Invasion

by James Rosone

  Twenty minutes into their digging, one of the Marines called out in a voice barely above a whisper, “Staff Sergeant Haverty, can you inspect our fighting position?”

  Turning to see who’d asked the question, Haverty sighed softly and rolled his eyes. Before leaving for this deployment, his squad had been assigned two newbies—young Marines fresh from boot camp. They were both eager and utterly green. This was literally their first time doing anything with their new unit, and like most people on their first day or week on the job, they were enthusiastic but completely ignorant of what they were supposed to do.

  Climbing out of his fighting position, Haverty looked down at the other rifleman he was sharing a hole with. “Finish squaring the walls while I’m checking on these cherries. Also, make sure you move more of the dirt to form a bit of a lip facing this direction here,” he directed, pointing to the most likely direction where an enemy attack would come from.

  His partner in crime just grunted in response and went back to work.

  Looking down at his watch, Haverty saw it was now 0122 hours. He really wanted to try and get some shut-eye, but he knew he had to make sure his squad was done with their work before he could even think about catching a few z’s.

  Walking over to his two greenest recruits, Haverty stood next to their fighting position and nodded in satisfaction. He knelt down so he could be heard as he whispered softly. “Not bad, grunts. Now, shift the dirt from this spot here and place it in an arch around this part of your position. If the enemy’s going to attack us, they’re going to come from that direction.” He pointed to illustrate.

  The two of them nodded at the suggestion and immediately went to work on making the adjustment. One of them looked up at him before he had a chance to move on and asked, “Staff Sergeant, do you know what our sleep rotation will be?”

  “Yeah. When everyone’s done, we’re going to stay at fifty-percent manning until half an hour before sunup. Then we’ll stand to and wait and to see what happens.” Haverty glanced at his watch again. “It looks like we’re going to get roughly four or so hours of sleep. You guys figure out how you want to break that up, but one of you has to be awake at all times. Is that understood?”

  He saw them both nod, acknowledging his instruction. Satisfied, Haverty moved down the line to check on the rest of his guys. It took him another ten minutes to verify everyone in the squad had completed their fighting holes. Before he went to find their platoon sergeant, he told his guys to start sacking out. If there were a change to their orders, he’d let them know.

  An hour later, Haverty found himself finally settling into his own fighting position, ready to sack out for the next two hours. He slipped into a deep sleep, dreaming about the new Chevy El Camino he was planning on buying in April. Haverty ran his hand across the hood of the vehicle, admiring his new chick magnet. He couldn’t wait to open that 6.2-liter 550-horsepower engine at the racetrack. Suddenly, the canary-yellow car of his dreams blew up into a million pieces in front of him. The next thing he knew, his body was being thrown across the parking lot of the Chevrolet dealership. Haverty’s eyes popped open wide as saucers as his brain registered that his body was actually being flung through the air. His arms flailed about to try and break his fall.

  Holy crap! he thought.

  He had only just realized that he was no longer dreaming when his body hit the ground a dozen feet away from his fighting position. The wind was violently knocked out of him, and he struggled to fill his lungs with air.

  Haverty lay on the ground in shock and confusion, trying to piece together what had just happened. With a fair amount of pain, he was finally able to force a gasp and take a deep breath, sending much-needed oxygen to his brain. Haverty coughed. Then he felt his body being pelted with dirt, rocks, and other debris that was raining down. Finally, his sense of hearing returned, and he was overwhelmed by the sounds of gunfire, explosions, and the screams of the Marines around him.

  What the hell is going on? he wondered.

  “Here they come!” shouted someone not far from him.

  Haverty rolled over to his side and frantically searched for his rifle. He looked to where his fighting position had been and saw his partner was lying half in the hole, and half out of it. He wasn’t moving or returning fire.

  Lifting himself up to his hands and knees, Haverty coughed a couple more times as he scrambled back to the fighting hole. Bullets kicked up dirt and rocks near him as people all around him were yelling. Someone was shouting commands; others were yelling out in pain, screaming for a corpsman.

