Red Ice

by William Dietz

Riley stopped, brought the rifle around, and dropped to one knee. It took a moment to find the nearest paratrooper’s chute with his scope. Then it was necessary to follow the shrouds down to the heavily laden soldier. He was falling fast. Lead him , Riley told himself.

  That required Riley to depress the rifle barrel even further. He took a guess, pressed the trigger, and felt the Winchester Model 70 thump his shoulder.

  The .338 magnum bullet flew straight and true. Riley saw the soldier jerk and crumple to the ground. The chute billowed in the breeze. One down. Two to go.

  A brass casing flew sideways as Riley worked another round into the chamber. He hurried forward. The other paratroopers were on the ground by then. Had they heard the shot? Or witnessed the killing? Riley hoped the soldiers would see the chute flapping around and rush over assist their comrade.

  Riley hurried forward, took up a position behind a weather-worn boulder, and took aim at the dead body. It was no more than a hundred yards away, and well within the Winchester’s reach. A paratrooper appeared and knelt next to his comrade. The .338 round knocked him over. The report was loud, and guaranteed to attract attention.

  Two down, one to go , Riley thought. Then he felt something cold make contact with the nape of his neck. “Put rifle down,” a voice said, in accented English. “And turn around.”

  Riley felt his blood run cold. The Russian had approached him without making a sound! Riley placed the Winchester on the ground and turned.

  “Rise your hands.” Riley did so. The paratrooper was wearing winter camos, a full combat kit, and holding a fancy submachine gun. A sure sign that Riley was eyeball to eyeball with some sort of special operator. “What are you?” the Russian demanded. “SEAL?”

  “No,” Riley replied. “I’m a United States Air Force Master Sergeant, retired.” Riley flicked his eyes to the right. “Isn’t that right, Nate?”

  The soldier fell for it, and Riley charged straight at him. The gun went flying as they collided and the paratrooper fell over backwards. Riley landed on top of the man, managed to place his thumbs over the Russian’s eyes, and leaned forward. An eye popped and the soldier screamed. Then, conscious of the need for speed, Riley stood.

  It was second nature to toss the submachine gun away, and look to the south, as the soldier writhed in pain. A platoon of Russians had formed a skirmish line and were crossing the runway. Riley turned, made a grab for the bear rifle, and began to run. The pack slapped his back.

  Riley hadn’t gone far when he heard the rattle of gunfire. But the Russians were a long way off—and none of the bullets came close. Not so far as he knew anyway. Could he follow the coastal trail up to Wales? He would sure as hell try.

  Baranov, Dudin, Gotov, and Yakimov were aboard the first transport to land. The airstrip was secure by then, and a major was waiting to deliver his report. He saluted. “The base is ours, sir.”

  “Good,” Colonel Yakimov replied. “Did we suffer any casualties?”

  “Two dead, sir. One man was wounded.”

  “Two? How many Americans were there?”

  “One, sir.”

  Baranov stepped forward. “I’m sorry to hear that there were casualties. But, as Comrade Dudin knows, there’s reason to celebrate. Isn’t that right, Boris?”

  Dudin knew a cue when he heard one … And understood what Baranov was up to. He , along with two-hundred and fifty Russian troops, had successfully landed on the American mainland! That was something no foreign power had been able to effectively do since the war of 1812, and it was going to be a huge propaganda coup.

  Would the landing be sufficient to take the pressure off Baranov? And counterbalance his failure in Wales? Yes, for the time being. And that meant the general would get another chance to complete his bridge. “You are correct, Comrade General,” Dudin proclaimed as he raised his camera. “Please stand there , with the mountain behind you, while I shoot some footage. I will upload the story within the hour. Then the entire world will witness what you’ve been able to accomplish.”

  Baranov knew that Dudin knew , and didn’t care. Not so long as the reporter did his job. Once the story was aired in Moscow, Marshal Orlov would be forced to back off. And President Toplin would claim the credit. So Baranov struck a variety of poses and tried to smile. In the meantime his thoughts were churning. Wales was close . Very close. Less than a day’s march for crack troops like his.

