The Fall of America: Airborne (Book 7)

by W. R. Benton

  “Give 'em time to bleed!” I called out.

  I heard a burst of automatic fire and then someone yelled, “The point man is dead.”

  I counted the downed forms and I was two short of the known tally.

  “We have two missing. We'll look for them in a minute.” I said. My tone was hard and harsh, but I was shaking inside from the adrenaline rush. I knew from experience, I'd be fine in about ten minutes.

  When we moved forward, the bodies were torn to hell and back by the steel ball bearings and most had limbs missing. We found none alive.

  “Andy, I want you and another trooper look for the two missing. I suspect they stopped to use the bathroom, or fell behind for some other reason and were to catch up later, but I don't know.”

  “How is their injured man? Thomas, you come with me.”

  “Dead, they're all dead from the ambush.”

  “Are you going to wait for me?”

  “No, it's too cold to wait long. Return to base after you find them or when you get too cold looking for them. The call is yours.”

  “Later then. We'll find 'em.”

  Andy had no idea he was soon on the trail of Master Sergeant Akulov and a Junior Sergeant named Aleskeevich. The two Russians heard the firefight and suspected they were the only survivors of the squad. The sound of the two Claymores exploding caught their attention.

  “Move east and into the trees.” They had remained behind as the Junior Sergeant finished his morning toilet. He'd come down with the squirts and was suffering from stomach pain too. His belly was all that saved both men up to this point, but the Master Sergeant suspected they'd be followed. They'd be easy to track in the snow too.

  “We are lucky because neither of us is wounded and we have all our gear.”

  “Uh-huh, but we are leaving tracks a baby could follow.”

  “The wind is picking up, so maybe we will get lucky and the blowing snow will help fill our tracks in. It is not falling hard enough now to fill them.”

  “I just heard an engine. There it is again. Do you hear it?”

  “Helicopter.” Akulov stopped and opened his backpack.

  He pulled out a survival radio and extended the antenna before he said, “Any Russian aircraft that can hear me, please respond. This is Eagle Five, over.”

  Instantly he heard, “Uh, read you five by five, Eagle. Do you need help? This is Raven Two.”

  “Need a ride home. We are the only survivors of a squad, over.”

  “Turn your beeper on and leave it on until you hear me fly over you. I will home in on the beeper.”

  “Copy and here goes.”

  “Someone comes!” Aleskeevich said, his tone filled with fear.

  Gunshots were heard and the Junior Sergeant fell, but he'd only taken a bullet to the fleshy part of his left arm.

  The helicopter flew over and the Master Sergeant, said, “You were just over me, Raven Two. Be advised I am being shot at, but only by a couple of men, or so it looks.”

  “Move to the clearing, oh, maybe 30 meters in front of you. I will land in the field. Approach the aircraft toward the nose and only the nose.”

  “Copy and will do. Eagle Five, out.” Then turning to Aleskeevich the Master Sergeant said, “Move forward, maybe 30 meters to a field. We will approach the helicopter running and both enter by the aircraft's right door.”

  “I understand, right door.”

  Akulov nodded and then pulled a pin from a grenade. He tossed it behind them and then turned and started running. By the time they were at the field, a helicopter was just setting down, so they took out running and right for the nose.

  Suddenly the Gatling guns on the right side opened up on the trees they'd just left. As they neared the helicopter, they could both hear the occasional bullet strike the metal skin on the bird; plunk-zing, was the sound of each round hitting the metal. The Sergeant tried to push Aleskeevich into the door faster when suddenly he felt a hot poker strike him in the back and heard the Private scream as the round went through him, too. The gunner reached down and pulled the injured Private into the helicopter. Sergeant Akulov had his feet on the helicopter skids when the bird began to go up, the Gatling guns both making noise now. The medic pulled him the rest of the way into the helicopter.

  The Sergeant was sleepy and looking up, he saw a medic giving him a shot of some kind. Bullets from the two Americans were still hitting the helicopter, and then the pitch in the aircraft's engine changed.

