by Peter Nealen
“Acknowledged, Golf Lima Ten-Six,” Gene replied. He sounded even older than he looked, though that was probably largely because of the cigarettes he chain-smoked constantly, even while flying. It drove his crew chiefs nuts, but he was old enough and experienced enough that he just didn’t give a damn anymore. “We are two minutes out. I have black smoke…and I have your green smoke. Heaviest concentrations of enemy personnel?”
“In the woods to our north and in the center of town,” I replied. I was briefly tempted to just let Gene and his Dash Two level the whole town, but that was probably going to get a lot of Slovak civilians killed along with the Kosovars and Syrians. Strictly speaking, the blood would be on the militia’s hands; you don’t hide in civilian populations and then get to proclaim your innocence when the civilians get mowed down when the enemy has to go in after you. I knew that. But it still wouldn’t sit well with me to just have the birds mow down Slovak civvies if we could help it.
I wasn’t there as a peacekeeper. I was there as a hunter, doing what needed to be done. Hearts and minds didn’t matter a damn to me. Didn’t matter a damn to my team, either. Not our job. Not our concern. But there’s what’s pragmatic, and there’s what’s right.
“Roger that,” Gene replied. “Keep your heads down. Thirty seconds.”
Ten years before, AH-1Z Vipers in non-governmental hands would have been unthinkable. Times change. And Colonel Santiago had some serious connections.
Ours were painted a dark, olive green snakeskin camouflage pattern, in contrast to the Marine gray that I’d gotten used to during my Active Duty days. But they were still the same lean dragonfly shapes roaring over the hills, almost brushing the hilltops. I saw the first one before I heard it, glancing out the east-facing window in the common area.
Gene and his wingman came in fast and low, rockets stabbing from their underwing pods, streaking down on faint smoke trails to impact in the woods with bone-shaking crumps that made the mortar strikes seem like firecrackers in comparison. Shockwaves rolled over the town, shattering windows and carrying debris that smashed into walls and ceilings in billowing clouds of smoke and fragmentation. The two gunships roared overhead, so low that the snarl of their rotors shook the house around us.
In the aftermath, I could hear the low, growling buzzsaw noise of miniguns off to the east. That would be the troop carriers. They’d started as Sikorsky S-70s, the same basic airframe as the military’s old UH-60 Blackhawks. They still weren’t as fancy as the newer UH-87s, or the V-280 tilt-rotors, but they did the job. Hearing them meant that our ground reinforcements had come in with the gunships. Bradshaw’s thirty-man infantry section was prepping their LZ.
That didn’t lessen the problems we had ahead of us, but it meant that we had more options.
The M5s were still firing, the rattle and thunder of 7.62 and .50 cal fire being regularly punctuated by the much heavier and louder 50mms. They had to be tearing that end of Borinka up. I was content for the moment to stay where we were, with plenty of houses to act as cover between us and those big guns, but if they decided to start advancing, we’d have a problem.
I moved to Greg and grabbed his shoulder. “Have you still got the peacekeeper fills?” I asked.
He nodded. “Why yes friend, it just so happens that I do,” he said. I rolled my eyes. Greg’s irrepressible cheerfulness could get downright goofy at times, and never so much as in the middle of a firefight that was steadily blasting a small Slovak village to rubble.
“Contact that patrol if you can,” I said. There would be questions asked, questions that I hoped to avoid answering. If certain people found out how the Triarii ended up with up-to-the-minute US military crypto and comms plans, there would be hell to pay. But for the moment, we needed to go ahead and burn that capability, just so that we didn’t end up in a firefight with our own people.
Nominally our own people, I should probably say. There was good reason why we were referring to regular US forces as “Green” instead of “Blue.” “Green” means “allied.” “Blue” means “friendly.”
There’s a difference.
Greg swung his ruck off his back, moving toward the window and away from the hallway as the staccato thunder of 20mm cannon fire raked the hillside outside. The small arms fire on the ground had slackened somewhat. Presumably, even fanatical Islamists wanted to keep their heads down when the sky started raining fire and high-velocity metal.