  As Haverty approached the fighting hole, he saw his battle buddy, Lance Corporal Mendoza, still hadn’t stirred. He rolled his comrade over to see why he was still asleep. Haverty nearly threw up. Mendoza’s entire face was missing. There was just a pulverized mess of flesh, bone, and tendons where his face should’ve been.

  Brushing off what he’d just seen, Haverty found his M27 still leaning against the side of the fighting hole, right where he had left it when he’d fallen asleep. He crawled in and grabbed it. Positioning himself to face the attackers, Haverty brought his rifle to his shoulder and looked for something to shoot.

  “They’re breaching the right flank!” shouted Gunnery Sergeant Mann over their internal platoon coms. “Haverty! Get your damn squad over here now!” he screamed.

  Haverty snapped himself out of the fog his mind was still in from the concussion of his fall. He turned to his left and yelled out, “Second squad! On me!” Then he jumped out of his fighting hole and ran down the right side of their platoon’s position to where Gunny Mann was calling for him.

  As he came around the slight rise in the hill, he saw Gunnery Sergeant Mann with maybe six other Marines doing their best to try and hold their position against what had to be more than thirty enemy soldiers trying to bum rush them through a hole in the perimeter fence.

  Raising his rifle to his shoulder as he ran toward them, Haverty squeezed off rounds at a rapid clip as he flicked the selector switch from semiauto to full auto. Enemy soldiers started dropping left and right. Once Haverty reached Mann’s position, he jumped into a fighting hole that was currently occupied by two dead Marines. He dropped his spent magazine, reached into his MOLLE gear on the front of his IBA, slapped a fresh magazine in place, and hit the bolt release.

  One of the Marines in his squad who had been running just behind him and to his left dropped down to a knee as he raised his M240 Golf to his shoulder and fired off a string of rounds. He cut down a dozen or more attackers who were nearly on top of Gunnery Sergeant Mann’s position.

  Several of their LAV-25 A3s roared up behind them, opening fire on the attackers with their 25mm chain guns and ripping the remaining enemy soldiers apart. As the LAVs advanced closer to their position, they continued to light up the enemy soldiers with their 25mm chain guns and started using their crew-served M240 machine guns. Marines began piling out of the rear hatches of the LAVs, adding their own firepower to the melee being unleashed on the enemy. Then, as abruptly as the attack had started, it ended.

  Lying before the Marines was a carpet of dead bodies. Before anyone could figure out what had happened, artillery guns from further back inside the base fired at some unseen target. Then the Marines’ mortar teams pounded the enemy positions a few kilometers away from the perimeter fence.

  Gunnery Sergeant Mann stood up in his fighting hole and barked obscenity-laden orders to the remaining survivors of their platoon. The LAVs and a newly arrived platoon of M1 Abrams battle tanks lurched forward, pushing past the perimeter of the base as they sought to hunt down any further enemy units still lurking nearby.

  The armored vehicles pushed past their positions, driving over the dead bodies of the attackers. Although they could all hear the morbid sound of bones being crushed, Gunny Mann was completely unfazed. “Form up and follow me!” he ordered.

  The enemy might have gotten the first punch in, but the Marines were about to deliver a series of body blows that woul
d knock the Cubans, Russians, and Venezuelans out of the war.

  *******

  Boquerón, Puerto Rico

  Colonel Popov of Russia’s 61st Naval Infantry Brigade stood on the rear deck of the Petr Morgunov landing assault ship. He watched as the last of his landing force of naval infantry disembarked from the ship to head for shore. Sighing, he pulled another cigarette out of his breast pocket and proceeded to light it. Taking a long pull, he watched as the red embers lit up the tobacco.

  “You aren’t going ashore with your men?” inquired a naval officer who’d walked up behind him.