  A headset was placed on Akulov's head and the medic said, “Your Private is dead and you would not have lasted another hour in the field. One of the two bullets that struck the both of you hit his spine.”

  “Uh, I have no idea, Base, but I'm in serious trouble.” the pilot was heard saying.

  Smoke, starting light and then turning darker, was coming from the crew section and the pilots were seen fighting for control.

  “My console is lit up, mostly in red lights, and the bird is becoming hard to control. I will keep us in the air as long as I can. I am at about a thousand feet and can get no higher with the weight I have on the aircraft. I will have everything not needed tossed out the doors. Copy and out.”

  “Want to keep the body or throw it out, sir?” a gunner asked.

  “We will try to keep it, but get rid of all Gatling guns and all ammunition. I want everything not nailed down tossed out the door. Hurry, because every second counts.” the pilot said.

  The aircraft began to shudder and shake as the smoke grew dense and dark. The engine was making a high pitched whine along with its normal sounds. And glancing around, the Master Sergeant saw the gunners were worried too, because their eyes were showing their concern. The Master Sergeant was helped to an olive drab nylon seat and then a seat belt was placed around him. The gunner pulled the strap tight as the medic wrapped the Sergeant’s back injury. Once done, he attached the shoulder straps and tightened the works. He then gave the Sergeant a thumbs up.

  The medic gave Master Sergeant Akulov a shot of morphine and as he was falling asleep, he heard the pilot saying, “Mayday, mayday, mayday, this is —” and his world turned black.

  The Master Sergeant woke hearing people talk and then a piece of metal struck a metal bowl or pan.

  “How do you feel, Master Sergeant?” a voice asked.

  “I . . . have no . . . pain. Where . . . am I?” The lights were too bright and it hurt him to try to open his eyes.

  “You and the whole helicopter crew are in a hospital in Seattle.”

  “We . . . had one . . . dead.”

  He burned badly after the crash, but the medics said he was already dead. I am afraid your army days are finished. The bullet that struck your back caused enough damage that you are no longer fit for active duty. I do not think after you heal you will be able to pick up a suitcase, much less a heavy backpack.”

  The Sergeant nodded and then drifted off to sleep again.

  Colonel Yakovich walked into the room and the interrogator stopped talking and went to a position of attention.

  The Colonel asked, “As you were, Sergeant. Is she telling you anything?”

  “A little, sir, but not much. I may have to turn rough in a few minutes.”

  “Do what is needed and when it is needed. Mother Russia needs the information she has.”

  Turning to the woman, the interrogator said, “If you do not answer my questions, my Colonel wants to turn you over to the men and let them use you. That would be a fate worse than death for most women.”

  “No, please. I have nothing to do with the resistance. I had a child with me and you sons of bitches killed my baby.”

  “You know about the resistance because a gun was found in your home.”

  “For our protection, that's all. All American homes have guns in them or they used to have them.”

  “It is illegal to own a gun now. Only criminals and the resistance have guns now.”

  “Not true. Many have guns but they're hidden.”

 
“If they are discovered with a gun they will be killed, just like you will, if you do not answer my questions honestly.”

  “I have, and I know nothing of the resistance.”

  “How many prisoners are here?” Yakovich asked.

  “I have twenty rounded up last night, sir. Why?”

  “Bring in another prisoner, then kill this one in some horrible fashion and see if the other will talk. Not all of them know of the workings of the resistance.”

  Walking to the door, the Sergeant ordered another woman brought to him. In the meantime, he moved his prisoner outside, tied her to a fence post and then placed a chair about 20 feet from her. When the other prisoner was brought out, he had her tied to the chair.

  “What is your name?” the Sergeant asked the new woman.

  “Sandra Hinds.”

  “Sandra, what do you know of the resistance?”

  “Nothing, nothing at all.”

