by W. R. Benton
We were close to home when Rivers, who was in front said, “Awww, shit.”
For some reason his tone and choice of words made me think we were dead. He glanced back at me and said, “We're in the middle of a minefield.”
“Are you sure?” I asked because it was dawn and not full light yet.
He didn't say another word, but he did point out about ten mines buried in the soil around us. I froze, felt my heart beat increase and then felt sweat on the palms of my hands. I met his eyes, gave a weak-ass smile and replied, “Move, but slowly.”
He pointed to every mine he spotted and it seemed to take us five hours to cross forty feet of mine field, but it indicated we were close to home. Once on the other side, he fell to his knees and I could see he was praying. I felt so weak from the stress I almost passed out.
“I need a shot of a stiff drink after that, and I don't care what it is either.”
“We'll have that, if we get home in one piece.” I promised, knowing I had some whiskey in my footlocker. We continued to move.
At one point at night a chopper flew over, stopped and then backed up. I think the pilot didn't believe his thermal gear showed two people on the ground. I saw his Gatling gun start to pivot and pulled my poncho over me as I fell to the ground. I then had Rivers do the same thing. We pulled it over us, then pulled it off and then covered ourselves a few times. Then bright lights came on and flooded the area. After about twenty minutes the aircraft flew away and I'm sure the pilot thought his system was really jacked up. I don't think what we did would have confused an experienced pilot, but he must not have had much faith in the new system. That lack of faith saved our lives.
Near dawn on the third day, as I moved beside a trail, I heard a voice say in English, “Stop. Who are you and what do you want?”
“It's me, Colonel John Williamson, the Commander, and I've got Colonel John Rivers with me and he's been wounded. I think his wound is getting infected. I need your help.”
“Move forward six steps, lay your weapons on the log and then place your arms over your head. Then, lace your fingers together behind your head. For your safety and ours, you'll be secured and escorted onto the base. Move too quickly and I'll blow you a new butt-hole. I am Corporal Silvers and I'm your guide on this trip in the scenic mountains of Washington state. You either do as I've asked, or I'll kill you now.”
We moved forward and placed our weapons on the log and my hands immediately went up and into the air. I was tired, dirty, and not feeling well. I'd had very little to eat for four days, not sure if our drinking water was good so I'd drank little, which meant I was probably dehydrated, and feeling feverish. John was just plain out of it and the last mile or so he'd been either praying or talking to himself. I found out later he'd been talking to his long dead wife.
We were made to sit and our injuries were cared for. Besides his head wound, John also had cut up legs from walking through briers and brush, small cuts and bruises all over his body, just as I did. When you're covered with small injuries, they can take a lot of energy out of a person.
“Good job, Silvers.” I said, and meant it.
“Thank you, sir.”
“If I'd not listened to you, would you have really killed us?”
“Yes, sir, and never batted an eye doing it either.”
“Good man.” I replied.
He grinned.
Once in camp, cleaned up a little, given some hot soup and some coffee, we relaxed a little. I wanted a shower, but was just too tired and worn out to do that. Of all things, we needed sleep the most, followed by a shave and shower. Then a doctor visited us, declared us both human, and we were told to rest. We moved to my room and I opened my booze. We both had a double and I left the cap off the thing. I knew it would take more than just one double to bring us back down to earth. My adrenaline was all that was keeping my ass from dragging in the dirt. I also knew we didn't need more than two or three drinks, or we'd sleep for days.
“Well, what now?” River asked and then downed his whiskey in one gulp.
“Andy? You in your office?” I knocked my drink back and poured us another one.
“Uh, yes sir. Do you need me?”
“Care for an adult beverage, First Sergeant?” I asked as I refilled our glasses.
“Sir, I'll pass, since it's not 0700 yet. I'll take you up on the invitation this evening if it's still open.”
“The invitation will still be open. Listen, contact base, let them know that Colonel Rivers and I are both safe and here now. Make sure we are removed from any casualty listings or MIA listings. We are both healthy, weak as hell, and ready to serve. We just need a few hours of sleep.”
“Aye, sir, and I'll speak with them on the horn myself. Glad to see you both back safely, sir. While we took one hell of a beating, the Russians lost more gear, material and lives, but since we withdrew they consider it a win.”
“Let them call it what they wish. I am going to bed. See that I'm up at noon.”
“Yes, sir.” he replied and then left.
“I'm off to my tent and bed. If you need me, just let me know. I won't be back up though, because I was given a sleeping pill and told to go to bed.” Rivers said.
He extended his hand and as we shook, he said, “You're one hell of a fine man, Colonel.”
I replied, “So are you, Colonel. Get some rest.”
I'd been handed a sleeping pill too, but tossed it to the weeds on the way to my tent. I didn't like drugs and the only ones I usually took at all were pain pills when in the field and seriously injured. Other than that, I passed on all medications if I could. We surely didn't drink much, not if a person wanted to stay alive. Plus, the booze was just not available like it once was. Oh, we had some guys who made booze, but it was rough stuff and mainly used by our medical clinic for pain.
