won’t hit your men. I’m not going to be party to a blue-on-blue investigation.”
“Then descend to a lower altitude if you have to! Hell, you’re welcome to get right down here on the ground and bleed with my men! I don’t care how you do it, you just get those guns shooting and clear the damn trees! Those transports can’t come in until this LZ is cleared! Do you understand me?”
A volley of rounds stitched along the ground only feet away from Diaz. Two of his men weren’t as lucky, the bullets ripping through their bodies.
Diaz could have sworn he heard a sigh over the radio, and then the voice of the pilot came back. “On your authority, Ghost Rider. This conversation is recorded, and for the record my objections have been clearly communicated.”
“Affirmative, my authority, whatever! Just light up the tree line, goddammit, while I still have men left to carry out this mission!”
A second later the trees were racked by 30mm cannons from the two gunships. It was a devastatingly violent barrage, each automatic gun firing 200 rounds a minute, the explosive shells ripping branches from trees and raining searing metal fragments into the NPA and Russian soldiers. Then came the deeper and louder explosions from Hellfire guided missiles blasting apart the protective vegetation. A large oak tree, hit squarely by a missile, split in half while Diaz watched.
The barrage lasted two entire mi
nutes—an eternity to those on the receiving end—and it was so intense that none of the combatants on the ground exchanged fire. Everyone was keeping their head down and seeking any protection available. For the Marines in the open, that meant becoming one with the Earth. For the enemy within the trees, the light foliage and undergrowth offered no resistance to the shells and missiles.
Another minute passed, this time in relative silence. Inside the gunships the crews prepared additional cases of 30mm ammunition, ready for another battle. The Marines raised their heads and took in their surroundings. There was no resistance.
“On your feet!” Diaz ordered. “Washington, you hold Delta squad here, you’re providing security for the birds. Once they’ve unloaded, rendezvous with Charlie squad. Everyone else, spread out—we have a terminal to liberate!”
Already medics were rushing to treat the wounded. The first step was a quick triage—mostly a superficial examination of obvious wounds—if they weren’t life-threatening, the medics moved on. They would come back later to deal with the less-serious injuries and to collect the dead.
In the distance, Diaz saw three Ospreys approach and then hover over the terminal. Sinuous black threads dropped from the open rear hatch of each aircraft. No sooner had the lines fallen when Marines rappelled down the ropes onto the roof, and then the Ospreys quickly departed.
The final trio of transports hovered just above the runway under the watchful eye of Delta squad, discharged their human cargo, and then departed to a safe staging area miles away. There they would wait, until the airport was under U.S. control.
The statisticians would mark this day for its heavy losses, and the battle was far from over.
s
Three squads of Marines slid down the thick lines in rapid succession, landing solidly on both feet and then immediately taking up defensive positions around the roof. Bodies of the NPA mortar teams were scattered about the two sandbag bunkers, also destroyed. The Marines didn’t waste time to determine if the mortars were functional or not. Rather, as they passed, a Marine dropped a thermite grenade down the gapping maw of each weapon.
“Ghost Rider, Reaper here, over?”
“Ghost Rider reads you, Reaper,” answered Diaz.
“Reaper has secured the roof—will enter the top floor through three access doors and work our way down.”
“Roger. See you on the ground floor. Ghost Rider out.”
Reaper was relieved his platoon had taken the roof without resistance. But he was certain that would change once they entered the building.
Chapter 30
Minsk
INSIDE THE CHEMISTRY STOREROOM, Peter walked past the shelves of chemicals, his father following in silence. It was in the next room, the one where Dmitri had fabricated the hollow glass spheres, that Peter would find what he sought. “This way, Dad.”
On the shelf were spools of insulated copper electrical wire, no doubt used in a range of physics experiments. Peter grabbed a coil of large gauge wire and handed it his father. He side-stepped to a cluster of gray boxes. He had glimpsed these earlier and was fairly certain they were electrical power supplies. Now, he needed to examine them more closely to find exactly what was required—a power inverter that would convert the alternating line current to direct current.
Peter handed the AK-74 rifle to his father, freeing both hands for the search. After a couple minutes, and rummaging through a half dozen power supplies, he found what he needed. “Eureka.”
The supply was heavy and Peter needed both hands to slide it off the wooden self. “Take that file, too; we can use it to strip the varnish insulation from the wire,” Peter motioned with his chin in the direction of the glassblowing table and a triangle file laying there, a common tool for cutting glass tubing. Ian picked it up and dropped it in his back pocket.
“Are you ready, Dad?”
Professor Savage nodded. With the rifle firmly gripped in his right hand and holding the copper wire in his other, he appeared alert and determined again. Once more, he had a purpose; and his will to avenge Dmitri Kaspar gave him strength.
s
“Hold,” Jim ordered, halting Bull’s progress. Something didn’t feel right.
“It’s too easy,” Jim mumbled, just loud enough to be heard across the squad net.
“What’s the order, sir?” Bull said.
