The Fall of America: Fatal Encounters (Book 2)

by W. R. Benton

  “What are you thinking?” John asked, as Sandra sat by his side holding his hand.

  “I think the poster is outdated and they've grown tired of killing, because it gained them nothing. Now, it doesn't mean they've turned soft, actually just the opposite. The camps, I suspect, will be well guarded and not something we'll want to attack, unless we have an advantage in some way.”

  “What will Willy do?” Margie asked.

  “Hard to tell, because he's original in thought, but he needs this information so some of the resistance can move their families, unless it's too late.”

  “Is the group that gave you the sniper rifle coming back this way?”

  “They said they'd be back this way tomorrow, and if we needed to contact them to be close to the spot where the dirt road intersects with the pavement. Jones, the leader, said they'd be in the area a little after sunrise.”

  John said, “I know Jones, and he's a good leader. In the morning, I'll take Dolly and meet him. I'll tell him what we know and have him pass it on to Willy. Hell, we don't even know where Willy is, so we can't contact him at all.”

  “It's on purpose, so if we're captured, we can't say where the boss is hiding, don't you see?”

  “Oh, I understand easily enough, but it makes it hard to get needed intelligence to the man.”

  Tom nodded and then said, “Joshua, go relieve Kate. Oh, I hear ya, John.”

  “Sue,” Sandra said, “come to me and let me take a look at your shoulder. In the conditions we live under, it doesn't take long for an infection to occur.”

  CHAPTER 14

  Durchenko was the last man off the trail in the swamp, and he felt weak and dizzy. He'd refused to leave until his men were loaded first. Once in the chopper a medic inserted an IV and started checking his vital signs. His pain was severe and the medic gave him a shot of morphine to give him some relief. As they flew, the Master Sergeants world, gradually, grew slightly darker until he entered a deep black void.

  When he awoke, he couldn't open his eyes; they felt too heavy. A feeling of serenity filled him, so he was not scared, and soon drifted back to sleep. Then he heard metal striking metal, and his eyes still wouldn't open. He attempted to stay awake, fighting the urge to sleep, only he could not.

  When he next awoke, his eyes opened quickly enough, only he was confused. I am in a hospital, but how can that be and why? He thought.

  An attendant saw him moving, walked to his bed and said, “Master Sergeant Durchenko, can you hear me?”

  “Yes, of course, you damned fool, but why am I in a hospital?”

  “You were on a patrol when someone triggered an explosive device. Your doctor will explain your injuries to you. I understand you were a real hero, only allowing extraction after your men were all taken off first, so I suspect you will be awarded a big medal.”

  “Medals are just a piece of cloth and chunk of metal. Get my damned doctor and do it now, private, or I will climb out of this bed and beat your ass.”

  “I will get him for you, Sergeant.” The man scurried away.

  Searching his mind, he remembered no mission, but it would come with time. He leaned back and closed his eyes.

  A tall thin doctor, a major, entered reeking of alcohol and asked, “What is the problem, Master Sergeant Durchenko?”

  “Sir, I want to know the extent of my injuries, what happened, and why I am in a hospital. I remember nothing.”

  The doctor said, “According to your men you are a super hero, but the first helicopter on the scene said one of your men, while on a mission, tripped a mine. Out of the nineteen men with you, nine were killed and five more wounded, some severely. You were partly shielded by men in front of you, but the shrapnel passed through them and then into you. I'm sorry, but you have lost your right leg from the knee down. We tried to save it in the operating room, but it was mangled too badly. Your other injuries will heal, so in a few days, you will be on an airplane bound for Moscow. From there you will be presented with a medal and discharged. Since you already have enough years for retirement, you will do well enough.”

  “The leg was all I lost?”

  “That's enough, don't you think?”

  “I am just glad nothing else is missing. How are my, uh,—”

  “Your family jewels are just fine. I can assure you, the only part of you that will not be the same when you leave is the leg.”

  Durchenko started laughing.

  Glancing at the orderly, the major turned and walked from the room. Durchenko sobered, looked at the private and asked, “Do you fail to see the humor?”

  “I do not think this is funny, Sergeant.”

  “Son, men are dying here and all I lost was a leg. I get to go home, retire, and move back to the farm. Hell, I can farm with a wooden leg. I am one lucky sonofabitch, do not you think?”

  Feeling uncomfortable around the senior NCO, the orderly asked, “Will that be all, Master Sergeant?”

  “Yes, get out and go to work.”

  Now, he sounds like a normal Master Sergeant, the orderly thought as he left the room.

  It was mid afternoon when Master Sergeant Belonev entered wearing a big smile. Durchenko had just woke from a nap, but smiled at his old friend, and asked, “What brings you around?”

  “Why, I came to see what a real war hero looks like.”

  “Well, I do not feel like a hero.”

  “Colonel Vetrov said you were submitted for the Golden Vodka Award, with shot-glass, second cluster, and you know he has no sense of humor. If he says it, it's true.”

  Durchenko laughed, although it brought him pain, and said, “It is good to see you, Dmitry. It took me a couple of hours to remember the explosion, but the man who planted it was experienced. He knew most men would mark the tripwire and then step over it, which is what we did.”

