Chief Thompson snorted. “You don’t know the half of it. Sergeant Mason, get another morphine injector ready. Next time she may break loose. It would be very embarrassing if we lost her over the side after all this shit.”
News often travels fast in military units. Especially bad news and rumors. Torbin heard through Sergeant Troy that Abigail and Fuzz were being medevaced, with both near death. Then the word that Fuzz was dead.
Shit, shit, shit!” Torbin exclaimed. “I should not have let her go alone. I should have made her stay with me.”
Sgt. Troy looked at him, as a Mounted Corporal with a woman and two children on horseback approached where they had stopped the column of civilians.
“Major, beggin’ your pardon, but then those three civilians on horseback there would be dead. Or I and some others of this group here would be dead. You did what you had to do, just like she did.”
He looked at Sgt. Troy. “Fuzz saved my wife, my then unborn sons. Now they will never have the chance to grow up with him around. And I may lose Abigail. She’s my little sister.”
Sgt. Troy paused, then spoke again. “Sgt. Fuzz died like the trooper he was. He died for his partner. Just like Gunny Puller did. And a lot more will die before this is all over. You made me do my job, not cut and run.”
“You wouldn’t have done that, Sergeant.”
“Yes, I might have. See, you saved me from not just dying today. You saved me from dying many times over, by being a coward.” Sgt. Troy snapped to attention, saluted Torbin.
“Thank you, Major Bender. It is an honor to serve with you.”
And with that, Torbin realized how easy he had it in some ways. He was always ready to go, almost on a form if automatic pilot, no time for real fear. This young lady was not a professional soldier. She was a volunteer militia member, had been through hell in a very short time. She was right. It could have been worst had he stayed with Abigail. Or her with him. Sgt. Troy may be dead now, or dying slowly as a coward. One thing led to another. Torbin stood straight, returned the salute.
“The honor is all mine, Sergeant. The honor is all mine to have served with you and the rest.” He looked around at the group of civilians who were all looking at Torbin. They depended on him to get them to safety.
“Okay. Sergeant Troy. Let’s get this show on the road. Where did you say the other mounted militia was coming from?”
CHAPTER 13
Pain is inevitable. Suffering is optional.
-Kathleen Casey, Canadian Parliament
SALINA, KANSAS
The news and rumors traveled fast to the two thousand plus Free Russians and U.S.A. troops in and around Salina, Kansas. As the sun began to set on the short winter day, word came back that a Medevac had been sent for Abigail Young and Fuzz. Next, that the Avenging Angel was dead. Then that both were dead. Finally came the truth. That Abigail was badly injured, and Fuzz was dead. It was like the Americans had been kicked in the gut. One problem with heroes is that when they die after being larger than life, it often hits people hard. Then, those who had invested the most in their heroes are hit the hardest, as heroes (like in the movies) are supposed to be indestructible.
A line of defensive positions had been dug and constructed in preparation for the coming attack. Everyone knew that the Krakens would try to break through somewhere around Salina, to hit the roads and Interstate going north or south. The theory was that trying to head west would take too long, the weather and the forces around Salina had delayed the Krakens to such an extent as to cause the enemy to loop back around toward Kansas City. In preparation for an attack, militia members had scrounged some plywood, poster board and sawhorses to set up some crude dining tables, with whatever could pass as a chair set around them. Some field kitchen equipment as well as scrounged bbq grills provided at least one more hot meal for everyone.
Sometime in the early morning, they would have to hold the Krakens by their noses so that the mechanized division coming down through the former Fort Riley area could hit them, turn west and start rolling up and kicking their asses. The only problem with this scenario were the reports of the First Division being less than quick or aggressive in closing with the main column. Now it looked like Combined Force Kansas, the name someone had created, would have to hold on the enemy nose a lot longer than planned. The negative information about Abigail and Fuzz added stress to this new problem, and had definitely caused a pall to settle over the area.
