Red Ice

by William Dietz

  Like a lot of military people Falco had a tendency to view civilians as being unorganized. So he was expecting to walk into a chaotic mess. But that wasn’t the case despite the snarling sled dogs, the tendency to organize around family groups, and the visible consumption of alcohol.

  The defenders didn’t have enough time to put up a defensive wall like the one fronting the beach. But a small track hoe was being used to dig tidy six-person fighting positions along a line that led from the north end of Wales, to a section of high ground that looked down on the Winter Trail.

  All of which was explained to Falco by an enthusiastic young man named Roy. He was dressed in head-to-toe hunting camos and armed with an AR-15. “Come on,” Roy said. “I’ll take you to the general.”

  Roy led Falco south onto the high ground. Patches of snow were hiding in the nooks and crannies that the gradually setting sun hadn’t been able to find and penetrate. Roy was following a set of tracks too narrow to have been made by a tractor or personnel carrier. And, as they topped the rise Roy said, “There he is! That’s General Gooding.”

  The general was seated on an all-terrain tracked chair. A scabbard was strapped to the side of the rig and a rifle butt could be seen protruding from it. Gooding was sporting an Australian style bush hat with one side folded up. The retired officer was glassing the area in front of him with an enormous pair of binoculars. A gray mastiff rose to stand stiff legged and growl at the newcomers as they arrived. Gooding lowered his glasses and turned to the dog. “At ease, Sergeant.”

  The mastiff whined submissively and lowered himself onto the ground. “Major Falco, I presume,” Gooding said. “Colonel Waya said you’d be by.” Gooding’s face was long, thin, and deeply lined. There was no need to salute a retired officer, especially one in civilian clothes, but Falco chose to do so anyway. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, sir.”

  “Excuse me if I don’t get up,” Gooding said with a wry smile. “I see that you’re acquainted with my grandson.”

  Falco looked at Roy and back. “Yes, sir. Roy was kind enough to bring me over.”

  “He’s my aide, nurse, and bodyguard,” Gooding said. “Not that there’s much left to guard. So here’s the situation. A couple of Russian scouts are out there—watching us from that pile of rocks off to the right. There’s no point in killing them because the Russkies would send more. And who knows? The replacements might be more competent .

  “The rest of the bastards will arrive in less than an hour. Then we’ll be facing about two-hundred and fifty men. That doesn’t sound like a lot, but here’s the thing … All of them are Spetsnaz. That’s like being attacked by two companies of green berets.

  “But Spetsnaz or not, they’re still human,” Gooding observed. “And when they arrive, it will be after a nine-mile march, and an even longer day. And rather than face what they expect to be ineffective civilians, they’re going to fight some of the meanest bastards in the world! Which is to say my fellow Alaskans. We ain’t pretty,” Gooding added, “but we have teeth. Isn’t that right, Sergeant?” The mastiff heard his name, and growled.

  Baranov was exhausted but determined to conceal it. How long had it been since his last nine-mile march? Ten years? At least. And he wasn’t carrying a pack. Dudin by contrast was carrying his own gear—and appeared to be fresh as a daisy.

  But we’re almost there , Baranov assured himself. And, based on the latest Intel reports, the Americans are desperate. Civilians were brought in to help defend the village. The Spetsnaz will cut through them like a hot knife through butter while our marines land on the beach.

  The prospect pleased Baranov. But the pleasure was short lived. A scream was heard from up ahead—and it wasn’t long before word came back. One of the soldiers had stepped on a bear trap! His right foot was hanging by a thread. “It’s an old trick,” Gotov growled. “The presence of animal traps can sow fear … And when a soldier is injured, a medic must help. Combat related wounds might go untreated as a result.”

  “Not to mention the fact that it takes two soldiers to carry a stretcher,” Baranov added. “Pass the word … We will establish an aid station here. Once the battle starts helicopters will arrive to evacuate the wounded.”

  “Yes, sir,” Gotov agreed, as he turned to his radioman.

  For his part Baranov was determined to finish the march—and watch where he placed his feet. Had more traps been laid? Baranov assumed the answer was yes.

