“No, he died a week or so back. I must go now, my friend, but I will return as soon as I am able. You rest and heal up, sir.” The Master Sergeant came to attention and gave Pajari a crisp salute.
Captain Pajari returned the salute and then laughed.
Master Sergeant Sokoloff left the aircraft at 6096 meters, or 20,000 feet, and would free fall to 213.36 meters, roughly 700 feet, before deploying his parachute. He did not have a reserve parachute, because it was unlikely he'd have time to deploy it before hitting the ground. He was loaded with gear, but less than he normally carried in the field. He was with a special Russian unit that spoke English and while his use of the language was good, he still had problems with American slang. The ten of them left the aircraft at the same time. Supposedly, they were being dropped in front of an American unit that was carrying a nuclear suitcase bomb. His task was to prevent the partisans from getting revenge on the Russian army. As far as he was concerned, the mission was impossible.
As he kept his back arched, his arms and legs fully extended, his fall was controlled. First, no one knew exactly which group of partisans had the bomb and second, what the intended target would be. Without that information it was a difficult, if not impossible, task.
At 213.36 meters, his chute opened and he heard a loud grunt, knowing full well it was his reaction to opening shock. He struck the ground moving forward and did a perfect parachute landing fall. Gaining his feet, he collapsed his chute and stuck it in some brush. Pulling a map from his pocket, he took a hard look and began moving toward the meeting place. He was the third man of ten to reach the others. In less than 30 minutes, they were all gathered together, and each was wearing partisan clothing and would speak English only from this point on. Each knew if the partisans caught them, they'd be executed as spies. What they were to attempt was to blend in with a partisan unit, discover what the target was, determine if only one bomb was being used, and if the other bomb was held as a back up in the event the first one was taken or did not function. As far as Sokoloff was concerned, it was a wasted effort by the Russians. It was highly unlikely the Americans would tell strange new members anything, even if they were able to contact them without getting killed.
They moved toward where the last American group had been spotted and all were nervous. Each knew one mistake and they were dead men. They even had to avoid their own troops, because to those that didn't know of the mission, this squad was a group of partisans.
It was late afternoon when they entered the swamps. Snakes slithered away, usually by entering the water, and gators either backed into warm water slowly or slapped the surface of the water with their tails, to warn other gators before turning and moving away. The mosquitoes were getting bad, so repellent was applied and onward they moved. Near dusk, they contacted Base and reported, using code, that all was well. They were informed, also in code, that the American unit was estimated to be a little over a mile from them, moving north.
They then tuned in the American radio frequency and listened to different communications. Little was said of interest, except one unit was spotted, just after dark by a Russian helicopter with infrared capability, and it was slowly massacring the partisans. The last words spoken was by the team leader who said, “I've been spotted. Tell my wife I —”
The team leader, a Russian Major Yakovich, said, “We need to get some sleep. Frank, I want you on guard first, then Bill.”
Frank was really Capt Tima Ivanovich, but on this mission he was a Sergeant and Bill was Senior Sergeant Feliks Ilych, a farm boy with twenty years of army experience. Sokoloff was Lieutenant Willy Johnston for this mission. All had fictitious names and backgrounds.
It was near midnight, when Kola Georiykoff moved to the Master Sergeant and said, “Willy, I hear something out there.”
“Did you wake the Major?”
The Major said, “Everyone is awake now, but keep your voices low.”
“I have an uneasy feeling.” one of the men said.
“It's nothing, except maybe a gator eating a crane or something.”
“No, there it is again.” Kola said.
“That's a military radio.” the Major said.
“I have movement on the trail at my 9 O'clock position.” the Master Sergeant said.
Fog, as normal on the swamp, was thick. Finally a man stepped from the white and stood no more than twenty feet from the Russians. His Bison swung up, he smiled, the barrel lowered.
“Apple.” the man said.
“Cobbler?” the Major said, thinking pie would have been too easy.
“Captain Wilson, I have some partisans up here.”