  They would follow the Winter Trail up to a point east of Wales and attack the Americans from the rear. Would the enemy see them coming? Of course they would. But with only hours in which to respond the enemy wouldn’t have time to construct a wall like the one that fronted the beach. Nor would they be able to abandon that fortification because he planned to send another attack force across from Little Diomede. That would force the American general to split her forces in two. Meanwhile a company of his paratroopers would take control of the airport.

  “All right,” Baranov said. “That’s enough posing for the camera. Colonel Yakimov … You have a map … Follow the Winter Trail to Wales. I expect to be in control of the town when the sun rises tomorrow.”

  After running full out for five minutes, Riley paused to look back. The pack felt heavy, and his breath came in short gasps. I’m getting old , Riley concluded. And I’m out of shape . Maybe I should cut back on the pancakes .

  Riley didn’t have binoculars, so he used the Winchester’s scope to check his back trail. His pursuers were easy to spot. One was armed with a long gun—and the other was carrying something smaller. Another submachine gun perhaps.

  Riley felt a stab of fear. A sniper team had been sent to kill him! And, because the Russians were in better shape, they were closing the gap.

  Riley turned and began to jog. He was running parallel to a high bluff with the sea on his left. A steady breeze pushed rows of orderly waves in to crash against the rocks. Jets could be heard fighting somewhere above. He didn’t dare to look. Watch where you put your feet , Riley told himself. This is no time to trip and fall .

  The trail was faint. And that was to be expected. Contactors like Riley had no reason to make the trip north—and the residents of Wales weren’t likely to visit Tin City. But the path was there. And, as a rock formation forced the trail out towards the edge of the cliff, Riley paused. After removing two trail bars from his pack Riley threw it out over the edge of the cliff.

  The contractor couldn’t watch the knapsack fall, but knew it would be lost in the seething surf below. That meant the Russians wouldn’t get their hands on the modules. Did their experts know everything there was to know about an AN/FPS-117 radar? Probably. But it wasn’t for Riley to say. His duty was to destroy the mods and he had.

  A bullet kicked up dirt one foot to the right of him. The report arrived moments later. Windage , Riley thought, as he ran. The wind is blowing from the west—and he didn’t compensate enough . He won’t make that mistake again .

  The best way to solve the problem was to kill the Russians. That much was obvious. But to do that Riley had to find a hide. A spot where he could hunker down and put the Winchester to work. But nothing caught his eye as he jogged uphill. It was easier to run without the pack to slow him down.

  When Riley topped the rise he saw the gully that lay beyond. A seasonal stream ran from east to west and produced gurgling sounds as it hurried to the sea. He turned, lay on the ground, and looked south. There was nothing to see at first. Then Riley detected a flicker of movement through the scope. He brought the rifle in close and poured all of his mental resources into making a successful shot.

  A soldier appeared. Only his head was visible at first. It rose and fell as the Russian ran. Then the pursuer became visible as he emerged from a dip. There was no sign of the rifle. Riley was looking at the spotter then … And the sniper was bringing up the rear.

  The wind continued to blow in from the right as Riley’s index finger tightened on the trigger. It gave, the Winchester spoke, and the soldier went down. Had he been hit? Or was he div
ing for cover? All Riley could do was wait.

  Three minutes passed. And when the second Russian appeared, Riley knew he was looking at the sniper, because he had the long gun. And he was closer than the spotter had been! Somehow, some way, the bastard had been able to cover open ground without allowing himself to be seen. Riley swore and backed away. Once he was out of view Riley jumped to his feet and ran.

  The rest had done him good, and Riley gobbled a trail bar as he ran. The downhill stretch led to a stream, which he splashed through, prior to tackling the opposite slope. Had the Russian topped the last rise? If so, Riley would be visible. He didn’t think the sniper was that close though … So when Riley reached the summit he turned to look back. That was a mistake.

  The bullet was low, but still on target. It struck Riley’s left leg with the force of a sledgehammer blow. He fell like a rock. The pain was excruciating, and Riley whimpered as he sat up to inspect the damage. “Shit, shit, shit! That hurts.”

