Within minutes, Russian and Chinese fighter jets launched from nearby aircraft carriers and joined in the fight. They immediately engaged the American fighters, attempting to provide protection for the troop transports below. Yuri watched the dogfight above, as bullets whizzed past his head like flies’ swarming around his soon to be rotting corpse.
The horrific scene of death and destruction seemed to last forever, as the transports slowly approached the United States coastline. Nearby explosions sent seawater high into the air, washing over the sides of the transport and drenching the soldiers within. After what seemed like an eternity spent in hell, Yuri heard the driver of his transport yell over his shoulder.
“Get ready!” It was almost impossible to hear the man’s voice over the screams and shrapnel that ricocheted inside of the transport.
A violent bump sent Yuri violently soaring through the air. He landed flat on his stomach, as the transport vehicle hit the beach and its large ramp dropped open. Bullets from machine gun fire sliced through the opening. The first five or six soldiers standing near the opening were instantly mowed down. Yuri suddenly realized that he was only alive because he wasn’t on his feet.
The remaining handful of soldiers onboard began to panic. Attempting to avoid the onslaught of bullets, several men climbed over the side of the transport only to drown instead. The heavy equipment strapped to their bodies was like an anchor pulling them down to the seabed below. Yuri knew that staying inside the transport was a death sentence. He quickly began to crawl over the dead bodies of his fallen comrades, occasionally using one as a body shield.
Several of the American fighter jets had begun to target the beach and the invading troops. As Yuri exited the transport, bullets sprayed the beach around him, showering him in sand. Machine guns hidden in bunkers and foxholes continued to lay down a steady barrage of fire, making it almost impossible for Yuri and the remainder of his men to advance. Suddenly there was a momentary break in heavy machine gun fire as the American soldiers reloaded.
“Cover me!” shouted Yuri, his voice muffled by thunderous cannon fire.
Lt Sasha Razin immediately did as commanded, ordering his men to lay down a steady stream of covering fire.
Yuri took a deep breath before springing from the ground in a crouched run. With bullets zipping past his head, he sprinted across the beach as quick as he could. Although the soft sand made it hard to run very fast, his adrenalin pushed him on. Blasts from artillery shells shook the earth and the barrage of gunfire mingled with the screams of the dying made it hard to focus. He ran past a soldier on his knees digging a hole in the ground with his bare hands, as though the hole could hide him from the terror around him.
Yuri quickly dove behind an abandoned armored vehicle located in the middle of the beach. He didn’t remember seeing the vehicle a moment before, but a lot of things could be missed during the chaos of battle. Although it had been destroyed by an artillery shell and was still on fire, the vehicle offered ample protection from the machine gun bunkers. As Yuri’s body hit the sand he realized that Sasha had followed directly behind him. Both men were now lying on the beach beside one another, panting heavily from the strenuous run.
“Where’s the rest of the men?” asked Sasha, looking back in the direction from which they’d just come.
Yuri followed Sasha’s gaze and found the remainder of their unit still pinned down in front of the transport vehicle. They were out in the open and easy targets.
“Move! Move! Move!” shouted Yuri, trying to coax his men off of the exposed beach, but it was too late. He watched in horror as all of the men in his command suddenly disappeared, destroyed by an air-to-ground bomb fired from one of the American F-35’s.
Down the beach about a hundred yards, Yuri watched as a transport full of hybrid soldiers hit the sand and lowered its ramp. Almost as if by command, the soldiers piled out of the transport and fired their weapons in unison. The cold and calculating gaze found on each super-soldiers face was not from lack of fear but rather from the copious amount of chemicals pumping through their veins. Bullets bounced off of their metal plated chests as they continued to advance on the American defensive positions.
Last Man Standing
World War III – Day Three
La Jolla Beach, California
Crouched in a ball at the bottom of the foxhole, First Sergeant Jesse Morgan clamped his hands over his ears, as one explosion after another showered him in sand. He could see the mouths of the soldiers around him moving, their words muffled by the roar of canon fire. The Sergeant was about to stand up, when a severed arm landed suddenly in the sand at his feet. He stared at the arm for a moment, stunned and unable to move. Blood oozed from the opening of the limb, darkening the sand beneath it. This was not the way he’d imagined spending his leave.
