Standing in the Storm

by Webb, William Alan

  “So that’s our enemy in Prescott, gentlemen. Let’s remember our primary mission is not liberating this town. We’re attacking to free those captives before they can be turned over to the Chinese. And I want to make this very clear to you, so you can make it very clear to every person under your command: that is not going to happen. Those people are going to be rescued, by us, and under no circumstances is even one of them going to wind up in the hands of the fucking Chinese. Not. One.”

  Scowling, he searched every face at the table. “Very well. Is there anything else you’d like to add, Rip? No? Then you have your marching orders. We attack day after tomorrow. The exact time is up to General Fleming, but I would assume a push-off time of 0100 or thereabouts.”

  “General,” Fleming said, alarmed, “that only gives us thirty-eight hours to draw a battle plan, gear up, distribute ammo, food, and fuel, establish call signs… We can’t be ready that quick, not with this command. They simply haven’t trained together enough.”

  Angriff heard him out, then stood and turned to Kordibowski. “What about it, Colonel? Do we have more time than that? Can you guarantee the Chinese won’t be here sooner?”

  “General, I can’t guarantee the Chinese won’t be here before that.”

  “Day after tomorrow, 0100 or sooner,” Angriff said, leaning forward on his knuckles. “I want those people saved, and if the Chinese show up, we’re going to blow them back to Hell. Get to work.”

  Chapter 15

  Believe that you can whip the enemy, and you have won half the battle.

  General J.E.B. Stuart

  0631 hours, July 28

  Schiller brewed the coffee extra strong. Neither Angriff or Fleming had slept, and the effects of sleep deprivation left their faces slack. The clear morning found them yawning and rubbing their eyes. Both smelled of dried sweat. Adjourning to the Crystal Closet, the two old warriors slumped into their respective chairs.

  “Lay it out for me, Norm.”

  “It’s pretty complex, Nick,” Fleming said, slurring his words. “But it has to be.”

  He sipped the steaming coffee, but it tasted burnt. A dozen cups throughout the night had left his palate numb to the flavor.

  “Just give me the basics,” Angriff said. “Then we can get into details.”

  “I’m using the whole brigade. Everything we’ve got will at least be in ready reserve. I’m putting the Marines on our left flank, the whole battalion, spread out in a line about twenty miles long. They’ll have water barriers on either flank, Horseshoe Reservoir on the left and Lake Pleasant on the right.”

  “A battalion stretched for twenty miles?”

  “Granted that will only allow for hedgehog positions, but we’re not expecting trouble from the east. And if need be, we can redeploy them elsewhere. I’m using First Infantry Regiment in the main assault on Prescott and the Second Infantry to cover the Chinese, since we have no idea of their strength. For all we know, they’re sending an armored division.”

  “I hope it’s not that bad,” Angriff said.

  “I hope not, too, but we don’t know. If it really is the PLA, then all bets are off. The First Infantry Regiment will send its First Battalion to flank the city from the east, cutting off enemy units trying to escape, while Second Battalion moves into the city from the north. We don’t have enough MARSOC Marines to make up a company; we’ve got about two platoons, eighty-one men. I’m sending them ahead with two SEAL platoons and a Force Recon platoon. And maybe our Nameless squad.”

  “Green Ghost, too?”

  “That’s up to him. Mr. Parfist has volunteered to lead them into Prescott.”

  “I don’t like involving civilians.”

  “We don’t have much choice. There are three highways leading into the city that we need to worry about. Second Infantry will send its First Battalion northwest of the city to block any junction with the Chinese down Highway Five. They’ll be squarely in the target zone, so they get first priority for artillery and air support.

  “Second Battalion will move northeast of the town, on the left flank of the assumed Chinese line of march down Highway 89. I’m giving First Regiment all of Seventh Artillery Battalion and one battery from Eighth. Second Regiment gets the other two batteries.