One average-sized female Staff Sergeant walked over to one of the makeshift tables and set down her tray of hot food. She bowed her head as if in prayer. Then, in one quick motion, she straightened up, her right hand pulling a long non-standard issue two-edged blade weapon. Some would say it looked like an Arkansas Toothpick Bowie. Whatever the official category, in a flash she had slammed the ten and a half inch dagger knife into and through the quarter inch plywood makeshift table. Items on the table jumped from the impact, as did the surprised troops sitting around the table. “Cold. Steel.” The Sergeant said it firmly, a bit loud but not a yell.
About seven yards away another female soldier suddenly turned and began walking toward the sound. “Cold steel,” was all she said.
Then another female, and another, and another approached the area near the table. They all pulled a small almost cross looking object suspended on a chain next to their dog tags, rubbing it between thumb and forefinger. Soon a dozen female soldiers, from Privates to Staff Sergeants formed a low tone talking group a few yards from the eating table, which now had an extra hole in it. Next from some twenty five yards away, a voice sang out as if it were performing an aria during an operatic production in a theater.
“Cold… steel…,” the song rang out. The dozen women walked toward the origin of the beautiful sound. At the mess table, the men and women still there murmured in confusion.
“What the hell was that all about?” A large farm boy private asked his chow mate.
“I don’t know,” answered his much smaller comrade. “But dibs on her food. It’s getting cold.”
Sergeants Dagan McDowell and Lupe Peña were checking over their respective Technicals and their two person crews when they heard the aria.
“That was right pretty, don’t you think?” asked Dagan.
“That it was,” answered Lupe. “Let’s go check it out.” The two NCO’s told their people to make sure that the their ‘Technicals’, a pair of four-wheeled pickup trucks, with a little armor plate and Russian 14.5 heavy machine guns mounted in the truck beds, were ready to go. The Sergeants said they would be back in a few. The two women had been attending some Mechanized Infantry Training at Fort Bliss, El Paso, Texas when the first rock hit. They were both from El Paso, had enlisted in the army together under the Buddy Program, and had been friends for years. Covering each other’s behinds had enabled them to make it to Malmstrom and offer their services.
Now, they were each in charge of a “Technical”, a poor man’s fighting vehicle, each with two other people on board. Their respective vehicles were part of a twenty vehicle force that made up the closest thing to a mechanized maneuver unit in Salina, Kansas. When the Kraken attacked, they were expected to go Road Warrior on their asses, harassing the flanks, trying to piss off the Bradleys and Abrams. Their heavy machine gun armament was overmatched by the Kraken’s armor, unless they could hit a Bradley in one spot with a crap load of rounds. Then they might knock off a track, damage the chain gun, and maybe even penetrate the hull if the Gods of War were smiling on them. Not likely, but they were both crazy enough to try. No family other than each other, what else was there to do?
They were the study of opposites. McDowell was a tall, slender, almost lanky woman but still with some curves. Peña was shorter, stockier, about 5’5”, and more curves up top and down below. She was a dark faced Mexican-American, McDowell a lighter skinned Irish-Scottish mix. Both had black hair they helped each other braid to keep it under a helmet. They walked up together to check out what was going on. As they approa
ched the group of some two dozen women in a small clearing behind some bushes, they were met with suspicious stares from some. The grouped women seemed to know each other already, or at least know “of” each other.
“Evening, ladies,” greeted McDowell. She was met with stares.
“Can I help you?” the Staff Sergeant with the “table knife” asked.
“I don’t know. Can you?” Peña asked back.
“Are you being a smartass?” one of the other women sneered.
“Mira, puta, no deme problemas…,” Peña began to square off at the sneering woman.
“Whoa, whoa, let’s backup, start over,” Dagan jumped in before things went from bad to worse.
“My friend here can be a bit hot-blooded at times. What say I just ask a simple question?”
“Which is?” the Staff Sergeant asked.
“Well, Sergeants McDowell and Peña here, Mobile Technical Unit. We were just wondering if this is a private chingadera, or can anyone join in?”