  “I am going to ask you one more time and if you lie to me again I am going to hurt the woman tied to the post. What I do to her is your responsibility and you are the only one to blame. Now, what do you know of the resistance?”

  “Nothing. I have seen shadows moving around at night, but I'm not in the resistance, none of my family is in or helps them, and I have never met a member of the partisans.”

  “You are a liar. See the woman tied to the post? She is a liar too. Do you know what I do to liars? I kill them.”

  Colonel Yakovich stood in the doorway of the building watching his Sergeant. He suspected he'd kill one of the women to get the other to talk. He casually removed a cigarette and lit it, wondering what his Sergeant had in mind.

  The man walked to the corner of the building, picked up a can of gasoline and said, “Now, let us see how you take watching someone burn to death, all because you are a liar.” He moved to the woman tied to the post and drenched her in the flammable liquid.

  “Sandra, what do you know of the resistance?” he pulled out a pack of matches.

  “N . . . nothing. Nothing at all.”

  The Sergeant ran the match head over the striker strip and when it ignited he asked, “Are you sure?”

  “Yes, I'm sure. I know nothing.”

  He tossed the match at the fence post and with a loud woosh, it ignited.

  The woman jerked at her bonds as she screamed and tried to use all her strength to break loose. As the flames grew hotter, she jerked to get away and a smell, not unlike burnt pork, filled the air. Dark black smoke moved for the low overhead clouds. Her screams were hideous now, as she danced against the flickering flames. Her hair was gone and just a few tatters remained of her blouse and skirt when she suddenly collapsed in the dirt and jerked. A few seconds later she was dead.

  The Sergeant yelled, “Guard, bring me two children, under the age of 6. Get me a boy and a girl. Maybe after I burn them, Sandra will talk.”

  “Please burn no more. I will tell all I know.”

  Ten minutes later, she stopped talking and refused to answer more questions. The Sergeant picked up a steel pipe and striking her right arm hard and her left leg, broke both bones. She screamed and then passed out.

  “Take the bitch back to her cell. We will talk again tomorrow. And, when you return, Private, get rid of this burnt body.”

  “Yes, Sergeant.”

  Stepping from the doorway, Colonel Yakovich asked, “Do you always have to go to such extremes to get them to talk?”

  “Not usually, sir, but she has more information and she stopped talking.”

  “So, what is next for her?”

  “Personal punishment with a great deal of pain. Ripping off fingernails, twisting broken bones, or removing an eye with my knife tip. Then again, electrical shock or water boarding usually work too. Of course, I will give her to the men to use later.”

  “Those are more traditional methods, and I am more aware of them.”

  “The fire method is unusual for me, but it works, and quickly too.”

  The Commander thought as he moved for the door, fighting the urge to puke, I need to return to my office and see how Operation Fish Market is working.

  Chapter 12

  Back at camp, I was eating Chinese rations with Cynthia when I was called to answer the radio. I was rather surprised since it was almost 1800 and never spoke with Base this late in the day, unless something bad had happened. Cynthia went to the tent with me, but waited outdoors.

  “Base, Cobra One, go.” I said.

  “Cobra, Base. We have LAPES deliveries for you everyday next week, which starts tomorrow. Your first pallets will be motorcycles, 350cc dirt bikes, and they'll be ready to ride. You will receive 20 motorcycles in tomorrow’s delivery.”

  I smiled and replied, “Thanks much, Base.”

  “Base One asks if you caught any fish? He has a strong desire for a huge fish.”

  “No, not yet, and not sure if we will. If we do, I'll let you know, because I have no place to keep 'em.”

  “Roger, any questions? Over.”

  “Negative on questions, Base, and thanks.”

  “Base, out.”

  Wow, I thought, motorcycles, and twenty of them too.

  Over the course of the next week, we received the motorcycles, shoulder-fired missiles, a dozen flamethrowers, and well over a thousand pounds of munitions. We felt like our birthdays and Christmas were in the same week. Then things began to settle down.

