The Fall of America: Operation Hurricane (Book 8)

by W. R. Benton

  As they shook, John asked, “Major Xue, I believe, right?”

  “Correct, sir.”

  “If I read your bios correctly, Oliver, you're fluent in Russian and Xue your language is Chinese.”

  Nodding, Oliver said, “That's correct, sir.”

  “Sir, our wolves report an armed Russian patrol heading this direction.” Corporal Dodds, the units radio operator, said.

  “What's their strength?”

  “Uh, wait one, sir.” He spoke into the handset.

  “Looks to be a squad of Spetsnaz and they are on a deuce and a half truck.” Dodds said a few seconds later. “They stopped when they turned off the main road and looked at a map spread out on the truck’s hood. They then called someone on the radio. I think they are looking for us.”

  “How does Spetsnaz know about us? Did they confirm they are special forces?” Sergeant Lee, a line Sergeant, asked. Lee was of Chinese descent, but spoke little of the language. He understood much more than he could speak. His father was Chinese and his mother an African American.

  First Sergeant Norris said, “Either we have a security leak or they broke our code. The code changes daily, so don't worry bout it. And yes, Spetsnaz, they're the only Russian military that wear the blue and white stripped under-shirts.”

  “Fine, we will move to the road and engage our friends. Saddle up, we're moving to the road and setting up an ambush for some Russian Special Forces.” John ordered. Turning to his dog, he added, “Come Dolly, we have guests to meet.”

  Soon, all were in place along side the road. Claymore mines were in place, fresh face paint was applied where needed, and the partisans blended right in. Most were wearing Russian camouflage uniforms with white or yellow rags tied around the left arms about halfway from shoulder to elbow. The rags identified them as partisans. For the shorter and smaller Americans, usually women, the Chinese camouflage field uniform was worn. Few wore helmets, with most wearing berets, boonie hats, or in some cases, cowboy hats. Colonel Williams wore a brown cowboy hat with an eight inch brim that he swore by in rain or wet weather, and even hot sunny days.

  The sound of the truck was soon heard and as far as they could tell, there was only one vehicle, but then the higher pitch sound of an escort motorcycle was heard.

  Colonel Williamson pointed to his sniper and mouthed the word, 'Motorcycle,' and then pointed at the direction of the sound. The Colonel also noticed it was 06:30 and the sun was just coming up.

  Sergeant Duke nodded, knowing it was his job to take the motorcycle operator out of action. They'd discussed this prior to the mission. Most Russian motorcycles had passenger cars attached and he was to kill both people.

  When the vehicles were seen, the motorcycle was leading the truck and the transport was a standard Russian deuce and half with the canvas covering the back rolled about half way up. Three men were seen in the cab of the truck, one of which was riding shotgun.

  The motorcycle passed through the kill zone, and when the truck was right in the middle, the clackers were squeezed and two Claymore mines were exploded. The two mines threw 1400 1/8 inch steel balls toward the target at 3,995 feet a second. Screams were heard from the truck and then the partisans weapons opened up. Two shots from Sniper Duke and the motorcycle passenger fell to the mud by the road, along with the operator, who was now dead with half of his head missing.

  Two squads, or teams, of partisans shot the truck into rag dolls and when the firing stopped, moans and groans were heard coming from the vehicle. The truck was half in a ditch and leaning hard to the right. Russians, the few still alive, attempted to exit the rear of the vehicle.

  “Grenade! Fire in the hole!” someone yelled, and a Russian hand grenade was tossed near the rear of the truck. It exploded with a loud blam and the truck was on fire now, the leaking diesel having ignited. Two men rolled over the dropped tail gate, and both were engulfed in flames. One fell immediately, struck by partisan bullets, while the other walked in circles, his mind dulled by intense pain, and his confusion was almost comical if not for the fact he was burning to death. He soon dropped to his knees, where a bullet struck him in the middle of his face and knocked his head back hard, splattering the ground behind him with blood and gore. He was dead before he struck the muddy road face first.

  “Hold your fire!” John yelled, knowing most of the Russians were dead or dying. “Now, we wait a bit. Let 'em bleed some and then we'll check them.”

  Not a sound was heard except the noises from the burning truck and the moans and groans from the severely wounded and dying. Seconds later the gas tank on the truck blew, sending a fireball high into the sky. Still they waited.

  “Sergeant Lee, pick two men and check the truck out now. Kill the mortally wounded, apply first aid to those that will live, and any unhurt take as prisoners of war.”

  “Yes, sir! Smyth and Pedro, come with me.” Lee said as he slipped the safety off on his weapon.

  The three moved forward, shooting anything that moved. Two Russians were found wounded in the ditch, and after first aid was given they were searched and anything of value was taken. All weapons, ammunition, explosives, watches, and boots were taken from the dead and wounded.

