B018R79OOK EBOK

by Unknown

  Pusko stood in the large assembly hall and looked out over the assembled men and women. He could actually care less about their motivation. He needed them at the front, but he felt a rousing speech might help. “Soldiers of the Motherland. You are the pride and hope of our nation. Russia is now engaged in a war against the aggressive efforts of the European allied nations and the United States. They would enslave our Russian peoples and force us to bend to their will. They would sweep in and take away the great heritage and history that is Russia. They would take away from us all the things we have strived to do in our new Russia. But we will not let this happen! You are the ones who will thwart their efforts and aims. Tomorrow you will begin your journey to take back what is ours and preserve the Russia we all know and love. You will join your brothers and sisters in arms to drive the Allies away…”

  The shot echoed through the large assembly hall and Pusko suddenly stopped speaking. A growing red stain appeared in the center of his chest as he looked down in amazement. Pusko tried to speak, but nothing but blood came from his lips. He slumped and dropped to the floor as the men on the stage tried to get out of the way. Several more shots were fired and a number of officers on the platform were killed.

  Now everyone in the hall began scrambling for the doors. There were screams and shouts as the people stampeded in every direction. Outside, several batches of new conscripts were huddled outside a building when they saw the doors to the assembly hall fly open and people cascade out. Most didn’t stop running. Security police appeared in their vehicles and made their way inside. It was too late. Pusko was dead along with the commanding general of the base and several senior officers. Searching the building, the security teams found nothing except a printed notice urging the soldiers to revolt. Next to it was one of the printed notices of the day’s event. Pusko’s name had been marked through.

  Moscow

  The Patriarch looked over the message and let out a sigh. “Evil would destroy the world,” he said softly. He looked up at the young priest who brought the message. “You are sure this has happened?”

  The young man nodded. “Yes, Holy Father. It came from someone we trust in the military and has been confirmed by another trusted son. Even the American radio station has been proclaiming it to the world. I believe the Americans are crying out to our people not to let this thing happen,” he said.

  The Patriarch nodded. “Please sit, my son,” he said offering a chair. The young priest sat down and noticed the Patriarch go into prayer. He bowed his head and remained silent. After a few minutes the Patriarch stirred. He looked at the priest and saw his questioning face. He then smiled and placed a hand on the young man’s arm. “It is always good to pray before making a decision,” he said. “Now, go and rouse the staff. What you are hearing on the radio, I believe is the voice of God. Our Father is telling us it is time to act. We must get the word to our people. We meet in Moscow Monday next on Red Square. I will be there to lead our flock beginning at nine a.m.,” he said determined. “That should give everyone time to be ready.”

  “But Holy Father, they are looking for you,” he said in a concerned manner.

  Again the Patriarch smiled. “And they shall find me. The church shall rise up and I will be there with our people,” he said softly. “Now go and make preparations.”

  The young priest scurried from the room as Patriarch Gregory sat back and closed his eyes. Once again he felt the warm glow of satisfaction as it coursed through him. God was calling and he and all Russians of Faith would answer that call.

  Bulyzhino, Russia

  The special trucks pulled into the nuclear weapons storage facility with heavy guards. They were met at the gate and escorted to bunker number 12 where the artillery weapons had been stored. Already the large caliber guns had been sent to the border for use. The shells were the last piece of the plan to blast a corridor through the Allied lines and make their way to the English Channel. The men were tired and on edge. The Allied aircraft were everywhere and none of them even expected to make it this far. Each truck had arrived via a different route to avoid attention. They had been on the road for several days without stop except for fuel. There would still be another 24 hour drive just to get the shells to their destinations.

  The arsenal personnel were taking their time. No one ever wanted to handle these weapons. The thought of dropping one was unthinkable, even though their superiors had told them it wouldn’t go off. The first truck backed up to the large heavy steel door and the lift gate was hydraulically lowered. The men stepped back.