“Any US forces in Borinka, this is Golf Lima Ten,” Greg called. “Any US forces in Borinka, this is Golf Lima Ten.”
He tried for several more seconds, listening and frowning a little. Finally, he twisted the dial to transmit in the open and repeated the call.
I waited, standing over him, my rifle in my hands and pointed generally toward that back door. We were out of the fight at the moment; the bad guys weren’t trying to rush the house with those Vipers overhead. If they got reinforcements, that might change, so I wasn’t relaxing. But we’d gotten a breather, between the mortars and the birds.
Greg handed me the handset. It was connected to an actual Harris PRC-152, which was why we were able to talk to the Army, despite their having newer PRC-188s. Or would have, if we were on a covered channel. The fact that he’d had to switch to transmitting in the clear didn’t bode well for our crypto source. “Doomhammer One Five,” Greg told me, unable to keep a grin off his face as he said it. I just shook my head as I took the handset. I remembered coming up with goofy, “warrior” callsigns for the company commander’s consideration in the Marine Corps. Some things never change.
“Doomhammer One Five,” I said as I keyed the handset and Greg chuckled. “This is Golf Lima Ten Six.”
“This is Doomhammer One Five,” a harried-sounding voice replied. “I take it that air is yours?”
“It is,” I replied. If not for those birds, this probably wouldn’t have been a good idea. There had been attempts to spoof American comms before. It didn’t get much play in the media—it went against the narrative of absolute American technological supremacy—but it had happened. “What’s your status?”
“We’re kind of stuck at the moment,” he replied. “I’ve got a mobility kill blocking the road behind us, and a catastrophic in front of us. We might be able to get past and push to the east, but we’re blocked to the west.”
“Casualties?” I asked.
“Just the guys in the lead vehicle,” was the reply.
I frowned at that. With the intensity of the firefight, I would have expected more than that. Unless they hadn’t dismounted before entering the village.
With a sudden sinking sensation, I was sure that was the case. It would fit with the level that training had sunk to in recent years. I’d learned tactics from the Triarii that I’d never heard of while I’d been in the Marine Corps. Basic stuff, too; the kinds of things that once you understood them, it seemed suicidal to abandon them.
One of those tactics being, you don’t go into an urban environment with armored vehicles without having infantry supporting them, rooting out the anti-tank teams hiding in the buildings and spotting the IEDs alongside the road.
“I’ve got mortar and air support for a few more minutes,” I told him. “Can you see the green smoke ahead of you?”
There was a long pause. “Negative,” he answered. “Visibility to the east is down to a few meters.”
“Push past the wreck and come east,” I told him. “We are hardpointed in the building with the green smoke out front.” I paused. “I have reinforcements coming from the east, but you’d better get dismounts out and come to us, if the west route is blocked.”
“Dismounts,” he repeated, sounding a little rattled. “Right. Dismounts.” I couldn’t see him, but he seemed to shake himself. “Golf Lima Ten Six, do you have comms with Gatekeeper?”
I frowned and glanced at Greg. “Gatekeeper?” I asked, keeping my thumb off the handset’s transmit button.
“FOB Keystone’s main TOC,” Greg answered. I nodded. This coul
d get dicey.
“Negative, Doomhammer One Five,” I replied.
There was another long pause. “I was hoping that you did,” he said. “Neither do we. That’s why we switched to open comms.”
If I hadn’t been in the middle of one of the biggest combined arms fights I’d ever seen, that would have had a lot more impact. In retrospect, it should have had a lot more impact than it did. It was the first indicator of just how badly things had gone. But I was focused on trying to get out of that hellish little village in one piece, and hopefully get the other Americans out with us.
“We can sort that out later, Doomhammer,” I said. “I suggest you get moving while I’ve still got air overhead.”
“We’re en route,” he said. The thunder of the fight had died down, and I could just hear what sounded like the squeal of tracks in the distance.
“Roger,” I answered. “If you see men with American kit in plain olive drab, hold your fire. They are friendlies. They won’t fire on you if not fired upon.”