After securing time off with his commanding officer out of Camp Pendleton, Sgt. Morgan had planned a romantic getaway with his girlfriend Jillian. He frowned now, remembering the disappointed sound in her voice when he canceled.
“But can’t they send someone else?” She’d asked, not wanting to be alone.
“No baby, I wish,” he’d said, trying to console her. “They’re sending everyone, all leaves have been cancelled and anyone already on leave has been called back. We have to hold the beach or all is lost.”
“But I’m here all alone,” complained Jillian. “What if they get passed you? What should I do?”
“Don’t worry honey, that isn’t gonna happen,” he reassured her. “Camp Pendleton has got the best Marines in the country, no one is gonna get passed us.”
“And if they do?”
“Do you remember the Marina where my grandpa used to keep his sailboat docked?”
“The one at Mission Beach?” asked Jillian, her voice quivering.
“That’s the one. If anything goes wrong I want you to pack a light bag of essentials and meet me there.”
“But I thought your grandpa passed away?”
“He did,” answered Jesse, “but the boat’s still there. The key is in the drawer of my nightstand; make sure you don’t leave the house without it.”
That conversation had taken place two days ago and it was the last time that Jesse had spoken to Jillian. He couldn’t help but worry about her, wondering where she was and what she was doing. Staring down at the mangled arm at his feet, he was glad that she was anywhere but here. The blast from a nearby explosion knocked Jesse’s helmet from his head, landing in the pool of blood at his feet. He quickly reached down, grabbed the helmet and placed it back on his head. This time he secured the chin strap in hopes that it wouldn’t happen again.
Sgt. Morgan slowly and carefully rose from his crouched position in the foxhole. With his rifle gripped tightly in hand, he peered out through the cracks between the sand bags. His eyes widened and his mouth dropped open, as he gazed unbelievingly at the horrific spectacle before him. The bodies of dead and dying Marines were scattered across the beach and for the first time Jesse realized how glad he was that he couldn’t hear the sounds of their agonizing screams. The scene brought to mind flashes of World War II movies that he’d watched, but the reality of living in the moment was far different.
Every now and then a bullet whizzed toward his head and thudded into one of the sand bags protecting him. In the distance he could see hundreds of small ships approaching the beach and beyond them the enemy’s armada. Several flashes followed by dark puffs of smoke suddenly appeared off the port side of one of the enemy destroyers, as it fired a volley of shells on the beach. Sgt. Morgan could hear the whistle from the shells as they fell on the Marine’s defensive positions, creating craters on the beach and spewing sand high into the air.
“Here they come!” shouted one of the officers, as several transports full of soldiers hit the shoreline. “Fire!” he screamed, as the large metal doors dropped open and enemy troops flooded onto the sandy beach.
Sgt. Morgan quickly raised his rifle and took careful aim
at the nearest transport. The door of the vessel dropped open and he immediately opened fire, killing the first two men unfortunate enough to be standing in front. He continued to fire into the cluster of soldiers as they poured out of the craft and scattered along the beach, seeking any form of shelter. In an attempt to avoid the carnage within, several soldiers climbed over the side of the ship, only to disappear beneath the relentless waves of the ocean.
Avid scuba divers, Jesse and Jillian had spent many a weekend diving from this very same beach. It was one of only a few beaches where divers could enter the water from the shore without having to deal with an abundance of surfers. Because of this, Sgt. Morgan was especially familiar with this section of the coastline and he knew that the ocean floor dropped dramatically just a few yards out. He could imagine the look of panic on the soldier’s faces, as their bodies, weighed down by heavy equipment, entered the water and sank fifty feet to the ocean floor.
The roar of jets startled Jesse, as several squadrons of American fighters soared overhead and out to sea. The fighters immediately engaged the transport ships and the enemy armada. Several of the Marines standing nearby began to cheer, as an American fighter jet flew by peppering the beach with bullets and killing a dozen enemy soldiers.