The Staff Sergeant sized up the two newcomers. She was the closest thing to a ranking member they had in their definitely non-standard group. She knew that others, both known and unknown, noticed something happening, and were beginning to approach. They would soon start to draw the attention of command staff, something she did not want to happen. In a second, she made her decision.
“Staff Sergeant Kira Samson, here with First Platoon, Regular Infantry.” She stuck her hand out and Dagan took it.
“To answer your question, you may not want to join after I tell you what we are planning. But you have to keep your mouths shut when I do.”
Dagan smiled. “My lips are sealed. Yours too, right, Lupe?”
“You got it.”
“You heard the news about Captain Young, Sergeant Fuzz?”
“I heard rumors they were being Medevaced out.”
“No rumors. Fact.War Dog Fuzz is dead. Captain Young is bad off.”
Both of the newcomers’ faces went dark. “Fucking Krakens,” Lupe blurted.
“So this, chingadera, as you put it, has to do with payback. You in?”
“How?” Dagan asked. “I thought we were supposed to wait until they attacked us, just hold on while the First Division kicks tail.”
Sergeant Samson looked at Dagan with steely eyes.
“That may not happen. And this is for Fuzz and Abigail.”
The rest of the group murmured assent.
Dagan looked at Lupe. “Shall we dance?”
“Hell, why not. I’m getting tired of other people having all the fun.”
“You two ladies have blades—Cold Steel?”
With that question, both Dagan and Lupe grinned. “Do we have steel? Lupe, want to go get them?”
“Hell, yeah.” She took off, jogging to their Technicals.
Dagan looked at the rest of the group and saw they all had the same unique dagger in a sheath on their belt.
“I’m a Texas Girl, but those all look like Arkansas Toothpicks, pig stickers.”
“Close enough. Double-edged ten and a half to eleven inch blades.”
“So, you must have a name for your little set to.”
One of the younger women stepped forward, barely eighteen.
“Sisters of Steel.” She had the chain suspended object that looked like a cross from a distance but was actually a stylized blade. Dagan looked at it.
“That’s really nice. So, how does one obtain such a fine piece of jewelry?”
“Only sisters are given them,” the young troop answered.
Dagan smiled. “So, you have an application form?” This caused a few laughs among the assembled soldiers.
“I think that tonight will be considered an interview and an audition,” Sergeant Samson answered.
About then, Lupe arrived with two sheathed weapons.
“This is mine, ” Dagan said with a grin. “An old artilleryman’s sword, nineteen inch two edged blade, circa 1832. Used by a great-, great-, great-granddad during the War of 1848, when my ancestors killed Lupe’s ancestors.”
“Yeah,” said Lupe. “We were taking Texas back when the Squids showed up.”
Lupe pulled a much longer machete out of her sheath. “Used by my grandfather in the fields.”
“You two used those for something other than cutting brush?” asked Sergeant Samson.
“Well,” answered Lupe Peña. “We ran short of ammunition on our way up to Malmstrom. Had to cut a few ‘gentlemen’ who tried to take liberties with our bodies. So yeah, the blades, they’ve been christened.”
Sergeant Samson watched Lupe as she spoke, figured she wasn’t bullshitting her.
“Okay, Sergeants. Say your goodbyes, meet us over by that old abandoned farmhouse across that field over there. Short meeting, we head out.”
“How do you plan to get past our and the Kraken sentries?” asked the Mexican-American.
“We have an understanding militiaman on our side, and most of the Krakens on their side are fatigued, half-frozen and poorly trained. Plus, we know one foxhole where the two Squid lovers are smoking dope. We can smell it.”
Dagan chuckled. “Definitely my kind of party.”
A half hour later, after making sure their crews were standing by, Dagan and Lupe met a growing group of women in the remains of a barn. There looked to be just at a hundred female soldiers, pretty evenly divided between current Sisters of Steel and newcomers looking for some payback. Abigail Young and Fuzz were on their lips. They formed a circle around Sergeant Samson, who spoke in low tones.