He acknowledged, with a pretty blatant question in the tone of his voice, but I let him hang and handed the handset back to Greg. “India Quebec Five Six, Golf Lima Ten Six,” I called over my own radio.
“Send it, Deacon,” Tyler Bradshaw had been a platoon sergeant in the 173rd Airborne, once upon a time. I’d met him when I’d first joined the Triarii, and had been happy to see him again when his infantry section had been assigned as our trail element.
“We’ve got the Green Force element from the west side of town pushing to link up with us, Flat,” I said. Reportedly, Tyler had gotten his callsign from getting everything prepped for a hit, only to get into his vehicle and give the go order before discovering that his vehicle had a flat tire. “Recommend you go firm at the east side of town and wait for us. Their commander sounds a little shaky; I can only imagine what the guys on the triggers are thinking.”
“Roger that,” Bradshaw replied. “We’re setting in to cover your withdrawal. We have eyes on your position from here.”
I clicked the mic twice and turned my attention back to the outside. The enemy had backed off under the Vipers’ onslaught, but that could change at any moment. I’d seen it happen in Africa.
And elsewhere.
“Dwight, Phil, hold on the back door,” I said. “Greg, Chris, Jordan, with me.” I looked around. “Dave, keep an eye on the package.” So far, England had hardly made a sound since we’d snatched him, and he wasn’t going out of his way to join the fight, either. Given his performance so far, that might actually have been a good thing, on reflection.
The four of us headed down the stairs, passing Tony and Reuben, who fell in with us as we descended to the ground floor. We didn’t bother to re-clear it that time; Tony had had eyes on the front door the entire time, and would have cut anyone coming in in half with the Mk 48.
The green smoke grenade was burning itself out. I pulled another one out of my chest rig and popped it, tossing it against the courtyard wall. The noise of the advancing vehicles was getting louder, but they weren’t there yet, and with those boys and girls already rattled by losing a vehicle and its crew, I didn’t want to take chances.
With Tony and Reuben taking up supporting positions by the door, the rest of us pushed toward the gate.
It was open; the bad guys hadn’t closed it the last time they’d tried to rush the house. Or maybe a couple had made a run for it when we’d come pouring in and had started killing everyone with a gun. Didn’t matter. I didn’t have to pause on the way out to open it, but it also meant that we had slightly less concealment.
I crouched by the opening and eased my head out to peer down the street. It was currently deserted, the enemy having retreated to shelter. The shadow of one of Gene’s Vipers raced over the street and the buildings on the south side, as the rotors kicked the drifting smoke and dust into fantastical whorls with a deep-throated snarl.
The burning vehicle was around the curve, downhill and toward the west, but it was belching thick black smoke skyward. There might have been more smoke behind it, which probably was left over from the IED and the disabled vehicle in the rear of the formation.
I could see the questing barrel of the lead M5’s 50mm cannon ahead as the low, tracked vehicle lumbered up the street. To their credit, the Army boys had dismounts out, and though they were still keeping way too close to the track, they at least had weapons out and were scanning the buildings around them.
Not quite thoroughly enough, though. Or at least, they weren’t looking far enough out.
I saw movement above and to the south, and snapped my rifle in that direction, hoping that my movement wasn’t about to attract the wrong kind of attention from the jumpy kids in OCP camouflage, wearing way too much armor and gadgetry down the street. I steadied the scope briefly, focusing, searching the second-floor windows of the orange-painted, plastered house…
The man pointing what looked an awful lot like a Panzerfaust 3 was set back from the window; I couldn’t see much more than the tip of the warhead. I was in a bad spot. And I didn’t have comms with Doomhammer right at that moment.
“Greg,” I started to say, but Greg was already on it.
“Doomhammer One Five, Golf Lima Ten,” he called, the handset to his ear. “RPG, second floor, two o’clock!”
The turret started to move, but they were going to get hammered before they could bring that gun to bear. Without much else in the way of options, I put my reticle on the edge of the window and fired, pumping five shots as fast as I could pull the trigger through the opening. Hopefully I could at least keep his head down.