As I lay in bed, I read the report on our recent battle at the saw mill and our casualties were much less than I suspected. Numbers were still being adjusted, because some troops continued to straggle in like Rivers and I. We'd lost some gear and had captured some Russian arms and ammunition. I fell asleep with the report in my hands and sitting up in bed, but just before I went to sleep, I thought of a way to hurt the Russians. I would hurt them enough to bring tears.
“Yuliy, this is General Anatolievich, and I am ordering your return to Russia. It seems there are those here who are not pleased with your work in America. So, you have been asked to return to explain your progress in the war.”
My God, they will have me shot! Bykov thought, but said, “I am sorry to hear this, General. I have tried my best while assigned here.”
“Your best has many angered and they are calling for your head. Our dead are backlogged at the airports in America because we do not have enough aircraft to bring them all home. I want you on the first flight home in the morning. I will try to help you, as I always have, but I can only do so much. I think you are facing a gulag at least, and for a good number of years.”
“I have failed you and Mother Russia.”
“Perhaps I can talk to the Generals Counsel and get you assigned here working with me. I can promise nothing but it beats the options. I must go now, I have a meeting, but catch the first plane back home.”
“Yes, of course, sir. I will let you know by phone when I arrive in Moscow.”
“Good, and I will send my private car for you then. Goodbye.”
The phone went dead in Bykov's ear and he panicked. A few minutes later, he pulled his pistol, flipped the safety off and sat holding the loaded weapon. Placing it on his desk, he opened the top left drawer and pulled out a bottle of vodka. He picked up the glass on his desk, filled it with the strong drink, and gulped it down. He sat crying, like a child.
He picked up the phone, “Base Operations? I need the next flight back to Russia.”
“What city, sir?” The Sergeant asked.
“Mos . . . Moscow.”
“I have one leaving here at 1800 and —”
&
nbsp; “I will take it.”
“Yes, sir.”
Aircraft tail number zero, eight, niner, four, one, three, or call sign Blue Goose was powered up and the ground generators were doing their job as Colonel Yuliy Bykov boarded and was shown to a first class seat. The gentle hum of the ground equipment usually calmed him, but this early evening he was drunk. He'd spent the afternoon drinking and scared to death of returning. Now he dropped into the seat and mumbled to himself about the bastards in Moscow not knowing anything about a combat unit.
“Sir, please buckle your seat belt.” The stewardess said as she past his seat.
“Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your Captain, Foma Aleskeevich, and our flight time from here to Moscow is sixteen hours and five minutes. Both the co-pilot and I would like to thank you for flying with us and if you need anything during our flight, contact a stewardess. Crew to take off positions, please.”
Near the fence outside the base, a man on a bicycle stopped moving and decided to watch this airplane take off. He worked for the airlines, as a local hire, and he was a landing gear specialist and his pay was much better than average.
The big beast taxied to the end of the runway and then it stopped. Then, more power was heard being applied by the pilot, but the brakes held the aircraft in place. Finally the aircraft was freed and it gave a giant shudder just before it began to roll down the runway.
The General always grew nervous during take offs and landings. He'd read somewhere that was when 90% of all aircraft crashes occurred. After what seemed like a very long time to him, the aircraft nose came up, and he heard the wheels whirling into the wheel wells. They gave a loud thump when they locked up and the doors closed. The aircraft began a gentle turn to the left with the nose slightly up. He pulled his bottle from his coat and took a long snort. Replacing the bottle, he fell back into his seat a defeated man.
Some bells sounded and the pilot said, “This is your pilot speaking and we've just passed through 20,000 feet and will continue to climb until we reach our cruising altitude of —”
Colonel Bykov heard a loud explosion and the aircraft began to shudder violently.
Not realizing his microphone was still hot and on 'cabin', the pilot asked, “What in the hell was that and look at the dash. Tower this is Blue Goose and I am declaring an in-flight emergency.”
The man standing at the fence had seen the explosion and now watched as the aircraft made an attempt to return to the base. He smiled, mounted his bicycle and rode toward home. He would report the results to the resistance as soon as he knew the status of the plane. He was sure it would all be reported on the television.
“Captain to crew, please assume crash landing positions. The aircraft is still under my control, but once we land, evacuate the aircraft immediately.” the Captain’s voice was still calm and collected.
The aircraft began to bounce around and shiver as they gently moved into position to land at Seattle. He sat watching outside the window and saw them fly over the perimeter fence.
When the co-pilot flipped the landing gear switch, and the gear started down, they pulled a cord attached to the detonator inserted in a block of C-4. When the cord was fully extended it detonated, blowing the nose landing gear from the aircraft and creating a second hole in the aircraft. Hydraulics and electrical systems were damaged.
“Uh tower, I've just had a second explosion in the nose wheel well area and I've no choice but to land now.”
“Go around, Blue Goose, and we'll look you over.”
“Negative on the go around, because my instrument panel is lit up like a Christmas tree. Be advised, I am putting her down now.”
