The two former armored cars, two person cab crews with six personnel in the back, were a half mile in front of the Abrams MBT. Some mist and ice in the air helped to obscure the old military weapon collector’s Sherman Tank poking its nose from behind an abandoned gas station. The former Soviet 76mm tank gun fitted into its turret spoke, sending an armor piercing high explosive round through the half inch side armor. Bank armored cars had been armored to protect from small arms fire, not tank guns. The shell penetrated, the high explosive filler detonating in the cramped confines of the back. Within seconds, six dead and dying Krakens were the result, the driver sending the vehicle into the roadside ditch. The Sherman’s gun spoke again, and the second armored car met the same fate as the first.
“Enemy fire, two o’clock!” The Abrams commander yelled over the intercom as he tried to locate the threat in his commander station periscopes. Due to the extreme cold, he had been running buttoned up, hatch closed, using his turret vision slits and periscopes rather than having his head outside the turret hatch. Both he and the tank gunner, using his periscope system, quickly located the Sherman, just as an AP round bounced off the front turret armor like a ping pong ball. Although the Abrams crew was not exactly the most experienced tankers around, they managed to load and fire a sabot “silver bullet” at the threat. The depleted uranium round and its pyrophoric effects completely destroyed the turret and its crew. Only the tank driver in the hull was able to escape the now aflame armored vehicle. Later, Talbot would scream about the use of such an expensive and scarce round. “Hell, a practice round probably would have penetrated that old turret. Think next time, goddamnit!”
The armored vehicles shifted themselves around, and prepared to move again. As a Bradley Fighting Vehicle moved up toward the lead Abrams, two militia men with a Bender Anti-Tank Rocket popped out of a spider hole. The assistant lit the three inch fuse with a butane barbecue lighter and jumped back out of the way, alerting the shooter with a slap on the helmet. Three seconds later, there was a loud whooshing sound with a lot of dark powder smoke as the eight inch in diameter rocket sped toward the side of the Bradley. Pappy Gun had made all but the first few rocket heads with modern explosives and a cone shaped design to make them more like HEAT rounds than just plain explosive shells. The large diameter of the warhead, though making it heavier and shorter ranged, made it more effective against modern armor. It hit the lower side of the Bradley as it passed by some hundred yards distant. The track broke, a road wheel was destroyed, and a dime-sized hole appeared in the hull side. One Kraken sitting in line with the penetration absorbed it and was killed instantly. The Bradley ground to a halt, the back hatch was thrown open and the rest of the personnel bailed out. The next Bradley in line opened up with its chain-gun cannon, as the militia men dove back down the spider hole. Luckily, it had been dug before the ground had been frozen solid, so a tunnel some ten yards long led to a small culvert near then highway. There the two militiamen, actually a man and a woman, huddled, hoping no one found the tunnel anytime soon. The chain gun collapsed the spider hole completely.
“Get some flankers out, you ignorant fucks!” Talbot screamed over the radio. “They have RPG teams out there. Move!”
As confusion among the lesser trained reigned, a four wheel pickup appeared out from behind a pile of rubble. Mounted in its bed was an old 105mm Recoilless, once used on anti- avalanche control at some ski resort in the Rocky Mountains. A failed weapon, replaced by the superior 106mm Recoilless, it and its brothers had done yeoman duties for years, helping the wealthy to ski safely. Now, it was being used as it was originally intended.
The HEAT round that was fired slammed into the turret front of the lead Abrams tank, which shrugged it off. Now hit twice, the crew was pissed. The driver accelerated, giving chase in a multi-ton vehicle that could still go over forty miles an hour on a flat surface. The tank commander popped out of the commander’s hatch and tried to bring the 50 Caliber machine gun to bear as the gunner tried to get the 30 Caliber coaxial on target. The pickup raced down the highway, slipping and sliding, the tank behind. So intent on shooting the crap out of the pickup, no one noticed that a twenty-five yard stretch of highway was actually just a colored tarp stretched over a ten yard deep hole, a couple of feet wider than the tank. Perfectly lined up, the Abrams went straight into the hole, its main gun barrel slamming into the end wall as it sank into six feet of icy and near frozen water. Actually, it was more like slush than water in the bottom of the oversized tiger pit.