  Belonev reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a pint of vodka and handed it to his friend, “Drink if you like.”

  Durchenko opened the bottle and chugged about a third of it, then handed it toward Belonev, who shook his head. “It is for you, so slip it under your mattress when you're done, because the medics will take it from you if they see it.”

  Durchenko lowered his head and said, “I lost a lot of men, good men. I heard earlier that one of the wounded died from his injuries, so I lost over half of them.” Tears began to run down his cheeks.

  “Listen, I have done the same in the past, and I once lost fifteen out of twenty. I heard you had your men removed before yourself, and that's more than most officers would do. Just that act alone makes me proud as hell to know you and call you my friend. You were thinking of your men, even when seriously hurt, and that is what makes a real leader.”

  “There will be eleven families back home that will be informed of the deaths of their sons, fathers, and husbands.”

  Putting his hands on his narrow hips, Belonev said, “Durchenko, that is enough crying and feeling sorry for yourself bullshit. You are a soldier, a brave one, so start acting like what you are. Hell, you lost a leg, so no one is calling you a coward or a poor NCO. If they do that, I'll knock them on their asses.”

  He nodded, wiped the tears from his eyes and took another gulp of his vodka.

  “I would trade places with you in a minute. You are going home and will spend the rest of your life on your farm, while I might get killed tomorrow. Relax, rest, and sip your vodka. The men who died were all soldiers and knew the risks, so forget about them.”

  “I am lucky in many ways.”

  “Sure you are, and do not be so fast to forget it either.”

  They talked for a few more minutes and then Durchenko fell into a deep sleep, due to mixing alcohol with his pain medication. Belonev took the vodka bottle raised it in a toast to his old comrade and took a sip. Just before he left the room, he pushed the bottle between Durchenko's mattress and springs.

  Colonel Pankov was wondering how a single American could kill half the men in Durchenko's group and yet escape. The war
against the resistance was going poorly, with many more dead Russians than Americans, except for the civilian executions. The mass killings had been stopped, per a request from Pankov, but the commander had given him one year to get his prison camps into action or the executions would start again.

  According to Pankov, he now had over a thousand captives and more than two hundred in the Edwards camp alone. Twenty camps were being constructed, and people locked inside as soon as the wire was strung and connected to electrical power. Electrical power was supplied at all camps by huge industrial generators. Towers were up in about half of the camps, dog teams walked the fences, and armed guards positioned at strategic locations. Vetrov thought, I am willing to bet most of what he claims that has been started has not been done, but he has one year and then I will start my execution squads again. The only thing I have actually seen with my own eyes is the wire strung at Camp Edwards and two guard towers.

  “Sir, the forecast for today is light snow, which is being pushed south by a cold front out of Canada, but it will not amount to much. Temperatures should be down in the single numbers, Celsius. I think we will have less than an inch, but the winds will blow hard and out of the west at around fifty-six kilometers an hour, with some gusts of twice that speed. There is the possibility for property damage, downed lines, and falling limbs or trees.”

  “How long will this weather last?”

  “Sir, the three day forecast is the same for each day, with maybe a couple degree difference on some days and the wind speeds will vary a little each day. In about four days the front will move on, bringing dryer and warmer weather.”

  Turning to the commander of his helicopters, Vetrov asked, “How will these winds impact your flying?”

  “May put a serious damper on our daily routine, because of the gusts, only I cannot say until the winds arrive. Then, I have to decide if the mission is critical or not and cancel any that are planned during the high wind warnings. We do have wind limits, but I will inform you at the time we have to cancel or reschedule any flights.”

  Turning to a major from operations, he said, “Get with supply and arrange additional rations, ammo and other needs, to be sent to our bases before this storm hits. Inform all bases why we are doing this and warn them of the cold front.”

  The commander of supply said, “We can support what you have requested, but they will need cold weather gear and I am short of gloves, parkas, and hats.”

  “Damn.” Vetrov said, stood and asked, “Has Moscow been informed of our cold weather needs?”

  “Yes, sir, and the shipment is due shortly, within ten days.”

  “Ten days? Colonel, this weather hits today. When was a requisition sent to headquarters and what was the priority given?”

  “Sir, I do not have that information on me now, but I'll look into it and call your office within the hour.”

  “You do that, Colonel, and you will also call your supply counterpart in Moscow and request an immediate expedite of this gear, by air. How in the hell do you and Moscow expect me to do my job, when I do not have the needed supplies? I want the winter clothing for my troops here and delivered no later than twenty-four hours from now, or you, sir, will be assigned to the infantry.”

  “Sir, I don't know if that is even poss—”

  “You heard me and I am a man of my word—twenty-four hours. Now, I want all ground patrols and searches for the resistance doubled, around the clock, once we have our winter gear. The partisans will need fires to survive and that means woodsmoke during the day. Once the bad weather passes, I want flights out at night looking for the light from these flames. If an aircraft spots a fire, take the light out with rockets, because the people on the ground will be close to the fires. Tell your pilots to use some common sense and check with us to make sure it's not a fire from one of our groups. Patrol leaders need to call in with their exact map positions, as they usually do, each night.”