  As those three searched the area around the truck, Sergeant Duke moved forward to check on the motorcycle operator. He was laying in the muddy road with half his head gone and the American quickly stripped him of all weapons and other things of use. A small writing pad and pens he carried were taken; his boots, watch and sunglasses were taken as well. His belt, message pouch, and knives were taken and all would be turned over to partisan supply folks. He wore a Spetsnaz patch and a blue and white striped tee. He then took most of the same gear from the Spetsnaz passenger, who had taken a round at the nape of his neck, and it'd blown most of his throat away.

  Two bloody men were brought to Williamson, their hands tied behind their backs, and Colonel Oliver said in Russian,“You are now our prisoners. What are your names?”

  Dolly began to growl, her hackles rose, and saliva dripped from her mouth. She didn't care much for Russians and made her dislike known. Both Russians were terrified of her. John kept a good grip on her leash.

  A tall lanky kid, no older than 18 quickly said in Russian, “I am private Nikishin Larion 'Larya' Sergeyevich and he is Private Pirozhkov Foma Rostislavovich. We are infantry men, dog handlers, attached to Spetsnaz.”

  “The others were Spetsnaz and you want me to believe you are not?” Colonel Oliver asked.

  “No, he and I are dog handlers assigned to the Special Troops to track partisans. If you look closely, our uniforms are different. Also our dogs are dead, both German Shepherds, and in the road beside the truck. What will happen to us now?”

  “Your war is over, unless the Russians decide to trade for you. You will be interrogated and then shipped to a POW camp in the South at some time in the distant future.” the Colonel replied.

  “We will not be shot here today?” Sergeyevich's tone was almost happy.

  “We no longer execute prisoners, unlike you Russians.” Major Xue said, his tone polite.

  Rostislavovich asked, “Will our parents be notified we are alive? My mother will worry about me.”

  “Russian authorities are given names of all prisoners, and you're both lucky. This time last year, we took no prisoners and maimed the wounded permanently so they could not be treated and then returned to fight us later. In your cases, you'll be treated humanely as captives.”Oliver said.

  “Private Nance!” John yelled.

  “Yo, sir?”

  “Escort our prisoners back to camp and they'd better arrive alive. If something happens to them, I'll see you are punished for their deaths. Understand?”

  “Uh, yes, suh. I've never killed a prisoner yet, but I can understand why it's done.”

  “These two are trading material. Keep them safe. Take three more men and escort all the prisoners back when we leave. They give you any trouble, beat their asses, only no killing unless t
hey try to escape.”

  “I fully understand, sir.”

  “If they start a fight with you or make a run for it, shoot to kill. Now, everyone saddle up and let's move, people. If the men in the truck had the time, I'm sure they notified their headquarters they were under attack. I want us to break up into our small cells and return to base pronto. Let's move, and do the job now.”

  The partisans began to blend into the trees as they headed home.

  Master Sergeant Kovarov, along with Junior Sergeant Denisovich and Corporal Petrovich were in sad shape. The Sergeant had pulled the two young men into the bushes right after they jumped from the rear of the truck. The older man had taken a severe wound in his left upper shoulder that hurt like hell, but he didn't want morphine because it would make him sleepy. It looked like they were the only survivors of the attack on the truck. Denisovich had lost two fingers, but had no idea how. Petrovich had been burned seriously on the left side of his body and his face was starting to blister.

  They'd made good their escape when the Americans were busy watching the truck explode and the resulting fireball. They'd moved back into the brush, where the old soldier had handed a rag to the Junior Sergeant for his bleeding finger stubs. While the finger wounds look minor, everyone knew they hurt like hell. The Sergeant wasn't surprised when the two dog handlers were taken prisoner; they were both useless, and he'd always considered them cowards.

  I need to work my way north and then east in order to return to the base safely, he thought. I have had to kick Private Sergeyevich's ass in the past, and Private Rostislavovich is little better, so to see them captured does not surprise me. I need to make sure the army knows neither went down fighting and both surrendered toward the end of the fight.

  “What next, Master Sergeant?” Petrovich asked, his pain clearly seen on his face. Of all injuries, burns were the worst in the old Sergeant’s mind.

  “We will move east to our base. Son, I would give you morphine for your burns, but I cannot. I do have some codeine pain pills that might help you some, but I have to keep you awake and moving.”

  “It is okay, Master Sergeant, and I will take a pill now if you do not mind, because I hurt.”

  “I will give you one pill now and another in 12 hours, but too many will hurt your liver. I do have a flask of vodka in my backpack you can have when we stop next. If we are able to walk to the base, it is close to ten miles. We can be there by the end of the day, if we push hard.” He pulled out his first aid kit and handed a pill to the Corporal.

  “I do not know . . . if I can . . . walk that . . . far.” Petrovich said and gave a weak smile. He then opened his canteen and washed the pill down with a sip of tepid water.

  “Do the best you can and we will see how you do. I do not want to leave you, because the Americans do not have the medical facilities we have for burns. They might consider you too much trouble and just shoot you.”