  The area just above his knee was a bloody mess—and Riley could see white bone through the surrounding hamburger. Blood ran out to stain the gravel. A tourniquet , Riley thought. I need a tourniquet .

  After fumbling with the buckle Riley pulled his belt free. That dumped the radio onto the ground and the contractor left it there, as he wrapped the strap around his thigh, and cinched it tight. The worst of the bleeding stopped. He had some time, but not much. The sniper had seen the hit. So he knew Riley was down, but possibly alive. The man would come carefully, but he would come.

  Riley grabbed the radio, stuffed it into a pocket, and elbowed his way over to a pile of loose rocks. He felt dizzy and slightly nauseous. The pain was worse than anything he’d ever experienced. Once in place Riley brought the radio out and struggled to focus on the keypad. The numbers seemed to swim in front of his eyes as he thumbed the buttons. Was the repeater still on? If so, the device could run on battery power even if the generator was off. The response was immediate. “This is Home Plate … Go. Over.”

  “It’s Tom,” Riley said weakly. “Is that you, Mark?”

  There was a short pause. “Name your favorite beer. Over.”

  “Corona.”

  “Where are you? What’s going on? Over.”

  “The Russians landed in force. I capped three of them on my way out. But a sniper shot me in the leg. Patch me through to Cindy, Mark … But don’t tell her about the leg. Over.”

  “Hang on,” Mark said. “I’ll send help from Wales. Over.”

  “Sure,” Riley said. “You do that. Now patch me through.”

  Mark could, and ultimately did, although the process seemed to last forever. Finally Cindy came on the line. “Tom? Is that you ?”

  Riley felt a surge of warmth and tenderness. For nearly twenty years Cindy had followed him all over the world, made homes for the two of them, and never uttered a word of complaint. Riley’s leg was throbbing. He bit his lip to keep from crying out. “Yes, hon … It’s me.”

  “Are you okay? I heard reports of fighting in Wales.” Cindy could read him like no one else. Maybe that was because they’d been married so long. Or maybe it had something to do with what he referred to as her “Cindydar.”

  “Yes, I’m okay,” Riley lied. “I miss you that’s all. And I wanted to hear your voice. ”

  “Well, here I am,” Cindy replied. “I’m glad you called.”

  “What are you doing today?”

  “The usual. Go to the store, work in the yard, and do some laundry.”

  “That sounds good,” Riley told her. “Listen … I’m not very good with words. You know that. But I love you Cindy, and I always have.”

  “Tom? Something’s wrong, I can tell! What is it?”

  Riley heard the scrape of a boot and saw the soldier appear. The Russian was a dark silhouette against the light blue sky. Riley barely had time to thumb the power button and lift the Winchester with his right hand. It seemed to weigh a ton. Then Riley saw a spark—and the pain vanished.

  Chapter Twenty

  Wales, Alaska, USA

  F alco took Parker to the airport where he had to immediately part company with her. There was a kiss however … On his right cheek. Followed by a quick squeeze of his hand. “Thank you, Wombat,” Parker said. “You’re a wonderful, crazy man.” Then she turned and made her way out across the tarmac to a waiting C-17. Planes were coming in full, and leaving empty. That made it easy for Parker to hitch a ride.

  Falco could still feel the touch of Parker’s lips on his as he drove the ATV back to the bunker. It was early afternoon by that time, and the sky was gray. Oliver was there to greet him. “The prodigal returns … And just in time too. Things are heating up.”

  “How so?”

  “The Russians landed nine miles south of here. It sounds like they’re going to swing around and attack us from the east. Our planes are trying to stop them but the Russians own the sky. Meanwhile it looks like the bastards plan to land in our front yard again. So, if you survive your meeting with Colonel Waya, you’ll have plenty to do.”

  Falco frowned. “What meeting?”

  “The one where he rips you a new one for running off to rescue a pretty pilot.”

  Falco made a face. “When? ”

  Oliver smiled. “He said, ‘Tell that sonofabitch to come see me as soon as he returns.’ Or did he say, ‘shithead?’ It was one of the two.”

  Falco frowned. “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?”