  Turning to see who had asked the question, Popov just shrugged when he saw it was the ship’s captain. “They will secure the beachhead. Then I’ll transfer my headquarters to shore. For right now, I can communicate better with my brigade from here than I can in a BTR.”

  The captain nodded. The two stood there in silence for a few minutes as they watched the amphibious assault ships begin to turn toward the shore. It was still dark, and the sea was calm. Some lights were emanating from the buildings on land, but largely it was dark and quiet.

  “You know, in a couple of hours, it’s going to be very busy on land,” the captain commented.

  “Da. The sun will be up, and the islanders will wake up to find a brigade of Russian naval infantry have occupied their little island.”

  “Once your equipment and stores have been fully offloaded, I’ve been instructed to head back to Port of La Guaira.”

  “Da. I know,” Colonel Popov said. “Just make sure those Venezuelans don’t cheat you out of our supplies and your sailors don’t get cold feet and want to stay in port. My men are going to need those provisions.” He fixed his naval counterpart with an icy stare.

  The captain nodded. “My little flotilla will return in a week,” he assured. The plan was to drop the two brigades of Russian naval infantry off in Puerto Rico and the Dominican Republic and let them create yet another thorn in the side for the Americans to deal with.

  Taking another pull on his cigarette, Colonel Popov looked at the steely-eyed naval captain. “The Americans can’t be everywhere at once. Don’t worry, comrade—your ships will be fine.”

  The captain grunted at the assurance. “You know most of the Northern Fleet is at the bottom of the ocean, don’t you?”

  Popov snickered. “And so is a third of the US Navy, comrade. Let’s not forget that. Just do your job, and we’ll do ours. Don’t abandon me and my men, OK? I need the rest of that equipment, or I won’t be able to hold the island for very long.”

  The captain grunted. The Navy knew they had a critical job to perform. Once the soldiers made their landing, it was incumbent upon the Navy to then ferry over the thousands of Venezuelan soldiers who would help occupy the two islands while the Russians went to work on building up the island’s surface-to-air and antiship missile platforms. If all went according to plan, they’d turn these two islands into a hornet’s nest for the American Air Force and Navy to have to contend with.

  Chapter 5

  Northwest Passage

  January 22, 2021

  Joint Base Lewis-McChord

  I “Eye” Corps HQ

  Looking at the map, Major General Scott Stevens saw one major problem with this new offensive his boss was advocating for.

  We don’t have enough soldiers to make it happen, he realized.

  Seeing the perplexed look on his division commander’s face, Lieutenant General Andrew Biggs asked, “You’re thinking we don’t have enough manpower to make this work, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah. Pretty much, sir. My division is spread fairly thin right now, trying to protect the various naval facilities around the state and making sure the CDF forces down in Oregon don’t cause us any problems.”

  General Biggs nodded. “I can see why you’d think that, but here’s why you’re wrong.” Standing up, Biggs walked over to the map on the wall they were looking at with the disposition of their forces along with the remnants of the Canadian, Chinese, and Russian forces, as well as a smattering of militia units. Pointing to Joint Base Elmendorf–Richardson in Alaska, Biggs explained, “I spoke with General Markus the other day. He agreed with my assessment that the Russians, Chinese, and Canadians aren’t going to be a credible threat to our facilities in Alaska. As such, they’ve authorized the release of the 25th Infantry Division’s 4th Brigade Combat Team to us. They’re still going to hold the Stryker brigade in reserve, but they’ve released the airborne brigade to I Corps.”

  Smiling and nodding, Stevens replied, “Well, that does change things. How do you want to deploy them?”

  Pointing at the map again, Biggs instructed, “Your division is going to press the enemy positions around Kent, just south of Seattle. Because we’ve finally achieved air supremacy over the battlespace, I’m going to have our paratroopers conduct two airborne assaults. The first one will be at North Marysville. I’m going to have one battalion land there, placing a blocking force north of Seattle. The second battalion will land just north of Monroe, to the east of Seattle. The rest of the brigade will fly in to Ault Field, where they’ll offload the rest of their equipment and then link up with their two sister battalions. This will place an entire brigade in the enemy’s rear area, cutting off their supply lines—but more importantly—trapping them as your division advances.”