  Two men went forward with sets of keys to unlock the bunker. First there was a combination lock, which was dialed in, then two men tried to insert their keys. For some reason, the keys wouldn’t fit in the hole. Checking again, the men tried several times, but nothing worked. Upon closer inspection, it appeared there was something in the keyhole itself. One of the men pulled out a small penknife and tried to pry the object out. A small piece of semi-clear plastic chipped off into the man’s hand.

  “It’s epoxy,” he exclaimed.

  An officer ran forward and examined the chip and the two locks. “We have to get this open,” he said firmly.

  “Colonel, this is ten inch thick armored steel. The hinges are on the inside. It would take a welder over a week just to cut through it, much less open these doors. Perhaps we should try another bunker,” one of the men suggested.

  The men and trucks went to bunker 23. The same epoxy was in those locks as well. The colonel jumped in his car and went around to all the adjacent bunkers. They too had been epoxied shut. He returned and ordered his men back to the administration building. He called the arsenal at Zhukovka where another stockpile of the shells was stored. After a quick check, they found the same thing had happened there as well. It would be a while before Russia would be able to access its tactical weapons.

  The large 8-inch guns used to fire the shells were having their own difficulties. Spring was in the air and the melting snow and rains turned some of the roads into soup. That in itself was not so much of a problem as the people. As the weather had warmed, the people along the borders had decided they needed to leave their homes to escape the coming battles along the border. There was no fuel for their cars or trucks, so they had loaded their belongings onto wooden carts, fashioning them out of whatever rolling stock they had. Like pictures of refugees from the Second World War, the people began filling the streets and highways in long lines headed away from the border. The elderly and small children rode the carts with baggage and a few sticks of furniture while the others walked, pushing the carts along the way. There were so many people they clogged the roads in each direction. Trucks pulling the huge guns had to stop. To leave the road meant getting into the mud and getting bogged down till summer. So the trucks stopped, hoping that by evening, the lines would go away. It didn’t happen. The people didn’t want to get into the mud either, so they camped on the hard surface of the road. Allied planes saw the artillery pieces, but left them alone. They weren’t going anywhere and there was no desire to harm the people fleeing for their lives.

  Berlin

  After a week of what the Americans called ‘brainstorming,’ the group elected Petyr to write the manual on drone operations. There was only one problem. Although Petyr had become quite fluent in speaking and reading English, writing a technical manual in the language was a little beyond his capabilities. Instead, he wrote the manual in Polish. The deadline was approaching, so Petyr spent forty eight hours fleshing out the document. By the time he was finished, the manual was some fifty pages long, not including the photos, diagrams and other graphics.

  After sending up a request for a translator, a young American was detailed to the office. He didn’t make a great impression. His uniform looked like he had slept in it, and his attitude matched the uniform. Ricks and Petyr had been sitting in the office going over last minute selections for the graphics when the corporal entered the office, slapped down a small stack of books and said
, “Okay, I’m your translator. What do you guys need me to do?” You could tell by his attitude that he could care less for the job.

  Petyr looked over at Ricks and shrugged. Ricks returned to his work while Petyr motioned toward the computer where the manuscript had been stored. “We need to have this manuscript translated from Polish to English so that it can be distributed to the Allied armies. I need you to get this done by day after tomorrow,” said Petyr.

  The corporal looked the document over. “Fifty pages? In two eight hour days? Whose brilliant idea was to write this thing in Polish anyway?” he groused.

  Petyr looked at the man. “It makes no difference. Get it done in the time frame we set out,” he said calmly.

  The corporal turned in his seat and looked at the screen. “See if he gets it in two days. He’s not even an American,” he muttered under his breath.

  Ricks heard the remark and was about to say something when Petyr opened up. He reached down and jerked the seat back so the man was facing him. That was when Ricks found out that Petyr had picked up a lot of extra language while working with the Americans.

  “Corporal, I didn’t ask you, I told you. You are talking two eight hour days, well I’ve been writing this shit for forty eight hours straight. So you better have that complete in two days or I’ll shove my boot so far up your ass it will leave in imprint on the back of your tongue,” he growled.