Suddenly two soldiers sprang from one of the docked transports and dove headlong behind a burning, armored vehicle in the center of the beach. The remainder of the soldiers onboard hugged the ground, pinned down by machine gun fire. They too were about to make a run for it but before any of them could depart the vessel, an air-to-ground bomb dropped from an American fighter smashed into the ship, destroying both it and its cargo of enemy soldiers.
The fighting was intense. So intense that Jesse was certain that he was experiencing the last moments of his life and he would never again hold Jillian in his arms or feel the warmth of her body pressed against his. Both Marines and enemy soldiers alike were dropping like flies and it was only a matter of time before the bullet with Jesse’s name on it found its mark.
If I’m gonna die, I’m gonna die like a Marine, fighting!
Jesse began to fire rapidly into the mass of attacking soldiers. He emptied his clip and quickly replaced it with another. He’d emptied half of the new clip when he felt something metallic strike his boot. Glancing down to see what had hit him, Jesse’s heart skipped a beat. Lying half buried in the sand between his feet was a grenade!
Shit!
“Grenade!” he screamed, as he rolled out of the foxhole.
The explosion from the grenade sprayed sand all over him, covering nearly half of his body. His ears were ringing from the reverberation of the blast, as he slowly pulled himself up and onto his knees. He shook his head trying to focus and shake off the feeling of dizziness. After what seemed like minutes, but could only have been seconds, he managed to climb to his feet. He glanced around, searching for his assault rifle which lay a few feet away covered in sand. His ears still ringing, Jesse reached down and grabbed the rifle. He quickly brushed away the sand, hoping that it hadn’t clogged the weapon.
Sgt. Morgan turned and was about to climb back into the foxhole when he realized it was gone. Half of the hole was filled in with sand caused by the detonation. He could see the boots of Corporal Jones and part of Private Keever’s right leg sticking out from the sand. Jesse dropped to his knees and using the butt of his rifle, he quickly began digging the men out. Grabbing hold of Pvt. Keever’s leg he pulled with all his might. The leg suddenly broke free from the weight of the sand and Jesse found himself holding the soldier’s severed leg. He was surprised at how heavy the limb felt. Disgusted, he dropped the leg and continued digging, but it was too late. By the time he was able to pull Corporal Jones from the sand the man was dead and may have been dead all along.
A surge of emotions flooded through Jesse, as he stood there paralyzed and trembling. He felt helpless and frustrated, regret and relief. But the one emotion that became overwhelming and brought him to action, was rage.
He looked out towards the sea and the hundreds of transport ships already docked on the beach. The sight of thousands of soldiers swarming towards him didn’t cause fear, as it had before. Instead, he felt anger. Anger that these bastards had come to his home with the sole intention of taking what wasn’t theirs and killing anyone and everyone who stood in their way. He’d had enough!
About fifty yards north of Jesse’s position, a group of Russian soldiers were walking across the sandy beach in formation, firing their weapons as they went. Something was drastically different about these men. They didn’t hunker down behind objects that would provide shelter, as other soldiers did. Instead, they walked boldly into the onslaught of bullets and shrapnel, as though they held no regard for their lives. There was also something about the way they fought. It wasn’t human.
One of the strange soldiers walked up to a foxhole full of Marines, as they unloaded their weapons into the man’s chest. Although many of the bullets struck home, the man continued to advance. It appeared as if the bullets were actually bouncing off of his chest like Superman. The super-soldier stopped in front of the foxhole and unloaded his weapon into the bodies of the shocked Marines.
Climbing out of another foxhole, four Marines charged the Russian with bayonets fixed to the end of their rifles. The Russian turned to face the Marines and began to lift his weapon.
Without thinking Jesse raised his rifle and fired into the back of the Russian. He quickly unloaded the magazine, aiming at the man’s right shoulder in an attempt to disarm him. One of the bullets must have hit its mark, because the Russian suddenly dropped his gun and withdrew a large knife from the sheath strapped to his belt. Jesse began to run towards the super-soldier but he was much farther away than the four Marines who’d already reached the Russian and were engaged in hand to hand combat.