Each of the Russians gave a silent sigh of relief. The others would have said pie and they knew it, so it was a lucky guess.
Within ten minutes all were gathered around a small fire heating coffee from Russian rations and talking. Listening closely, the Master Sergeant learned the American Captain was named Dave Wilson, from Jackson, Mississippi.
“So, you grew up in Rolla, Missouri too, huh? By the way, I'm Sergeant Tom Black.” a partisan Sergeant said to the Captain.
“Nice to meet you, Tom. Oh, yeah, and used to go to the Uptown theater all the time, but once in a while we'd go to the Ritz, because it was cheaper. I would usually hang around Scott's Drug Store and look at the comic books.”
“Nice place to raise a family.”
“I liked it a great deal, especially trout fishing on the Little Piney River out at Vida. I can't remember the name of the road we took, but it was about a five mile ride from Vida to the river, which had a low water bridge. On Friday nights we'd go there to talk and drink beer. Had a big swimming hole right off the middle of the bridge.”
“I don't remember the road, either. It was one of those CC, DD, or something like that county roads. Used to be a trailer park where we turned.” the Sergeant said and then met the eyes of his Captain.
“That's the road, for sure.”
Then the Major said, “I'm suppose to link up with a unit out here that is on a special mission.”
“Oh?” the American Captain said.
“Yes, but I can't state what the mission is.”
“Understandable. Can you contact base by radio and see if they reported in tonight?”
“My radio isn't working properly.” the Major lied, and then glanced at his men.
Shit, thought Master Sergeant Sokoloff, if they call in for us, they will know we are Russians. Odds are no one is looking for that squad of men, not Americans anyway.
“I'd be happy to contact Base for you and see where the unit is.” the American Captain said.
“Uh, thanks.” The Major knew he was trapped, but he handled it well, and slipped the safety off his Bison.
Picking up the headset the Captain said, “Base, this is Hotel Six Actual.”
“Go, Hotel.”
“I have Major James with me that is to link up with a special unit out here, can you verify his mission and then give me a position of the partisans?”
“Wait one, Hotel.”
“Now!” the Russian Major screamed and guns blasted. The Americans were not caught completely off guard, because the American Captain had suspected something was wrong with these partisans, because they were too smooth. Hell, they remembered more details about places than the real Americans remembered.
As bodies fell, with most of the men screaming in one language or another, the voice from Base kept calling for Hotel to answer. Men screamed as bullets punched holes through their bodies and both the Russians and Americans fell side-by-side. A few short minutes later, all the Americans were dead, and the only Russian yet alive was the Master Sergeant.
He shot both radios and gathering up rations and gear, he placed it all in a pile. He checked all the men, Russian and American, but all were dead or dying. The Russian Major had taken a bullet to the face and was dead as hell. From that minute on, Master Sergeant Sokoloff was Sergeant Tom Black. He selected the name because one of the dead America
ns was Tom Black. His Commander, Captain Dave Wilson, from Jackson, Mississippi, had been killed along with everyone else, and the bodies were even here to prove it.
He searched the dead men from both sides, and found little except the Russian Major and Captain both carried flasks of Vodka. He placed one in a cargo pocket of his trousers, and took a deep drink from the other to calm his nerves. The close battle was hard on him and his hands were shaking violently as he tried to screw the lid back on the flask.
He loaded the gear he needed in a backpack from one of the Americans and donned a set of NVGs. He had plenty of spare batteries. Then he started moving north, toward the partisans he was to link with. He watched snakes move for the water as he neared, saw gators slide into the water, and saw some animals he didn't know. He remembered the password, Apple Cobbler, and made it a point to not forget it. He had no idea how often they changed the word, but every 24 hours was probable. He'd deal with that problem when it came up.