  The corporal turned and began working rapidly as Petyr turned and grinned at Ricks. “Now I guess I can go get some sleep,” he said.

  Ricks held up his hand. “Hang on a few minutes. A friend of mine is coming down and wants to meet you,” he said.

  Petyr’s eyebrows lifted and he gave a tired look. “I may not stay awake.”

  There was a knock at the door and Roger Hammond stepped into the room. Both men came to attention and saluted, but Hammond extended his hand to Ricks. “Good to see you, Master Sergeant.”

  Hammond turned and saw a stunned look on Petyr’s face. He smiled and extended his hand to him as well. “You must be Sergeant Kursov,” he said. “We’ve been hearing a lot about you.”

  Petyr shook his hand, still too stunned to speak. “Yes, sir, I’m Petyr Kursov,” he stammered.

  “Thanks for working so hard on this project. Have you met General Pol?”

  Pol had followed Hammond into the room. He was gratified to see a very professional looking young man standing before him. “Sergeant Kursov, you have made the Army of Poland proud,” he said.

  “Me?”

  Pol almost laughed. “You’ve turned out to be one of the best people we have in the drone program. You have been an effective leader and have come up with a number of innovations on the use of military drones. We especially like your ideas on taking prisoners. I hope you got that down in your operations manual,” he said.

  “Yes, sir,” said Petyr.

  “Good. Now, while the Admiral and Master Sergeant talk, let’s sit down for a few minutes,” Pol said. He led Petyr to the opposite side of the room and sat in two seats. “Sergeant, I know you have only just turned eighteen, but I was wondering if you had plans for after the war,” Pol said quietly.

  “Well, sir, I wanted to go to the university. I am interested in biology, but after all I’ve been through I am thinking more about becoming a doctor. After all this killing, I feel like I need to do some healing to make up for it,” Petyr said.

  “That is a fine thing,” said Pol, “but might you be interested in staying in the Army? We might be interested in making you an officer.”

  “I’m not sure, sir. I appreciate the offer, but I also have someone I want to marry. I don’t know if I could give my career the kind of attention I have to give it now.”

  Pol smiled. That was an answer far above a mere sergeant. “Just remember that in peacetime, the work is not nearly as intense. Besides, the Polish Army has doctors too. Think about it and let me know. If you decide to stay, I can make sure all your education is taken care of,” he said.

  “I appreciate that, sir.”

  Pol reached into his pocket. He handed over two rank insignia for Technical Sergeant. “Now put these on. You are doing an amazing job. When this is over, come and we will talk,” he said with a smile.

  Petyr stared at the two stripes on the insignia. He was already far above what he thought he would achieve. This would mean more authority and more pay – something that would come in handy when he returned home. “Thank you, General. I wasn’t expecting this, but I really do appreciate it.”

  “You do our nation proud, Sergeant. I am glad to have you with us,” Pol said.

  The two got up and went back over to Hammond and Ricks who were joking about past experiences. Hammond looked up and grinned. “General, are you ready?”

  Pol nodded and Hammond and Ricks stood. Pol turned to Petyr. “Come to attention,” he said.

  Hammond came forward and produced a rectangular box from his uniform pocket. “Sergeant Petyr Kursov. It is my distinct honor to make this presentation to you on behalf of your native Poland. For conspicuous service in the war against Russia, Poland awards you the Meritorious Service Medal. You are being singled out for your unwavering devotion to duty, skills demonstrated in a new kind of warfare, namely ground support drone operations, your superb abilities in leadership and your ability to grasp difficult situations and find intelligent and unique solutions in stressful combat situations. You have earned the admiration and respect of your superiors and fellow soldiers alike. Your actions are consistent with the highest standards of the Polish Army. We congratulate you on a job extremely well done,” Hammond said as he pinned the medal on Petyr’s chest. “In case you are wondering, your recommendation for this medal came from the officers over you, not just because you are the friend of this guy over here,” he said nodding towards Ricks. “When General Pol told me about you, I asked if I could make the presentation myself. I am proud to have you serving with me,” he said as the two turned to pose for a photograph.