I just hoped that the mech infantry out there didn’t get the wrong idea and think I was shooting at them.
The nipple of the Panzerfaust’s warhead disappeared from the window. A moment later, the M5 surged forward, the 50mm gun traversing faster than I had expected it to, and blew a gaping hole in the wall where the window had been with a tooth-jarring concussion. Fragments, dust, and debris rained down into the street as I ducked back into the courtyard.
“Affirmative, Doomhammer One Five, that’s us,” Greg said into the radio. “We’ll come out when you come on line with us, and move to the east, out of town.” He paused. “Doomhammer says thanks,” he announced, hanging the handset back on his ruck strap.
“’Doomhammer’ needs to tell his kids to keep their eyes out and look farther away than twenty-five meters,” I muttered.
With a deep rumble and the squeal and rattle of the tracks, the lead M5 pulled up next to the gate. There were only three vehicles left; the one M5 and two Strykers. There wasn’t going to be a lot of room inside any of those vehicles.
Not that I had any intention of getting inside one of those massive rolling targets if I had the choice.
The M5 Powell looked a lot like a tank, except that it wasn’t one, not quite. It was lower to the ground than the old M2 Bradley it had replaced, and could only carry four troops in the back, but it had the 50mm cannon instead of the old 25mm Bushmaster chain gun the Brad had mounted. This one was covered in hex-pattern black, green, and brown camouflage, that stood out on the street lined with white, orange, and red buildings.
The big, angular vehicle, which couldn’t quite figure out if it was an IFV or a tank, sat and rumbled, while the commander’s hatch opened and a young-looking man wearing a commander’s helmet stuck his head out. He heaved himself up out of the hatch, revealing that he was wearing all the kit that he was required to wear on patrol, and struggled over the coaming before clambering down to the ground.
The soldier’s load seems to fluctuate with the coming and going of leadership, both civil and military. After the GWOT was thought to have sort of petered out—don’t be fooled; it didn’t—it seemed like things were starting to get a little better; the strict requirements for armor had been slackened, and the troops were allowed to lighten their load a little bit.
The Slovakia mission had changed that again. With the commanders in-country unwil
ling to risk their troops on what most Americans back home considered a sideshow, and the uneasy relationship with both the EDC countries and the locals, the rules of engagement had gone full turtle again. The young man was wearing his helmet, front, back, and side plates, neck guard, crotch guard, and even the shoulder guards that had gone out before I’d joined up. He staggered when his boots hit the ground, and he’d been riding in an armored vehicle the whole time.
Glancing around, his short-barreled M37A2 in his hands, he looked nervous. He dashed toward us, ducking into the courtyard next to me. “You Golf Lima Ten?”
“Yeah, that’s us,” I said, holding out a hand. “Deacon.”
“Sergeant Killian,” he said, grasping my hand. We were both wearing gloves, but I wasn’t going to strip mine for a handshake then and there, and apparently, neither was he. His handshake was firm enough, though he kept glancing around at us almost as nervously as he was the rest of their surroundings. We were clearly way too non-standard to be Army or Marines; we were wearing plain green fatigues under our ghillies, the birds in the air didn’t have standard Army paint schemes, and nobody in the Army was carrying LaRue OBRs as standard equipment. “Who are you guys?”
“We can discuss that later,” I said, “when we’re not in contact.” I pointed to the east. “We’ve got foot mobiles set in at the east end of town to cover our extract. Once we’re clear, we can talk.”
He stared at me for a second, but then just nodded. Apparently, pulling his ass out of the fire counted for a lot. I was sure there were going to be uncomfortable questions later. We could deal with them when the time came; I wasn’t going to leave fellow Americans high and dry in the middle of an ambush, no matter what it cost me.
“How do you want to work this?” he asked.
“I’ll bring the rest of my team down, and we’ll move out together,” I said. “The birds can cover us until we get clear of the town.”
Once again, he looked at me, and I could see the wheels turning. But he was enough of a pro that he wasn’t going to ask. Not the time, nor the place.