At the word now the rear landing gear screeched as rubber met the concrete, and the pilot began to slowly reduce power. The wings began to wobble as the co-pilot read off their air speed. Without notice, the left wing struck the ground, the aircraft cartwheeled twice and began to break apart. The main body landed upside down hard on the runway and continued to slide. There was a loud explosion as the fuel stored in both wings went up in flames. Burning fuel soon began to leak into the cabin.
It was then the cabin began to break apart and into sections. A giant wall of flames moved through the section that Colonel Bykov sat and his screams of pain and fear joined the others. The broken shell rolled to a stop about halfway down the runway.
From where the wheels first touched down to the ditch the dead crew finally struck, the runway was littered with aircraft parts and pieces of human bodies. Emergency response personnel ran from their vehicles and pulled people from the flames and broken parts of the aircraft.
One man ran from the fire, his clothing aflame, and he stumbled around as he burned. He gave a hideous scream as his slacks melted to his legs. Finally, he fell to the ground and after jerking a few times, he stopped moving. He was dead.
The Colonel was in deep pain with burns over 85% of his body. He had a nasty gash to his forehead and his left arm was missing at the elbow. He shivered and moaned as he attempted to breathe in all the smoke. Minutes later, his world faded from full light through various stages of gray until it turned black and finally he lost consciousness.
The doctor approached Master Sergeant Kovarov and when near he said, “I am sorry Master Sergeant, but Colonel Bykov passed away about ten minutes ago. He was too badly burned to survive and in a great deal of pain. Do they know what happened?”
“Sabotage is all I know, and apparently with two bombs.”
“I must return to my work. The resistance killed over 200 this day and I have a hospital full of injured, of which many will die if I don't do my share. I am sorry about your commander.” He turned and walked back down the pea green hallway and the through the double doors.
Kovarov stood, straightened his posture and walked from the hospital like the top enlisted dog he was and while he was hurting inside, he kept it to himself. He went back to his quarters, showered, and had a breakfast of cold-cuts, soup and bread. He then dressed in a fresh uniform and went to his duty section, even though it was late evening, because there would be phone calls and visitors, all high ranking, wanting to know what had happened.
An hour later, after he'd answered the calls from Generals in Moscow and other bases in America, he opened his locker and pulled out a bottle of top shelf vodka. Usually a man who never drank alone, he poured a triple and took a sip. There was a loud clap of thunder and he realized it was rare to hear that sound in this part of the United States. Soon rain was beating against the widow panes. He decided right then to spend the night in his office, because he had a small twin bed in a back store room and he wanted to be alone.
The Colonel's death didn't really bother him, but the many deaths of people he had known over the years were beginning to take a toll on him. He'd known when first assigned here they were locked in a war they could not win. Russia had over 48,000 deaths already and they were no closer to winning the war now than the first day they arrived. Partisan wars were never won, because there were no front lines. The enemy could bring the war to any spot they chose and then melt into the population. They also fought efficiently, usually losing only one or two people for every ten or more they killed. Kovarov was no coward, but all had been quiet here until Williamson showed up.
He watched the rain beat on the glass panes and thought, If I can remove the head, the rest of the snake will die. Williamson is the brains behind the partisans here, and their leader. He took another sip of his drink. There must be a way to kill him. Obviously the one million dollars reward is not working. Kill Williamson, he thought again.
He watched a single raindrop strike the pane and began to run down the glass. He took a drink.
Kill Williamson and make him pay for making mother Russia look like a fool. He's only one man and you'd think it would be easy to kill just one man. But, I will do it one day. One day soon, I will stand here in this office with his severed head on my desk. Then, and only then, can I return to Russia to retire and rest. I must kill him,
or he kills me.
Raising the glass, he said, “To Colonel John Williamson, wherever you are, know that one of us will soon die.”
The End
Be sure to watch for Book number 8 of the Fall of America series,
an Amazon Best Selling Series.
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About the Author
W. R. Benton was born on his grandfather's farm, delivered by his grandmother, near Vida, Missouri down in the Ozark Mountains. He attended public schools in the local area and graduated from Rolla Senior High, Rolla, Missouri, in 1971. After graduation, he joined the United States Air Force and began a career that would span over 26 years.
He has an Associate's Degree in Search and Rescue, Survival Operations, a Bachelors Degree in Occupational Safety and Health, and a Masters Degree in Clinical Psychology completed, except for his thesis. It was his safety training that improved his above average writing skills, because he learned to sequence mishaps in formal reports. His first western released was Silently Beats the Drum, and 34 more books have followed.
W. R. Benton is popular among readers who love hard continuous action and adventure. As a young reader, he would often turn pages to find more excitement. So, when he turned to writing, he decided his readers should be entertained, made to think, and feel the emotions of his characters. Many readers say his work grasps them in the first paragraph and maintains their interest until the last paragraph, which is exactly what W. R. strives for when writing.
Mister Benton lives in Mississippi, with his wife, dogs, and cats, on an imaginary ranch with thousands of make-believe cows and horses. Visit him at: www.wrbenton.net