“Follow us. A couple of experienced Sisters will take out the two pickets we have identified. Then, a single file, seven yards apart we cross. No one does anything until you hear Marianne with the Voice sing her aria, unless you’re about to get shot. We need the maximum infiltration before the Krakens realize what’s going on. Then we hit, hit hard. Thirty minutes after the first alarm, you’d better be crossing back. Got it?” Murmurs of ascent, heads nodding affirmative.
A short whistle of warning was made.
“Shit. Someone is snooping.”
A man’s voice was heard, and as many women as possible slid into the shadows of the barn’s interior. Sergeant Samson started toward the main door but Dagan beat her to it.
“Why Lieutenant Barton. I thought I recognized your voice.” Dagan’s West Texan drawl took on honey tones aimed at convincing any young man that he was the center of attention.
“Sergeant McDowell. What are you and all those women doing here?” The Lieutenant was a nineteen year old butterbar, fresh out of training, still trying to get a handle on his position and authority. He had come by and inspected the Technicals earlier in the day. Dagan had flirted with him then, the attention of an “older woman” leaving him a bit flushed and flattered. Dagan had learned a long time ago that her slightly sultry voice and her West Texan drawl soothed the most agitated young man, like honey did to a sore throat. Dagan noticed behind him a stern Russian female, with Senior Sergeant Stripes. She had most likely been sent with the young officer to insure some feminine wiles did not dissuade him from his duties. Dagan saluted the Lieutenant, then nodded to the Russian.
“Senior Sergeant. I have not had the pleasure of meeting you before.”
“Never mind that, Sergeant,” Barton interrupted. “Why are so many women here? Where are their posts?”
“Well, Sir, actually there are not that many people here. Maybe a couple of dozen.” She hoped Sergeant Samson, in the shadows behind the door, took the hint and hid the rest, placing the number she mentioned in the open.
Dagan made a serious look on her face. “We are having a short prayer service for Captain Young and Sergeant Fuzz. You heard what happened, Sir, didn’t you?”
Lt. Barton’s demeanor softened a bit. Every young military man knew Abigail Young. Hell, half of them probably fantasized about her at night. And Fuzz was a double blow, well respected.
“Yes, I heard. She’s en route to Malmstrom Military Hospital.
They can do wonders there. Sergeant Fuzz…” He paused.
“Yes Sir. He’s gone.”
The Young Lieutenant straightened up, afraid to show much attention for a K-9. But every man who had a dog as a boy had a soft spot for Sergeant Fuzz. He was a Man’s War Dog, a perfect symbol of masculinity. The fact he had given his life for a beautiful woman made him even more special.
“Well, carry on Sergeant. Just don’t be too long. We don’t want to be out of position if the damn Krakens actually get organized, and try to attack tonight.”
“Yes Sir. Of course, Sir. You could stay, Sir, and say a few words with us…”
He cleared his throat. “No, that’s okay. I’ll go back and tell them you are having a short prayer service for Captain Young. I think the Command Staff plan on having a short one later tonight. No one wants to lose her. Well, carry on.”
With that, Dagan saluted, and Barton returned it. As he turned to leave, the Russian Senior Sergeant spoke for the first time.
“If you don’t mind, Sir. I would like to stay and say a short prayer for Our Lady of Cold Steel, as Comrade Stalin named her.” The entire Russian community knew about Abigail, thanks in large part to Stalin. He had sung her praises to all after she had bested him, letting everyone know that she was ‘his’ lady, like a daughter, not to be trifled with.
“Of course, Senior Sergeant. I’ll see you later.” He turned and left.
Now Dagan met the steely eyed gaze of the Russian. Older, probably in her late thirties, maybe forty, she was an attractive blonde woman. A large scar that ran all the way across her forehead added a natural looking permanent frown to her countenance, detracting from her natural attractiveness.
“I didn’t catch your name, Sergeant,” Dagan said.
“I did not give it.” The Senior Sergeant spoke English with an accent, pointing to a long service within the borders of Russia.
“Well, Senior Sergeant, if you would care to…”
“You know, the little theater you just played only worked because Lieutenant Barton is a randy young man.”
Typhoon of Steel Page 11