The more experienced tank commander of the group, who had been hanging back, saw the whole disaster and notified Talbot. The commander began to curse up a storm. “That’s what I get for agreeing to lead some half-trained assholes.”
He managed to get his second in command, Dukes, on his cellphone. “Dukes. Find those tow trucks we brought along. They’re probably miles back. We need to try and pull that stupid fucker’s tank out of the tiger pit. And find some spare parts to fix that track on the Bradley.”
“We have limited spare parts, Boss,” Dukes replied. “But the main problem is getting someone really experienced on fixing AFV tracks.”
“Well, we have some heavy equipment operators, mechanics floating around. Find them. They should be able to get that track repaired somehow.”
“Will do, Boss.”
Talbot then rang up the experienced tank commander, Jenson.“Since you’re the one with common sense, set up a three sixty perimeter around the tank in the pit. Put some infantry way out front, have them keep an eye on all the abandoned homesteads, buildings around here. And watch those damned tree lines and high brush around the lines and areas of irrigation. Next we’ll be getting snipers and RPG teams hiding among them.”
Talbot paused. “Kansas may be pretty flat around here, but the closer to towns and cities, the more they planted trees and brush. Tried to turn the areas into something it wasn’t. That and all the abandoned storefronts and homes make for good hidey holes. Okay, get a move on.”
The Kraken Commander managed to get ahold of the damaged Bradley Commander on the radio. “You stay with your vehicle, use its chain gun to help cover the perimeter until we can get you moving again.”
“Sir, we have a man dead in back, and…”
“Goddamnit, this is war, you simple asshole! Get used to lots more dead bodies. Now, get the body out of there, and set up over watch from you turret. Move!”
Talbot put his head in his hands. Why hadn’t they given him another month to prepare, maybe longer to dodge the winter weather? Why did they have to attack the USA now? Talk about a Mongolian goat rope. He knew most of these people were considered expendable, but this was ridiculous. If his position hadn’t been so tenuous since losing that asshole Bender, he would have turned this assignment down, tried to do something for that wussy Director Lloyd instead. At least with him, he could usually pick his own men.
He shook his head. No rest for the wicked.
At the reconstituted National Guard Range and supporting air strip on the west side of Salina, Colonel Popov watched as some batteries of Pappy Gun’s Chinese rockets were being offloaded from a twin engine C-23 Caribou and a Northrup Air Commando. He would soon have seventeen, six rocket boxed batteries of the five foot long, five inch in diameter black powder munition. They might not be very good against armor, but against these half trained foot soldiers, their psychological effect would be devastating.
The Russian Colonel smiled. The militia’s ambush had gone perfectly. Now the idiot Krakens were trying to recover the Abrams Tank from the tiger pit and set up a full perimeter, rather than just leaving it and pushing ahead. Even down a tank and a Bradley, they still had more armor than anyone for hundreds of miles. They could have smashed right into Salina, stopped the Russians and their allies from digging in. Now, their near complete inexperience was showing. With the rear units catching up, they were beginning to get crowded and disorganized. This army had never fought together before.
Popov listen
ed to his Russian Troops as they expertly offloaded the Chinese rockets and listened while some American troops gave them the quick and dirty on how to use them. True, the Russians and U.S.A. troops had not fought together yet. But his were spetsnaz and many of the Americans had combat experience during the last six years. Plus, many of the new ones had gone through Comrade Stalin’s training regimen during the last couple of months. If anyone could shake out the chaff, it was him.
He shook his head at the thought. How in the hell did that old counter revolutionary bastard stay alive all these years? Well, it may be a mystery. But Popov for one was glad he had survived. He looked at the final stages of offloading, rubbed his hands together. Time to have some fun.