  The following week, right at dawn, we were beside a major highway waiting for a large convoy. It was still mostly dark, but the air was filled with the grayish fog. I expected the fog to be gone by 0900 hours, but right now I couldn't see 50 yards.

  By the time I heard the truck engines, I had them almost on top of me. I let the first half of the convoy pass and when I thought half had gone by, I squeezed the clackers and the blast of the Claymore mine was loud, but so were the screams of those hit by the steel balls. Small arms fire followed and the tat-tat-tat of the two machine guns raking the trucks was comforting.

  One of the tracers from the guns must have struck some explosives because two cars exploded, along with a truck, into huge fireballs. Russian bodies and pieces of bodies were thrown high into the air, landing on the other side of the freeway. Grenades wiped out groups of resistance in the convoy and then it grew quiet except for an occasional moan from someone injured or dying. The trucks could be heard burning, the cracking and popping of the flames loud against the stillness.

  “Move forward, but keep your eyes open for survivors. Treat any wounded and put down those too seriously injured to survive. They might lay here in pain for days. Any taken alive should be brought to me.” I yelled as my troops stormed the vehicles.

  A few pistols popped and then all I heard was the excited voices of my people as they took all they wanted from our enemy. Food, ammunition, medical supplies, whiskey, Russian uniforms, sleeping bags, missiles and even some rubber arctic boots. There was much more, only I didn't hang around the trucks looking. The ATVs were loaded, bicycles, and even a couple of horses and they started for home. They'd go about halfway home, hide the gear, and come back for one more load. We tried hard to pick a convoy apart.

  One of my men went down the row of trucks, pushing grenades into the fuel tanks—the pins pulled but the levers being held down by a rubber band. Weeks from now, after the diesel ate through the rubber band and the lever popped off, the truck would explode, no matter where it was located. Hopefully we'd kill more Russians.

  Some Russian grenades were picked up, the timers moved to zero and then they were thrown around the battlefield. We even forced the tips from bullets, poured the powder out, and replaced it with as much C-4 as we could get in the empty shell. Our final act as we left was to mine the area, and heavily too. Soon the pines and hills hid us from view as we moved toward home.

  About halfway back, I heard the whop-whop-whop of helicopters and moved my people into the thick brush. The choppers were moving slowly, obviously looking for us, but I didn'
t think they'd be lucky this day. We had a little sprinkling of rain falling and the temperature was going down. The area we were in was so dense with brush, if we left the trail we had to use machetes to clear enough underbrush to move.

  After about ten minutes, the aircraft flew away from us, and I lost them.

  I waited a few minutes for my drag man to near and then I said, “Be sure to plant mines and toe poppers when you can.”

  “I will, sir.” said an unknown Private. She was thin, like the rest of us, short blonde hair, full lips, nice shape and deep blue eyes. She looked all professional to me and that made me happy. I liked those who knew their jobs and did what was needed without being ordered all the time.

  I had never seen her before and that told me I needed to be spending more time with the cell than with Cynthia. I wanted to personally know my troops, but especially their names and where they were from. We'd been spending most of our free time together and looking back, some of that was a mistake. I moved forward and got back into my position.

  It would take up to two days to walk home because it was about forty miles one way. That evening I poured anyone that wanted a drink a cup full of whiskey as a small celebration of our successful kill. The Russians would be mad, but they'd know the resistance was alive here and doing well now. As I sat beside Cynthia sipping my cup of strong amber drink, she was on the radio.

  “Headquarters said the Russians were seen loading dogs and handlers on choppers at the main base. The handlers were all wearing parachutes, so they may be coming our way.”

  “That's possible.” I replied and took a sip from my tin cup.

  “You ever worked against dogs before?”

  “Many times, and the best thing we can do is try to kill the dog. There are two types of dogs that track. One that smells the tracks of the target on the ground or those that smell the target's scent in the air. Both can do the job, but I've had better luck getting away or avoiding those dogs that smell tracks on the ground. It's good to know about them, but they don't concern me a great deal.”