Before Jim could answer, the space was shattered by a tremendous explosion that ripped through the lobby. The pressure wave blasted fragments of broken glass out the front entrance, itself deadly shrapnel, while hundreds of steel balls swept through the lobby at waist height. Propelled forward by the explosive, the projectiles slammed into the wall and the kiosk with great force, shredding sandbags and splintering the remains of the kiosk.
Safely behind the corners of the east and west hallways, the SGIT team was unscathed.
That was close, Jim thought. “Bull, they were expecting a breaching assault on the lobby doors. New plan. Take your team out the front entrance. Now! Move it!”
Bull and his squad didn’t question, they ran for the shattered glass entrance. Hopping through the windowless frames and quickly picking their way around civilian bodies, the rest of the order came through the ear buds.
“On my mark you’re going to breach the exterior glass wall while Ghost and I draw their attention to the lobby doors.”
Bull, Magnum, and Homer stayed close to the wall, trampling flowers and pushing through shrubbery, stopping just at the edge of the large glass window. The heavy draperies were still drawn, shielding the occupants from prying eyes.
“Det cord, ten feet,” Bull said.
Magnum grabbed a spool of yellow cord from his rucksack and peeled off a sufficient length. Slicing through the cord with his knife, he handed it, along with a detonator, to Bull. With practiced efficiency, Bull placed the explosive rope in place, securing it with duct tape.
The team stepped away from the window, still pressing their bodies tight against the wall. There they waited, counting the seconds, anticipating the signal. They didn’t wait long.
“Bull, ready?”
“Affirmative.”
Jim and Ghost each tossed a grenade in front of the nearest door. At the same time, they dove behind the destroyed kiosk and ruined pile of sandbags, sand still trickling out of innumerable perforations.
The simultaneous detonation of the grenades blew the lobby doors inward. At the sound of the explosions Bull detonated the explosive cord, easily blasting through the window. Bull was through first, quickly yanking down a curtain panel. His squad wasted no time jumping through the opening, weapons searching for targets—and there were plenty.
The dozen NPA soldiers were largely exposed. They were expecting a frontal assault through the two lobby doors and were hunkered down behind the sandbag barricades when the grenades blasted the doors inward. Only the assault didn’t materialize.
Instead, Bull’s squad rushed in from behind the soldiers, who had turned at the concussion of the breaching charge. Bull, Homer, and Magnum opened up.
A few militiamen managed to swing their rifles around and point them in the general direction of the SGIT assault team, firing without taking time to aim. Time they didn’t have.
Bullets flew wildly, shattering the remainder of the windowpanes behind the draperies, the sound of breaking glass mingling with gunfire.
Major Leonov was in a corner of the room, and in the confusion of battle he darted for the open doorway, planning to use the massacre as a diversion for his escape. He halted abruptly in the doorway, Jim’s rifle pointed at his face. Ghost was a step behind and to the right of Boss Man, aiming his AA12 automatic shotgun at the Major, the huge 12 gauge barrel looking more like a canon.
“Stop right there,” Jim commanded in an even voice. “Drop your weapon.”
Leonov did as ordered and raised his hands.
As quickly as the attack started, it was over. Bull, Magnum, and Homer checked the NPA soldiers for signs of life and, conclud
ing there was no further danger, turned their attentions to the hostages.
The men and women were clustered in a corner of the conference room. The terror-stricken civilians watched in silence until Bull approached, rifle down and hand held up, palm facing the petrified people.
Breaking the silence, a woman asked, “You have come to rescue us?” Her English was almost flawless, with only a mild accent.
Bull quickly realized they had recognized the American flag on the shoulder of his uniform. “Yes, we’re going to get all of you out of here.”
A man pointed his finger at the officer standing in the doorway, hands raised at gunpoint. “That is Major Leonov. He is Russian Spetsnaz.”
“Really?” Bull turned his head. “Did you hear that Boss Man?”
“Sure did.” Jim was looking his prisoner in the eyes, appraising his mettle. “So, Major Leonov. You’re a long way from home.”
“And you are?” Leonov said.
“None of your concern. Ghost, bind his hands.”
As Ghost zip-tied the prisoner’s hands behind his back, Bull completed the head count. “Fifteen, sir.”
“Several of our colleagues were killed during the first attempted rescue,” the man who pointed out Leonov explained.
“What do we do now?” Ghost asked.
“We need to get these people out of here to a more secure location.”
“Roger that, sir.”
“Where to, Boss Man?” Bull asked.
Jim removed a folded paper from his breast pocket, a floor plan for the chemistry building. “Here.” He stabbed his finger at a location on the map representing a large room on the ground floor at the opposite end of the building.
“Not many exterior windows, corner access, should be defensible,” Bull observed.
“We have company coming!” Homer shouted. He was facing toward the campus commons. Wearing his night vision goggles, the approaching enemy soldiers stood out easily against the landscaping.
“Come on people—time to go!” Jim said. The civilians rose and exited the room as a tight group, following Bull and Ghost down the hall to the far end of the building.