CHAPTER 8
MALMSTROM ARMED FORCES BASE
GREAT FALLS, MONTANA
General Reed looked at the most recent intelligence and surveillance reports from the Kansas front. It was just over three days since the Krakens had busted through Kansas City, Kansas and the bad weather had pretty much broken. It was still below freezing in most areas, but the ice storm was gone. So the Krakens were trying to move into Salina, Kansas. But Colonel Popov and Colonel Mills, using militia and regular army forces, had created some nasty surprises for the invaders. Now, the Krakens were stalled again, as they tried to recover an Abrams from a tiger pit and become better concentrated and organized. Night would approach early this time of year, so the time for movement this date was limited.
The reconstituted First Division was nearing the north flank of the Kraken Forces, traveling through the remains of Fort Riley, Kansas. Fort Riley had been hard hit during the Invasion, so it had basically been abandoned after many survivors fled the area due to harvester ark operations. The arks had left, leaving a desolate area behind into which people were just now returning.
However, the First Division had met a disorganized yet still armed force of Krakens in the area who had apparently left the main column. Probably they were simply looking to rape, pillage, and slaughter some fresh long pig (human) flesh to cook. It tipped off the Krakens what was in store, and resulted in a delay in the flanking movement. Still slick roads were causing problems with speed. The better trained, concentrated First Division should hit the Kraken Column out of range of their armor.
Now he had another new and puzzling problem. On his desk was fax from Commissioner Miller that a new port of entry on the Wyoming/Idaho Border had been over run in the past couple of hours by an unknown combined force of Krakens and Ferals. Cameras mounted at the POE ( just north of Cokeville, Wyoming, and some fifty miles from Evanston, aka Eaterville) broadcasted a few images of at least one or two transport trucks presenting themselves for inspection just before someone shot and destroyed the cameras. All contact with the dozen Federal Law Enforcement personnel in the area was lost. Someone had hit the panic button that connected with Paul Miller’s main Communications Center in Bismarck, North Dakota. Next they received panicked calls from civilians from Cokeville to Evanston that Krakens were attacking.
General Reed had gotten units of the Wyoming mounted militia, now almost a thousand strong, to start moving back to that border area. They had been en route to Colorado in case the Krakens continued westward. Now he needed someone there who knew the area, as well as had the capability of coordinating with Deseret, as this was close to the independent state’s border. Any force of Feral along their border definitely made them nervous, though so far they had declined to help with the Kraken forces. The President/Prophet Smith said he was studying the situation and asked for Divine guidance. Yeah, right.
Despite his initial hard decision to not use Tobin Bender, General Reed had a situation that he was made for. His fame would help him with the locals, and his knowledge of the area would make it easy for him to ascertain the threat.
Sending Abigail Young and Sgt. Fuzz, war dog, would also help with the locals, as both had become celebrities thanks to the television coverage and the President’s PR efforts. Plus, she might be able to convince her fellow Mormons to come to the aid of a favorite daughter. And, she just might help keep Torbin out of trouble.
As a result, Torbin and Abigail were en route to his office at that moment. He sighed. He knew he would have to sit on the Marine’s head a bit, as well as placate his wife Aleks. Although she said she recognized her husband’s abilities and desires to use them, deep down she wanted him to remain safe. Then, the intercom buzzed from MSgt. Johansson’s desk in the outer office.
“General Reed, Major Torbin and Captain Young here to see you, Sir.”
“Send them in, Master Sergeant, then shut my door and take a break.”
“Sir, I could stick around…”
“Did I stutter?”
“No Sir. Sorry Sir. Going for a walk, Sir.”
John Reed chuckled. MSgt. Johansson acted like an old mother hen around him, protecting her final chick. The General did not know what he would do without him. With that, Torbin and Abigail marched in, stopped in front of his desk, and snapped to parade ground salutes in unison. Straight backs, tucked chins, he swore they were peas from the same pod.
“Sir, Major Torbin and Captain Young reporting as ordered, Sir.”