  Falco found a home for himself in a recently dug fighting position already occupied by three men and a woman. She was pretty in a hard edged way, and introduced herself as Yukon Jane. Falco wasn’t sure if that was a stage name or a radio handle.

  Jane was helping Falco settle in when the Humvee mounted ADMS Avenger (Air Defense Missile Systems) that protected the town began to spit fire-and-forget Stinger missiles into the air. Falco saw a flash of light and knew that a Russian plane had been hit. But what kind of plane? And were more of them on the way?

  The answer came in the form of a steel rain. At least one-hundred gravity bombs fell in quick succession. By listening to the radio traffic Falco was able to get a feel for the big picture. The first bombs landed in the water where they exploded harmlessly. But the rest were right on target. Columns of gravel and earth shot up into the air. Gaps appeared in the defensive wall. And Falco heard what sounded like rolling thunder, as the bombs leveled homes, destroyed a missile battery, and laid waste to the airport.

  Jane raised her head to look and Falco pulled her down as one of the weapons landed 200 feet east of them. There was a tremendous BOOM, followed by what felt like an earthquake. There was nothing the Russians wanted or needed in the town of Wales. So they had every reason to carpet bomb the area. And more than that, to prep the battlefield for the soldiers who were on the way .

  Falco heard what sounded like a clap of thunder and looked up in time to see pieces of fiery debris tumble out of the sky. He was reminded of a 4th of July fireworks display in his home town of Eugene. It was impossible to know how many civilians had been killed or wounded during the attack. But Falco figured casualties had been high, and wondered how long the defensive line could hold. “Here they come!” someone shouted, and the Russians attacked.

  Falco was standing on an improvised firing step and looking downslope. Very little daylight remained, and the Spetsnaz were wearing artic camos, so Falco would have to turn his night vision gear on soon.

  Rather than charge up the hill en masse, the Russians came forward a dozen at a time, dropped to the ground, and opened fire. That was the signal for more troops to dash forward. It was good soldiering, and what one would expect of the Spetsnaz.

  But most of the Alaskans didn’t know what good soldiering was, nor did they care. They wanted to win, and didn’t care how that was accomplished. And, thanks to Gooding’s leadership, there were a variety of surprises awaiting the Russians.

  Falco heard someone yell, “Roll the barrel bombs!” The JTAC had to stand aside as two of his companions muscled a fifty-gallon oil drum up onto the edge of the fighting position and set it free. He watched as the barrel rolled and bounced down the hill. “It’s half full of gas,” Jane explained. “And rigged with C-4. The general has the remote.”

  Falco saw the container take another jump, and land two feet further on. The drum, plus a dozen like it, were in among the Russian troops when Gooding pushed a button. Some of the bombs went off with no noticeable effect. Others exploded near clusters of soldiers, tore them apart, and sent body parts whirling through the air.

  The assault stalled. But Falco could hear orders being shouted and knew the enemy was going to launch a second attack. And that was the perfect time to drop some mortar bombs on them. He called on his batteries, gave a series of orders, and was pleased with the results.

  Flashes of light marked the spots where the bombs fell. Each hit produced a crack-BOOM which, taken with the rest of the noise, became part of a hellish symphony. It was difficult to carry out a realistic da
mage assessment. But Falco felt sure that the bombs were making a significant difference. Still, rather than expend all the ammo the mortars had, Falco called a momentary halt. Once specific targets were visible the bombardment would resume.

  Meanwhile, on the west side of town, an amphibious assault was underway. That gave Oliver reason to worry. The Russians were arriving in dozens of RIB boats. And while they were susceptible to mortar fire, the targets were too small to target with the M777A2 howitzers.

  The noncom wasn’t about to let the big tubes go to waste however, so when the marines began to bunch up, he was ready to laze them. “Mark,” Oliver said. “Fire when ready.”

  A shell rumbled overhead, struck the beach, and produced a resonant BOOM. “Bingo!” Oliver exclaimed. “Right on the money!”