  “You’re trying to ensnare the entire enemy force, aren’t you?” Stevens asked.

  General Biggs nodded. “That’s right. If we pull this off, we’ll either capture or defeat the entire UN ground army in the Pacific Northwest. Once we’ve done that, we’ll be able to finish securing the rest of the state before we move down into Oregon and assist our Marine brothers down in California.”

  “I like it, sir. It’s bold and audacious,” Stevens remarked with satisfaction. Then it looked as if he suddenly remembered something. “Here’s my other concern, though. How are we going to handle the civilian population? Once the fighting finally ends, we need the city governments to go back to work. Right now, most of the city employees are supporting Senator Tate. How are we going to get them to recognize the current administration and do their duties and not fight us? How are we going to keep the cities from collapsing into chaos?”

  General Biggs sighed. It was well known that he did not care for politics. “I’ve brought this very problem up to General Markus. He told me Secretary Hogan’s new Federal Protective Service Force is going to start graduating six thousand new federal officers every week starting the first week of February. He’s made the argument that two thousand of these newly trained federal law enforcement personnel should be sent to Washington to support our operations. Once they arrive, it’ll give us two thousand extra bodies to help us administer the city and state governments.”

  “That’s all fine and dandy, but how is that going to help us with enforcing their cooperation?” Stevens asked. “We need the citizens there to keep basic city functions up, like collecting garbage, paying their police and fire departments, hospitals, etcetera. There are a lot of things that need to get ironed out, sir.”

  Biggs grimaced at the laundry list his division commander had just brought up.

  Stevens wondered if the general was picturing managing the crowd through the use of detention camps. There weren’t too many simple scenarios to ensure public compliance.

  General Biggs walked over to a nearby table and took a seat. He ran his fingers across his shaved scalp. “Stevens, I don’t have an answer for how we handle the political side of things. Right now, I think you and I need to focus on defeating these foreign invaders first. We can figure out how to keep the state and local governments running once we’ve accomplished that first task. Do you have any further questions for me before we move forward with this plan?”

  Stevens contemplated. “When do you want to launch this offensive?” he asked.

  “I was thinking we’d kick things off in seventy-two hours. It gives us enough time to get things moved around without tipp
ing our hand that we’re about to do something major.”

  Stevens nodded. “OK. That can work. Let me get with my brigade and battalion commanders and get them ready.” He tapped his foot nervously.

  “Was there something else?” asked Biggs.

  “I’ve been hearing there’s a militia force up in the Burlington area that’s been causing the UN all sorts of problems. Do you know any specifics on who they are?”

  General Biggs smiled mischievously. “I don’t know all the names of the people involved, but I’ve been told a handful of the local Army National Guard units that didn’t side with the governor went rogue. They’ve been carrying out hit-and-run attacks on the UN.”

  Stevens grunted. “OK. Good to know we might have some local support up there. My G2 said they appear to have a couple of effective IED builders in their group. They’ve hit the UN force with close to thirty IEDs since the start of the occupation. That’s a lot of IEDs in a short amount of time.”

  “It is. Let’s just be glad whoever is doing that is on our side.”

  *******

  Monroe, Washington

  “Six minutes,” announced the jumpmaster. Then, using the appropriate hand signal, he ordered, “Stand up.”

  Sergeant Schneider, 3rd Battalion, 509th Airborne, did as he’d been instructed.

  “Hook up!” shouted the jumpmaster. His arms were raised above his head, and his index fingers were hooked. Schneider reached for the cable, attached his static line hook, and inserted the safety pin.

  “Check equipment,” the jumpmaster instructed, slapping his chest with both hands.