  “Who? Me?” Oliver replied innocently.

  “I’m sorry,” Falco said. “I left you holding the bag. And that was wrong.”

  “Yup,” Oliver agreed. “It was. Fortunately I like beer. And a case of it would go a long ways towards reestablishing my faith in your leadership.”

  “Done.” Falco said. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” And with that Falco went out to discover that the stolen ATV had been stolen! Falco swore and set off on foot. There were lots of people on the streets, and Falco noticed that the mix included many civilians. They came in all shapes and sizes and were armed with a wild assortment of weapons. As Falco passed between them he saw hunting rifles, assault weapons, and compound bows. Were things so desperate that General Haberman had been forced to bring civilians in? Or were they arriving on their own? Time would tell.

  It took half an hour to find Waya. The better part of another half hour was spent waiting to be chewed on. Finally, when Falco was invited to enter the crude command bunker, the actual ass kicking was less severe than he expected. Perhaps that had something to do with the fact that Waya was tired. His eyes were red, his skin looked gray, and he was in need of a shave. “You’re a major,” Waya began, “rather than a lieutenant, a sergeant, or a private.

  “So I expect you to understand the strategic importance of your role. Not to run off on self-assigned SAR missions, while leaving your subordinate to fend for himself. That said, I’m willing to write your stupidity off to a misplaced sense of gallantry. But I won’t be so understanding if it happens again. Do you read me? ”

  Waya was seated. Falco was standing at attention. His eyes were focused on a spot just above the colonel’s head. “Sir, yes sir.”

  “Good. At ease. Take a load off.”

  Falco lowered his weight into the sagging lawn chair and hoped it wouldn’t collapse under his weight. “Here’s the sitrep,” Waya told him. “The Russians landed on an airstrip located nine miles south of us. It’s clear that they plan to flank us. Once they’re ready, they’ll attack from both the east and the west. If they capture Wales they’ll hurry to complete the bridge. Thousands of troops will stream across it. More than we can handle. So we have to hold. That’s why General Haberman put out a call for civilian volunteers. They call themselves ‘The Wolverines,’ and their job is to protect our eastern flank.”

  Falco remembered the wild looking assortment of men and women he’d seen walking the streets. “Yes, sir.”

  “So here’s the deal,” Waya continued, “You’re going to wo
rk with The Wolverines. Roughly half of our heavy mortars and artillery will be under your direct command. Master Sergeant Oliver will assume responsibility for the rest of it. His job is to keep the bastards off the beach. And remember … Most of the civilians don’t know jack shit about the military—and won’t understand your role. That makes the possibility of a friendly fire incident extremely high. Do you have any questions?”

  “Yes, sir. How much time do we have?”

  Waya looked at his watch. “Two hours if the Russians attack this evening. And, given how long the days are, that’s what we expect them to do. You will report to a retired general named Gooding. He’s something of a character, but he has a good rep, and he knows Alaska.”

  “What about air support, sir … Will we have any?”

  “Maybe,” Waya replied. “But the Russians outnumber us in the air. And they have a full court press on. Do the best you can.”

  Falco stood, and threw a salute. “Yes, sir. ”

  Waya nodded. “Go get ’em, Major … We can win this thing.”

  Falco thought about Waya as he left. Hang in there, Colonel … We need you.

  There was a lot to do and very little time in which to accomplish it. The first step was to hurry back to the bunker where Oliver was waiting. After agreeing on which frequencies to use, and dividing the available firepower between them, the JTACs began the task of contacting the batteries and bringing them up to speed. The changes were no big deal for half the teams.

  But those selected to defend the brigade’s eastern flank had to turn their weapons around and reorient themselves. Once the logistics were complete, it was time for the JTACs to part company. “Try to stay alive,” Oliver said. “I want my case of beer.”

  “Don’t drop a shell on the command bunker,” Falco replied. “I’m in enough trouble already.”

  Both men laughed and Falco left with his M4 in hand. His next task was to find General Gooding and check in. Waya had granted him permission to direct fire as he saw fit. Would Gooding see it the same way? And what if he didn’t? Falco made his way east.