  Falco’s attention was on the slope in front of him as the Russians opened fire with LMGs (light machine guns) and soldiers charged up hill. Some of the attackers were backlit by pools of burning gasoline. That made them easy meat for the Alaskans, all of whom were experienced hunters .

  But there were a lot of Russians. And as the machine guns continued to chatter, entire fire teams were killed as RPGs flew up hill. Falco had his night vision gear on, and was firing the carbine by then. He dropped a soldier, followed by another, and was about to target a third—when an order was shouted. “Release the dogs!”

  Falco had noticed the dogs earlier—but assumed they were pets. Now he realized that Gooding had yet another unconventional weapon up his sleeve. Dogs snarled as they went up over the top of the fighting positions and raced down the slope. Some of the Russians fired right away, and sent furry bodies tumbling. But most of the enemy soldiers were too slow.

  Russians were thrown to the ground by a husky, a German Shepard, or a mongrel … All hardened by lives lived in the wild. Screams were heard. And, as the Spetsnaz shot at the dogs, some of their bullets struck fellow soldiers, and cries of “Medik! ” were heard.

  Logic suggested that Falco take advantage of the situation to bring more fire in. But even though most of the dogs were going to die anyway, Falco knew their owners would be furious if his mortars were the cause, and understandably so.

  However as a military officer Falco felt a strong need to do something more than watch the mayhem. So he went up over the top. “Follow me!” Falco shouted as thousands of officers had before him, and skidded down the slope.

  An incoherent cry went up all around him as the surviving civilians came boiling up out of their fighting positions, and swept downhill. The Russians, some of whom had been wounded by the dogs, tried to fight. One took an axe to the head and fell with it embedded there. Another was thrown backwards by the full force of a double barreled shotgun blast to the chest. And when a third trooper rose to block Falco’s way, the JTAC shot him in the face. “Kill them!” a woman screamed shrilly. “Kill all of them! ”

  Meanwhile, at the top of slope, Gooding sat and cried. Sergeant had gone into battle with the rest of the dogs, never to return. The general’s heart was broken.

  There was nothing Baranov could do but watch in horror, as a madman led an army of rabble down the slope to battle his men. Rather than pull back, as they should have, the Americans were attacking him! The tide of oncoming civilians came close to the front line but was forced to pause when the Spetsnaz rose to oppose them. There was no place for either side to take cover behind. A woman leveled a seal harpoon and charged. Baranov raised his pistol and shot her in the face.

  The Russian line was beginning to fall back, and Baranov was forced to do likewise, as Gotov delivered the news. According to radio reports the situation on the seaward side of town was grave as well. After coming ashore, and surging through gaps in the American minefields, a team of marines had managed to cut a hole in the razor wire.

  A platoon following along behind them had been able to reach the foot of the defensive wall. Charges were placed and detonated. A hole opened up and marines rushed through. That had put them in an enemy bunker, and only steps from the street beyond.

  Then 155mm shells fired from deep inside American territory had fallen on the bunker and destroyed it. Suddenly it became apparent that the enemy had allowed Baranov’s marines to enter the fortification for the express purpose of killing them! What should Baranov do? Fight a losing battle? Or save what he could? The answer was obvious.

  An American flare went off, followed by another, and the full horror of the scene was revealed. The dead and dying from both sides lay everywhere—often separated by no more than a few bloody feet.

  Yakimov was nearby exhorting his troops through a bullhorn. “Fight, damn you! They’re civilians. Kill the pindos !”

  “Colonel!” Baranov shouted, as bullets snapped past his head. “We will withdraw. Wounded first.”

  “Tak tochno (Yes sir),” Yakimov replied. He went to work.

  “Air support is on the way,” Gotov announced.

  Baranov nodded. “Good. Come … We will help the wounded.”

  The wave of Americans couldn’t sustain itself, broke, and had to pull back.

  Jet engines were heard as Russian fighters swept in. Baranov felt a surge of hope. Maybe the planes could turn the tide! But the incoming aircraft were met by salvos of Stinger missiles. And when a bright flash strobed the barren countryside Baranov knew that a fighter had gone down.