General Reed paused for a moment. Would that he had an army of them, but not need them, not have to expose them to the grim reaper. He snapped a salute back.
“At ease, then rest, and have a seat.”
Both sat ramrod straight in the chairs. General Reed snorted. “I swear to God, you two are long lost twins. Would you just relax, loosen your spines?”
“Yes Sir, sorry Sir.” The two warriors relaxed a smidgen. The General sighed. Oh well, I guess that’s the best I’m going to get today. He tossed a file folder to each of them.
“Well. Major, you got your wish. You now have a mission in the field.”
The two comrades in arms eagerly surveyed the files. A smile came to the Marine’s face.
“So the bastards are trying to sneak in the back door, General, through Evanston.”
“Seems to be so, Major. Though a lot of people who busted through may just be opportunistic Ferals. Whatever the case, civilians are taking casualties. There are initial reports some of the miscreants are killing adults, and keeping the kids. I don’t want to think why that is.”
General Reed noticed that with that comment, Abigail’s jaw tightened to the point where he thought she would break teeth.
“We will go, General,” she spat out. “We will save the innocent, punish the wicked. You have my word before God.”
“Captain, all I want is for you two—no, three, counting Sgt. Fuzz—to get in there, scout it out, rescue any civilians you find, then get out. I’ve got some Wyoming mounted militia en route to help, with some regular army to follow later. Commissioner Miller is putting together a SRT to head there also. He lost a bunch of people at the POE.”
“He’s sending people Abigail and I trained, General?’
“Of course. Only the best. And I’ll have some Medevac standing by for casualties.”
Torbin turned to look at Abigail as she turned to look at him.
“One hour?” asked Torbin.
“Yes Sir, one hour,” answered the Avenging Angel. They both looked at the General.
“Good,” said the General. “Be at the airfield in an hour. We’ll insert you by chopper. Take what you may need now, as I don’t know when I’ll be able to resupply anybody in that area.”
He gazed directly at Abigail. “Captain, I’ll give you a satphone to contact your friends in Salt Lake City, to see if you can convince them to send you some help along the border. Right now, Prophet and President Smith seems to want to sit this one out.”
“I will try, General. He does have a mind of his own.”
“Well, if anyone can get him to change his mind, I think a daughter of Deseret will have the best shot.”
The General stood up. “One other thing. You two protect each other’s behinds, no hero stuff. I don’t want to have to explain to
a crazy Russian spy or a Japanese samurai how I managed to get their loves shot all to hell.” At this statement, Torbin grinned and Abigail blushed. She still had trouble acknowledging that everyone knew that she and Ichiro were a couple.
“And Torbin, one last thing.”
“Yes. General.”
“Were you always such a stubborn, hard-headed pain in the ass, or did you have to work at it? Do you know how many times you called here, trying to get me to send you to Kansas?”
“I count twenty-four, Sir.”
“At least, Major.” General Reed stuck his hand out and Torbin took it. “Godspeed, son.”
John Reed turned to Abigail. She started to salute, and the General interrupted it with a hug. “Screw military decorum, Captain. You’re our daughter now, just as much as Deseret’s.”
Abigail controlled the lump in her throat. The General felt like her father had—warm, strong, loving. She knew now she had another one.
“Now, both of you, hit the road. Torbin, Aleks already knows, and she will meet you at home with your gear. Good luck.”
Fuzz was standing by the office door as Abigail and Torbin came out. Suddenly, the General stepped out.
“Sgt. Fuzz. Your mission is to get Captain Young back in one piece. Understood?”
Years later, General Reed would swear Fuzz, War Dog, nodded his head once as if to acknowledge him, and then winked his left eye. Fuzz gave a big doggie grin and fell in next to his mistress and human, Abigail. After the three had left, General Reed stood quietly for a few minutes. Over six years ago, he never thought he would be sending out what were basically adopted sons and daughters to fight beings from another world. The universe was cruel sometimes.
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