He wasn't sure it was smart for him to be walking on the trail after dark, even with NVGs on, because he could easily step on a landmine or one of the hated American toe-poppers. He'd seen the damage done by those simple and cheap booby-traps, and almost always the man suffered serious stomach wounds, along with mutilation of his manhood or balls. While he was an old man, pushing 45, he still didn't want to lose his privates. But, this mission was important, and he must learn where the bomb was to be placed. He kept moving and near sunup he knew he was lost. He pulled a map out, attempted to triangulate his position, but saw no landmarks, just swamp.
He stopped, sat under a tree and pulled out a Russian ration. He made a small fire, heated his breakfast and then ate slowly. He was tired, had blood stains on him from the gun battle and needed a hot bath and a bed. Instead, he ate, buried his rations tins, and then started moving again.
As tired as he was, he wasn't paying much attention to the ground and he'd just stepped over a log when he felt pain to his left calf. Looking down at movement, he saw a water moccasin moving away. Using a small .22 with a silencer he'd found on the dead American Captain, he killed the snake. His pain was quickly getting severe.
He wasn't sure it was the proper thing to do or not, but he injected a shot of morphine into his leg. He then pulled his knife, cut two “Xs” over each fang mark a quarter inch deep, and let the leg bleed freely. Again, he wasn't sure if that was the proper thing to do either. He'd first been taught to cut the leg, then taught not to cut, so he used what he'd known was reliable information when he first learned to treat snakebite. Besides, the leg was swelling now, and he used his knife to cut the pant leg up to about 6 inches below the crotch on the outside of the trousers.
After the morphine kicked in, the pain went away, but he turned sleepy.
He was laying in the mud, empty syringe beside him, swollen leg and barely conscious when he heard a yell in English. He then lost the battle to stay awake and his world gradually turned from light gray to black and he passed out.
Chapter 13
It was Corporal Hall on point that found the wounded partisan, and he'd been snake bit. His left leg was badly swollen, almost three times it's normal size, and he had an empty morphine syringe in the mud beside him. He was unconscious and mumbling. Headquarters had informed us of the attack on a partisan unit the night before and he looked like he might have been a survivor. His clothing was blood stained and while not wounded, he looked like hell, so I suspected he was the only survivor of the bunch.
How long the man has been in the mud I had no idea, but we cleaned him up, placed him on his sleeping bag, and waited. At one point, during the night, he'd come around enough to tell his name, Tom Black, Sergeant. When we checked in with Base, they confirmed a Tom Black had been with Captain Dave Wilson, from Jackson, Mississippi. When he came around, I'd ask him his Commander's name and the daily password.
Three mornings later, he was awake but in pain. Brewer, our assistant medic, gave him two small white pills containing codeine which seemed to kill his pain.
Over coffee with him, I asked about his Commander and he provided the correct answer and then when I said apple, he replied cobbler. As far as I and the rest were concerned the man was one of us. He just seemed a bit rattled, and I think anyone would be a bit out of it after being bitten by a snake.
On the morning of the fourth day, we had to move and while he had pain, Black moved with all of us and kept up. I'm sure he did the job on guts alone, because he had to be hurting. Brewer kept giving him codeine and he kept moving. That night, after walking all day, I saw him pull a flask from his trouser pocket and take a long drink.
“What's in that?” I asked, suspecting alcohol and I felt he needed it, if that's what it was.
“Russian vodka, I've me a wee bit of pain to get shed of. I think the last hour, I was moving by guts alone.”
“You're one tough man, Tom. What'd you do before the fall?”
“I ran a body shop in Pearl, Mississippi.”
“How come ya ain't got a hard Southern twang like most of us?”
“I grew up in Missouri, down in the Ozark Mountains. I'm Southern enough, just ain't deep rooted Dixie.” He laughed and asked, “Can ya return me to base or what am I to do? All my buddies are dead, and I mean it happened so quickly, too. Or maybe I can be assigned to this team.”
“I discussed you with Base earlier today and you're to continue on the mission with us. You'll go with Top and the rest when I leave the team. I have a part of the mission that only two of us will complete.”
“I don't mean to sound stupid, but what's in that suitcase you or Alford carry all the time? Don't tell me it belongs to one of these women.” Tom asked, but he knew what was in the case.