  “The tanks I’m splitting up. First Company is going into Prescott right behind the infiltrators. Second and Third Companies are with Second Infantry’s Third Battalion, in the hot zone north of Prescott. Fourth Armored Company is with Fourth Battalion near Highway 89. Highway 10 enters the city from the west, but there’s no good road for the Chinese to use to get there, so I think that’s an unlikely route.”

  “You’re loading up for the Chinese,” Angriff said. “Just in case.”

  “They’re the wild card in this. I can’t see any choice. They’re also the only real potential danger. The Ranger Company I’m sending to the far right flank, up here…” He pointed to a junction on the map. “…near the old Interstate 40, as tripwires. Our reserves are the SEALS who aren’t in the assault and the independent mortar squads, as well as the specialists, such as the Air Force pilots. I propose the headquarters company move to this peak overlooking Prescott. It’s called Badger Mountain. Oh, and the Air Force anti-aircraft squads I’m keeping with HQ.”

  “What about Third Recon Battalion? Are they in reserve?”

  “No, they’re screening Flagstaff.”

  “Why, what do we know about Flagstaff?”

  “Nothing, Nick. No intel at all,” Fleming said. “That’s why I want to screen that flank in force before we move west. Once we’ve secured Prescott, then we can see what’s in Flagstaff.”

  “Is a whole battalion necessary? That’s a huge percentage of our combat power, Norm.”

  “That’s exactly why I want to use a full battalion. If they run into trouble, I want enough force so they can hold their own. With just one or two companies, we run a much higher risk of losing them. If there’s nobody home in Flagstaff, at least that battalion will have gotten in some badly needed training.”

  “You’re the S-3, so it’s your call. I’m not going to override you.”

  “Air support is where I’m holding back the punch of our reserves. I’m using all the Apaches in the assault on Prescott and against the Chinese, if they show up, and half the Comanches. If anything goes wrong or comes up unexpectedly…”

  “If?” Angriff said.

  “Excuse me, when something goes wrong or comes up unexpectedly,” Fleming corrected, “it’s nice to have some Comanches in the bank.”

  Tracing his finger across the map, Fleming outlined the routes through the mountains and foothills. “Thanks to the recons, we know which routes to take. I’m sending three columns. That’s not optimal, coordinating all those movements will be tough, but we don’t have much choice.

  “The first column will set up in a blocking position here,” he said, indicating a position on the map south of the city and straddling Interstate 17. “That’s the Marines. We’ve got to guard our eastern flank, but if we need them elsewhere, they can get anywhere on the battlefield in just a few hours.”

  “You can tell this is your plan, Norm.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

  “What about putting them on our far right as a flanking force?” Angriff said.

  “I would love to have a flanking force on the right, but we don’t have enough troops to do that and screen the left flank. I’d rather chance letting the Chinese escape than get flanked by some enemy column we didn’t know existed.”

  “Caution over aggression. Haven’t we had this conversation before?”

  “We damned sure have,” Fleming said. “You were right in Syria and I was right in Yemen, and if you want to plan your own operations, that’s your right. You’re the commanding officer.”

  Angriff patted the air. “Caution is what’s needed, Norm, so calm down. We’re on the same page.”

  Fleming rubbed his eyes then downed cold coffee. “Sorry, Ni
ck. I’m tired and I’m worried. This is the only brigade we’ve got and if we lose it because I overlooked something in the planning, I couldn’t live with that.”

  “We aren’t going to lose this brigade, but if we did, it would be my fault, not yours. I’m the boss. I’m the one who accepts or rejects whatever plan you come up with, which means if it fails, I get the blame.”

  “Thanks for saying that. Okay, if you approve of the plans, then I need to start issuing orders. We need to be on the move in…” Fleming looked at the clock on the wall, then at his watch. “Damn, it’s already 0845? We need to be on the move in four hours. Five, tops.”

  “Looks solid, Norm. I like it. What are you going to call it?”

  Fleming had given this some thought. Operational names were important for morale. He’d rejected Operations Liberation, Freedom, and First Step. They were all accurate, but dull, with nothing to fire up the troops. “Operation Kickass,” he said.