  Baranov was duty bound to remain until Yakimov pulled the last of his soldiers back to the Winter Trail. Then, with the Alaskans nipping at their heels, the Russians began the long and hellish withdrawal. They were already exhausted. And many of those called upon to fight a series of rearguard actions had been wounded earlier in the battle.

  Again and again Baranov, Gotov, and even Dudin were forced to pause and fire at their pursuers who, rather than take heavy casualties, were content to harass the fleeing Spetsnaz. It was a nightmarish journey, and one Baranov would never forget.

  Finally after hours of struggle Baranov and his men arrived in Tin City where two transports sat on the runway. Baranov forced himself to wait until the first plane was loaded and in the air, before following Yakimov up the ramp into the Antonov An-22, where he fell into a seat .

  Baranov closed his eyes as the plane raced down the bumpy airstrip and lumbered into the sky. All of his hopes and dreams lay in ruins. But the inner fire continued to burn. He would regroup in Lavrentiya, pull what remained of his brigade together, and launch a final attack. But it would have to be done quickly—before news of his defeat could reach Moscow. Dudin , Baranov thought to himself. I need to do something about Dudin . Then he fell asleep.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Wales, Alaska USA

  F alco was in his sleeping bag, curled up in a corner of the bunker he shared with Master Sergeant Greg Oliver, when the MPs came for him. He awoke to scuffling sounds and saw a blob of light wandering around the floor. “We’re looking for Major Falco,” a voice announced.

  “He’s the one pointing a pistol at your head,” Oliver replied. “You might want to knock next time.”

  The light moved, found the .9mm, and followed an arm up to Falco’s face. The JTAC blinked. “Aim the light somewhere else.”

  “Yes, sir … Sorry, sir,” the MP said, as the light flicked away. “Colonel Waya sent us. He wants you to attend a staff meeting at 0400.”

  Falco looked at the luminous dial on his watch and swore. It was 0330. He put the pistol away. “What the hell for?”

  “He didn’t say,” the MP replied. “But I can tell you this much … Something big is afoot. They gave us a long list of people to notify.”

  “One of them will shoot you,” Oliver predicted.

  “The meeting will be held in front of the command bunker,” the MP said, as he backed out into the night.

  “Have a nice time,” Oliver said, pulling the bag up around his shoulders. “I’ll be right here—holding the fort. ”

  “Bullshit,” Falco replied, kicking his sleeping bag off. “You’re coming with me, a
nd that’s an order.”

  “I don’t like you anymore,” Oliver whined, imitating his daughter’s voice. “I want a new major.”

  Falco laughed. “Submit a request, and wait in line.”

  Even as Falco pulled his boots on he could tell that the anonymous MP was correct. Something was up. Helicopters clattered overhead, engines roared as vehicles passed by, and snatches of radio traffic could be heard as a squad of marines walked past.

  And, when Falco stepped outside the bunker, he could feel the sense of urgency in the air. But why? None of the passersby knew.

  Officers and senior noncoms were streaming toward the command bunker. The JTACs tagged along. A much trod path led them to an open area where a large shelter had been erected, and miracle of miracles, urns of hot coffee stood waiting! Boxes of doughnuts had been flown in, and were open on a folding table. “Now this is worth getting up for,” Oliver proclaimed through a mouthful of chocolate doughnut. “Life is good.”

  Falco wasn’t ready to go that far, but had to admit that the pastries were excellent, and even better with hot coffee. Waya was smart enough to let the assemblage feast for ten minutes before making an appearance. His stage consisted of two stacked cargo pallets. The buzz of conversation came to an end, as an army captain yelled, “Atten-hut!”

  That was impossible for most of them to do, while holding coffee and doughnuts in hand, and none of them wanted to let go. Waya took them off the hook. “At ease.” He was holding a wireless mike, and his voice boomed from speakers located around the meeting area.

  “First,” Waya began, “I want to congratulate each, and every one of you, for holding Wales and pushing the Russians back.”

  Someone yelled, “Hooah!” A cry echoed by the rest .

  Waya smiled. “ ‘Hooah,’ indeed. But our work isn’t done. Operation Boomerang is getting underway.”