I laughed and replied, “To be honest, you don't have a need to know. So, the suitcase is not a subject open for discussion.”
“I understand, sir.”
“Good. Hows the pain level from 1 to 10?” I asked when I saw him wince.
“Right now it's about a 6.5 and that's rough.” he said as he rubbed his swollen leg.
I reached into my pack and pulled out a quart of vodka and tossed it to him. I said, “I'd rather have you drinking than taking codeine all the time. That's all we have now, so when that's gone, well, you're out of luck.”
“How much longer until we split, or is that classified too?”
“Two days, if all goes well. Just outside the old Pearl High School, I'll split from the rest of you.”
“Then I can go back to the base, right?”
“Yep, with Top and the rest.”
“Good, I need some time to get my head on straight again. It's hard on a man to see his whole team slaughtered and nothing can be done to stop it. I'm pretty sure out of about 20 men, I was the only survivor.”
“I suggest you eat, have a few large gulps of vodka and then get some sleep. The rest of your time with us will be about like today. Normally we'd not move, not with you hurt, but we have a reason to be moving now. The swelling in your leg has gone down a great deal, too.”
Pulling a Russian ration from his pack, Tom nodded, as he thought, When you leave, I will follow you and put an end to this plan of yours. You must not be allowed to kill my comrades.
I walked away and returned to Carol and Dolly. Carol was feeding dolly a beef ration and she was hungry. I sat down by her and asked, “She eating well?”
“She's eating like a German shepherd, and you know how they eat.”
I laughed, reached over, and scratched her ears. I then ate, taking my time and enjoying the meal, even though it was loaded with grease. What I missed a great deal was bread, plain white bread in a plastic bag from the store or even home made biscuits. We had no flour now, but at rare times we did get cornmeal and we would have some cornbread.
Out of the blue, Carol said, “I don't trust Mister Tom Black. There's something about his eyes that warns me.”
“Baby, he passed all the questions I know to ask him and even lived in Pearl.
He said he owned a body shop there. It may be you're right, but I don't think so. I think what you see in his eyes is the horror of seeing all his teammates killed.”
“I may be wrong, I'll admit that, but I won't trust him, not until he earns my trust.”
“That's fair enough.”
“You getting sleepy yet?”
“I feel like I was born tired,” I said, and then gave a low chuckle.
“The sleeping bags are ready, but I need to clean up before bed. It's harder for a woman to live out here in woods than a man.”
By the time she returned, I was asleep.
It was dark when someone touched my left ankle. My eyes opened and I saw Top in the dim moonlight. He cupped his hand behind his ears and it was then I heard the chopper, but it was some distance off.
“It's been covering grids, like it's looking for someone.”
“We know part of our mission has been compromised, so they are likely looking for us.”
“Well, all we have is one LAW to fight against the thing and I suspect they'll find targets, then call in fast movers or attack helicopters.”
“Wake everyone and, since we're still in the swamp, we need to separate and lay partially in the water. There's a chance, they'll read our images as gators.”
“By God, you'd better hope they do or the General is about to lose his suitcase.”
We all scattered, and I had Carol beside me and Dolly on the other side. There was a fair chance they'd take us as a male and female gator with a baby. Hell, I didn't know if this would work at all, or even if the chopper had infrared gear or not, but I had to do something. I knew in the past some choppers scared partisans to move by just searching. I heard the chopper move another grid closer to us and felt the little animal that lived in my stomach come alive again. He began chewing on my belly.
About ten minutes later, the bird moved over us and hovered as we all remained still, each fighting our fear in our own ways. I suddenly saw Hall move from the water and extend a LAW.
I watched, shocked when a machine-gun on the chopper opened up and he was stitched across the body, from left to right. The impact of the big bullets knocked him back into the water and his scream was short-lived. I started to move forward, but Black was closer and he crawled to the dropped LAW.
The Fall of America | Book 5 | Fallout Page 13