  Chapter 16

  And I have felt the sudden blow of a nameless wind's cold breath,

  And watched the grisly pilgrims go that walk the roads of Death,

  And I have seen black valleys gape, abysses in the gloom,

  And I have fought the deathless Ape that guards the Doors of Doom.

  Robert E. Howard, from “Recompense”

  1129 hours, July 28

  “What’s that thing do?” Joe Randall asked, reaching back and touching what looked like another periscope.

  It was hot in the tank turret with the hatch closed. Sweat soaked his wife’s shirt and he could feel her warm heat on the tops of his thighs, stomach, and chest.

  “That’s the CITV,” Morgan Randall said, and nibbled his ear. “The Commander’s Independent Thermal Viewer. That gives me a three hundred sixty degree view, night or day.” Randall felt her front teeth slide down his neck. “With automatic sector scanning and automatic target cueing of the gunner’s sight, so we don’t need to communicate.” She bit the back of his neck in the sensitive spot just above the spine. “And it’s a backup fire control. A lot like your FLIR.”

  “My FLIR… you make that sound sexy. If we had more room, I’d show you just how sexy.”

  “I told you it was cozy in here.”

  “Cozy is a snowed-in chalet with a ski-up door. This is an iron lung.”

  “Don’t like being this close to me?”

  He smelled her musk as she sat across his lap, arms wrapped around him. “You’re not close enough, baby.” He kissed her behind the ear, right where he knew she loved it most. She gave a quick, gasping inhale that meant he had found the right spot.

  “If I was any closer, I’d be inside you,” she said in a low voice.

  “I think that’s backward.”

  “I know how to fix that.” She started fumbling with the zipper of her jump suit, already open from her throat to her crotch. Joe tried to help her slip out of it, not the easiest job inside an Abrams. Then, just as his hand slid toward her thigh, somebody knocked on the outside of the tank with a clang.

  “Shit,” she said, trying to zip up. “There’s no fucking privacy in this place.”

  “I don’t think privacy for fucking was a priority.” Joe smiled despite the pain in his groin. “Could have been worse; could have been coitus interruptus.”

  “Hey, boss,” said a man’s voice outside the tank. “You in there?”

  “I’m in here, Toy. Wait a minute and I’ll be up.” More or less back in uniform, she kissed her husband on the cheek, climbed into the commander’s seat on the right side of the turret — her battle station — and opened the hatch. She climbed onto the hatch ring and looked down at her gunner, Staff Sergeant Hank Ootoi. “What’s up?”

  “Colonel Ricci wants all platoon commanders and seconds at his CP at 1420 hours.”

  “Did he say why?”

  “Word is we’ve caught an op.”

  At that moment, Joe Randall stuck his head out of the hatch. “Anything about air support?”

  Startled, Ootoi stepped back and saluted. “Captain Randall. Don’t know, sir. I didn’t hear anything.”

  “I was showing Captain Randall where we work,” Morgan Randall said.

  “Sure, Lieutenant, whatever you say. About the meeting — word is we’re breaking out TUSK.”

  “Well, shit,” she said. “I did not want to hear that. How reliable is this word?”

  Ootoi shrugged. “Straight up, no ice. I’ve already got Eddie and Tanya prepping for the install. We’re in the first slot with the maintenance and repair dogs, but only if we’re ready on time.”

  “What’s TUSK?” asked Joe.

  “Tank Urban Survival Kit,” his wife said. “Second generation stuff. It means we’ll be operating in a built-up environment. TUSK adds reactive armor to the sides and rear, which increases protection from RPGs. Toy is our gunner, and he gets a shield and thermal sight added for his 7.62mm machine gun. And the hatch for my fifty gets modified, too, so I can fire from inside the turret. That way your beautiful wife not only gets to stay beautiful, but also keeps her brains inside her head.”

  “And that’s a good thing,” he said. “Your brains are beautiful, too, and I’d hate to see you lose them.”