  The legal officer said, “There will be finger pointing, in the event of friendly fire losses. I suspect there will be some instances of friendly fire deaths, due to the urgency of our missions.”

  “Major, you and your staff determine who is at fault in any accidents. I do not expect, and will not tolerate, long drawn out court fights over guilt. Get to the bottom of it and see justice is served, if there are any cases.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Now, I have another appointment, so that is all. Dismissed.”

  A sergeant called the room to attention and Vetrov departed.

  Sally was tired, hungry, and cold. While the sun was shining, the temperature was below freezing. The same day the Russians had killed Fred, she'd been caught when she returned to her stall to get the gold jewelry she kept in a cigar box. She was now, along with about two-hundred others, shivering in a barbed wire enclosure about twice the size of a football field. They had absolutely no shelter, no food and no water. The Russians simply locked them in the wire cage and walked away. This was her third day without water, food, shelter or a fire.

  A truck backed to the gate and men dismounted. Huge pots, the size of trashcans, were pulled from the back of the truck, placed on the ground, and Sally could see steam coming from each container. Suspecting it was hot food, she, along with the others, ran toward the gate.

  A Russian soldier yelled in thickly accented English, “Make line. You want eat, make line.”

  People fought to get into line and more than one was shoved or knocked to the ground as all wanted food before it ran out.

  The soldier yelled again, “Enough food everyone! No fight. Fight, we take food and go.”

  Fighting stopped instantly.

  “All get one cup. Keep cup. No get another cup.” The soldier said and then removed the lid to the first steaming pot.

  A soldier was handing each person a metal canteen cup as they neared the food. As she drew closer to the food, she saw each person got exactly one ladle of some kind of soup. When her turn came, she received a single ladle of watery soup, and noticed small chunks of something mixed in the broth.

  A thin and ill-looking man neared the soup containers once more, he'd already had one cup of soup.

  “You! Eat one time, no more. No eat two times.” The soldier screamed and pulled his pistol.

  “This is not enough. I need more to eat, please?” The thin man Sally only knew by Edward said as he walked toward the pot of soup.

  “No, food is for all people. Eat one time.”

  A woman walked to Edward and said, “My husband is ill and needs more to eat than the others. Please, just one cup more?”

  The pistol shot was loud and Edward gave a look of surprise as he was struck in the chest. Blood blew out his back and he collapsed to the ground screaming. His fingers clawed at the dirt as blood ran under him.

  His wife screamed madly and ran straight for the guard. The pistol barked twice, each bullet hitting her, and she fell to the ground screeching and jerking.

  “Now, no worry about husband. He finished. Never come close to gate. We shoot.” The soldier said, and then broke out laughing. He said something in Russian and the pots were placed in the back of the truck and they left the area. Each American had received one cup of watery soup.

  No one tried to help Edward or his wife, they simply walked away, except for Sally. Holding her precious soup, she squatted beside the man and knew right off he'd die. His eyes were rolled up into his head and his breathing was irregular. His fingers, no longer digging at the soil, were quivering as his central nervous system shut down.

  She moved to the woman and saw one bullet had struck her in the lower stomach and the other in the shoulder. Sally knew a little about medicine, since she'd worked in a hospital before the fall as a nurses aid, and the stomach wound was fatal. The woman suddenly gave a heartbreaking scream and arched her back in pain.

  As Sally moved past the man, only one finger was still twitching. She moved to the far corner of the camp and sat in the grass. Her soup didn't last long and s
he almost puked when she discovered a yellow chicken foot in the bottom of her cup. I need to eat this, if I can get it down. I can eat what it takes to survive, but the first chance I get, I'm running. Please, God, help me.

  She picked up the small chicken foot with her hand and placed it in her mouth. She discovered it was mostly small bones, skin, and cartilage. Sliding the bare bones through her teeth, she ate the foot, toe by toe.

  Master Sergeant Durchenko heard a visitor and when he opened his eyes, he saw Belonev standing beside his bed grinning.

  “What are you grinning about?”

  “I have news you will be leaving at some point this afternoon or tomorrow. According to the word I got, a helicopter is coming in with some winter gear and you are to leave with the aircraft when it returns to Jackson. From there, you will be loaded on an airliner and returned to Russia.”

  Durchenko grinned and asked, “Did you bring me another bottle?”

  “You know I did, but you will have to drink it all before you get on the plane in Jackson. The medical staff will confiscate it, if they see it.”

  “That's what happened to the last bottle. I was emptying it late last night and in walked the doctor. He got mad as hell and kept talking about drugs and alcohol cannot be mixed. I told him he'd never been a real soldier.”

  Belonev chuckled and said, “You know that pissed him off, right? Since they wear a uniform, they like to think they are in the military.”

  “Most need a haircut, fresh shave, and discipline. And, besides, they are not soldiers and we both know it. Of all our troops, the medical troops need the most discipline.”

  Handing a pint of vodka to his friend, Belonev said, “I have shipped all of your personal belonging to your farm. I did keep your ration book to use, figuring you will have no additional use for it. If possible, in a couple of years, I will come visit you. How would you like that?”