The beach was littered with bodies, as Jesse made his way towards the scuffle. His boots sank into the soft sand and the fact that he had to jump over several dead Marines slowed him down. Ignoring the bullets that whizzed past his head he pressed on, the assault rifle clenched in his hands. Forty-five yards, forty, thirty-five yards, thirty. He was about twenty-five yards away when he witnessed the Russian soldier lift one of the Marines over his head as though he were a small child and hurtle him into the ocean.
That’s impossible!
How could one man lift another so effortlessly and then toss him thirty yards into the air like throwing a baseball? It wasn’t possible. One of the Marines stabbed the Russian in his leg with the bayonet of his rifle only to have the weapon ripped from his hands and then broken in half by the super-soldier. The Marine’s eyes widened in horror, as the Russian drove the bayonet deep into his skull.
The other two Marine’s stopped and looked at one another, unsure of what to do. Jesse understood their predicament. Every fiber of his body wanted to turn and run in the other direction, yet he couldn’t. He continued to put one foot in front of the other, a Marine didn’t back down.
The two men suddenly charged the Russian in unison, as though somehow they’d silently communicated their strategy with one another. One of the Marines drove his bayonet into the super-soldier’s chest while the other jumped onto his back, attempting to choke the man into submission. Even at this distance Jesse could hear the thud of the bayonet as it struck something metallic. The Marine withdrew his rifle and stared blankly at the bayonet which was now bent at a ninety degree angle.
“The head! Shoot him in the head!” Jesse yelled with authority.
Ignoring the soldier clinging to his back, the Russian stepped towards the Marine holding the bent bayonet. The Marine dropped his rifle and quickly reached for his sidearm, but it was too late. The Russian’s hands were already on the man and struggle as he may, the Marine couldn’t break free from the super-soldier’s grip. Holding the Marine with one hand, the Russian reached up with the other and snapped the man’s neck.
Realizing that he was now alone and that choking the super-soldier had
little to no effect, the last remaining Marine reached down for his sidearm. He pressed the muzzle of his gun to the Russian’s temple and fired. The Russian’s arms dropped to his side and he fell flat on his face in the sand. The Marine quickly fired several more shots into the back of the man’s head, just to be sure.
“I did it!” he shouted, turning to face Jesse who was now only ten yards away.
“Look out!” yelled Jesse.
Before the Marine could turn around to see what Jesse was trying to warn him about, another super-soldier appeared directly behind him. The Russian immediately grabbed the Marine and lifted him into the air above his head. He then lifted his knee and brought the man down on it, back first. Jesse could hear the Marine’s back snap from the impact.
“No!” screamed Jesse, coming to a stop only a few yards away.
The Russian looked at Jesse and an evil smile formed at the corners of his mouth. He grabbed hold of the dead man’s head and ripped it free from the Marine’s body.
How is this possible?
The Russian then hurled the severed head at Jesse forcing him to duck to avoid getting hit. The detached head hadn’t even reached the ground when the Russian charged forward.
Jesse quickly raised his rifle and took careful aim at the super-soldiers head, remembering how it was the only thing that had stopped the last one. The head must somehow be the kill switch. He slowly exhaled the air in his lungs before squeezing the trigger.
Click. Nothing happened. In all of the excitement Jesse had forgotten to reload the weapon.
“Shit,” he mumbled, as the super-soldier advanced.
Jesse quickly threw his rifle at the man, hoping to slow his advance, and reached for his sidearm. The Russian casually deflected the thrown rifle with his arm, as if he were swatting at a fly. Before Jesse could bring his sidearm to bear, his enemy was upon him.
The Russian reached down and grabbed the gun from Jesse’s hand, almost taking a finger with it. With his thumb, and only his thumb, he bent the barrel of the weapon and then tossed it aside. The man’s smile transformed into a grin. He was toying with Jesse, the way a cat plays with its prey before killing it. The Russian grabbed Jesse by his shirt and lifted him into the air.
World War III Page 10