  After a few more pleasantries, Hammond and Pol left the room to return to their headquarters in the next building. Petyr sat in a chair and looked at the medal on his chest. In a moment he looked up at a grinning Ricks. “But I didn’t do anything special,” he said.

  “Oh yes you did. I remember when we got started and you jumped right in, helping when needed and teaching some of the slower trainees so they would be ready. I remember you making suggestions along the way to make things run a little better. I remember watching as you led platoons of people into densely packed areas and clearing them out for our troops to follow up. I watched as you worked with others who were having problems dealing with what we were doing. These are things a much more senior person might do. They are things even officers do. These kinds of things get noticed. I noticed them and I know the Colonel noticed since he often mentioned them to me. That’s why I ask you for help. That’s why I like hanging around with you. You are special, Pete. Don’t worry about it, just keep doing it,” he said. “Now, the Admiral just told me about a great seafood place. If you can hold off sleep for another hour, we’ll go eat a bite, then you can sleep for three days if you want.”

  Petyr laughed. He shook his head. “It’s too much to take in. It’s also got me wired up. Let’s go eat,” he said.

  Ricks slapped him on the shoulder and led the young man out the door.

  Moscow

  Borodin sat down opposite Marshal Phillipe Andropov and studied the man. After Pusko’s assassination, Andropov had been the unanimous choice to be his replacement. He had never been one of Borodin’s insiders and he had a reputation of being totally honest, but he also had a reputation of getting a job done. Borodin needed that now more than anything. A drink was offered, but declined. Borodin had forgotten that the man didn’t drink at all. He might not have even been Borodin’s choice, but he needed the Army support and Andropov was their favorite. It helped that his great grandfather had once been the head of the Soviet Union. He sat, resplendent in
his uniform as Borodin looked through his service files. “Your record is impressive, Marshal Andropov. I appreciate you wanting to meet with me privately so that we can get acquainted,” Borodin said.

  “As leader of our nation you deserve to know your commanders so that you will know how we might act and how we may serve. In this case, I also wanted to tell you of some of my concerns. That way you can understand my reasoning,” Andropov said calmly.

  “I understand fully and hope we can agree on a course of action for this war. As you know, my orders continue to be to advance our army at any cost to the English Channel and to assimilate all of Europe under our control. Are you ready to carry this out?” asked Borodin.

  “I will always follow the orders of the head of our government,” said Andropov with a grin. “I still have grave concerns, which I am sure you also carry. At the present time, I am afraid we may not be able to achieve our goals. The technology of the Allies has been extremely troublesome. Our troops are frightened of their drones. I ordered the issue of shotguns to some of the troops to attempt to down some of these drones, but it would have to get very close for this and so far this has been ineffective. When we use automatic rifles we get some success, but because they use them in teams, we may get one, but another will kill the shooter before we can get another. At night it is impossible. The Allied aircraft and ships appear to be using some sort of stealth technology we do not understand. They appear to be invisible to radar. The only way we can be successful in an attack is to get close enough to see them, but by then, they have effectively eliminated the strike force in its entirety. Even their ground units seem to have this technology. But most telling is their ability to know when we move things around. They see our convoys, troop movements, air strikes, tank movements, everything we do. As a result we are attacked unmercifully. When we press in an attack, we meet little resistance, then suddenly get attacked from a different direction, or they meet us with such devastating force, our units are torn apart,” he said listing off each problem. Andropov stopped and grinned. “Of course you know all this and I do not wish to seem defeatist, but it just means we must be smarter at what we do. For example, I have ordered all supplies be delivered by individual truck. They no longer travel in convoys. As a result, our supplies are getting through. A few trucks are hit, but the rest make it. I also ordered the use of civilian trucks. The Allies won’t bomb them because they think they are feeding our population. They are a caring bunch,” he smirked.