  “Me, too.” She kissed him on top of his head. “But we can only do so much ourselves. The M and R gang have to do the heavy lifting. Sorry, Joe; duty calls. Wish me luck; maybe I’ll get to blow something up.”

  “Damn, if you were a guy I’d think you had a hard on.”

  Nobody had argued when Lara Snowtiger wanted the top bunk. Not even on Day One, before anybody knew anybody. An aura surrounded the beautiful girl with the lean but defined muscle tone of a natural athlete. Some primitive instinct made her bunk mates wary.

  She had not demanded the top bunk, nor been unpleasant about it. Snowtiger had asked, in a quiet voice, if anyone objected to her taking the top. Only Dora, the stout LAV mechanic in the bottom bunk, even dared ask her why she wanted the top.

  “When I was a girl in Tennessee,” Snowtiger had said, with a soft Southern accent, “my grandmother took me outside one night, when the stars shone brightest and the moon was new. She pointed at the Fichik Watalhpi in the clear sky. That’s where Choctaw people come from, she told me. We are children of the stars that white men call the Pleiades. I like being on top because it puts me closer to my ancestors.”

  “I like the guy to be on top,” Dora had said, but Lara had not answered.

  Unlike their male counterparts, who bunked with their own squad or crew, the female Marines were all in one barracks. With less than one hundred women in the whole battalion, it made sense. Discussions about bunking them with their male unit comrades went nowhere.

  Almost half of them had combat duties. The rest were either administrative or in a maintenance crew. Lara Snowtiger was the only female sniper, same as she had been in the Old Days. Many snipers preferred solitude, it being in the nature of their job, and so it was with Snowtiger. But in the barracks social system, her reticent personality left her isolated and friendless. Some even mocked the classic beauty of her high cheekbones and dark eyes, although never to her face. Despite a growing dislike of the woman they labeled Ice Bitch, they instinctively feared her. Lara Snowtiger was an assassin.

  At night she spoke to her long-gone identical twin sister, Sara. Words never passed her lips; she spoke with her mind, and believed her sister heard her.

  They hate me because they fear me. I want their friendship, Sara, but I’ve been an outsider for so long I don’t know how. Do you remember what Grandmama told us, that true friends bonded the instant they met, because the Great Spirit had ordained it? I want to believe this, but many years have passed now. And yet… I have my comrades; I feel at home among them. And there is one who… but we should not talk of such things.

  In the barracks, the situation set up a vicious cycle. The more she was alone, the less she valued human interactions. The resulting separation insulated her even more, which, in turn, furth
er devalued the human experience. But everything had changed on the day of the shootout.

  Every Marine without mandatory duty had gathered in the desert to watch the battalion’s twelve snipers shoot it out. Nobody had expected Snowtiger to challenge for top honors. Piccaldi had been the favorite, with most people predicting Jenkins second and Menendez third. But when it was over, Piccaldi had beaten Snowtiger by a single point, and some said he’d had an unfair advantage because of the difference in scopes. Snowtiger had congratulated him, seething but showing a calm face to the world.

  From that moment, Snowtiger never lacked friends. Opinion within the barracks changed from her being the Ice Bitch to being their Ice Bitch. For the first time in her life, she had the friendship of other women, and she enjoyed being one of a group. She was still quiet and reserved, but now she would join in barracks chatter, even if only by listening.

  Then came the first lurp and the rescue of the Grubb family. Word got around fast that Snowtiger had nailed some hostile manning a chain gun from four hundred yards. One shot, one kill. The distance was not the impressive part. Snowtiger had had the hardest target. She’d needed a head shot to stop the gunner from squeezing his trigger and wiping out her lieutenant, his driver, and the IPs. The sun’s glare and whipping desert breezes grew in the telling until the story had her shooting through a tornado. With a lot of variables and no margin for error, Snowtiger had put her target down.

  She even impressed Piccaldi. After the lurp, she found herself an outsider in the barracks again, and for a different reason. She had seen the elephant. She had killed a man, with all the attendant baggage. The combat veterans understood and slapped her on the back. The non-combat types went back to avoiding her.