  “I will do . . . my best. I damned sure do not want to be shot, because burning hurts bad enough.”

  “Let us move, and Junior Sergeant Denisovich, I want you on point. Keep your eyes open for mines.”

  “Yes, Master Sergeant.” the Sergeant said, and moved to the front.

  At first they moved slowly, still in shock from the suddenness of the attack but after about a half an hour, they settled into their walk.

  “How is your pain level now, from one to ten?” the old Sergeant asked the Corporal at a break.

  “About a four or five. I constantly hurt, but the pill has taken the sharp edge from the pain. If I stay like this, I can walk to the base.”

  Master Sergeant Kovarov pulled a small radio from his pack and said, “Hello any Russian station, over.”

  Static was heard.

  Then, “Identify yourself please. This is Big Dog and I am a fast mover.” By saying fast mover, he meant jet aircraft.

  “I am Badger Two, over.”

  “What is your situation, Two? We have tried to reach you for almost two hours.”

  “We were ambushed and lost two as POWs to the Americans. The rest were severely injured or killed, and I have two WIA with me. We are currently escaping and evading, moving toward the base on foot, over.”

  “Uh, how badly hurt are your injured?”

  “One needs a ride out of here, due to burns over most of his body. The other man has lost two fingers and I have been shot in the left shoulder.”

  “Uh, wait one, Badger Two.”

  As they waited, the Master Sergeant hoped they would send a helicopter for them.

  “Badger Two, this is Big Dog, and we have a helicopter we will send if you will read off your map coordinates for me.”

  The coordinates were given and Big Dog said, “You are close to us, but your burn victim needs medical attention. A medical helicopter, call sign Med One, is in route, over.”

  “Copy a medical helicopter is in route. Badger Two, out.” Kovarov said and placing the radio in his pack, he moved to Petrovich and gave him a shot of morphine, knowing the man was hurting.

  A couple of minutes later, the burned man said, “Now, I feel much better. My pain is gone.”

  “Good. I wanted to give it earlier, but could not as long as we had to walk.”

  “Uh, Badger Two, this is Med One, over.” The radio squawked.

  “Go, Med One.” The Sergeant scanned the countryside as he spoke and suddenly felt an uneasiness, but he couldn't identify why he had the feeling.

  “We are five minutes from your location. On the map there is a field about 100 yards from you, to the east. Please make your way to the edge of the field. Do not move from the trees until we land, over.”

  “Uh, roger that, and out.”

  “Denisovich, I need your help moving Petrovich to a field to our east. We will place his arms around our necks and drag him if we must. I should have held off on the morphine.”

  “It is okay, Master Sergeant, he was in deep pain.” the Junior Sergeant said, and then helped his wounded friend to stand.

  They both slipped one of his arms over their shoulder, then they moved for the field. They could hear the helicopter now and so could anyone else in the area.

  “Badger Two, I will land as close to the trees where you are as I can. Be advised, we are taking some ground fire.”

  Listening closely, the men on the ground now heard gunshots, but they were off in the distance.

  The helicopter lowered until the wheels were on the ground. A crewman on the aircraft motioned for them to come, now. As they moved for the helicopter, bullet holes were seen appearing in the aluminum skin. A door gunner on the helicopter opened up and the noise was loud. Petrovich was shoved into the bird, then Denisovich climbed in. Just as the Master Sergeant was getting in, he felt a hard blow to his back and then his world turned black.

  Chapter 2

  The partisans walked to the perimeter of their base camp, gave the password, and entered. Their camp was in the middle of some huge trees in a densely wooded area. Camouflage netting completed the work, and the place was almost impossible to see from the air. Barbed wire and razor wire surrounded the facility, along with various mines, but it was much smaller than a person would think. Few worked at a unit headquarters compared to a forward operating base far from the front. This unit was surrounded by Russians and ready to pack up and leave with a minutes notice.

  The two Russian prisoners were placed in wooden boxes that reminded most of small closets, with a very small square, maybe four inches by four, cut at the top of the back wall to allow ventilation. The rooms were approximately six feet by ten, with wooden floors. It was seven feet high. There was a slot in the bottom of the door to allow a plate of food to be slid in to the prisoner. The bathroom was a one gallon can and another can the same size held their drinking water. There was a wooden bed, no mattress, and one blanket. No pillow was provided. The doors were secured by a padlock and a hasp. They would eat what the partisans ate, and that varied from day to day greatly.

 
Cynthia met John at his tent and together they sat on his cot for a bit to talk. He was still in face paint, but neither noticed. The war was such a part of their lives now that they accepted much of what others would find strange.

  “How many people did we lose?” she asked as she handed him a glass with two inches of rice whiskey.

  He kicked the drink back, felt the alcohol burn a line straight to his belly and then said, “Not a man, but we had three injured. On the way back, one man on an ATV ran off the road and overturned. Hurt his back and neck, but he's lucky it didn't kill him.” He held the glass out for another.

  “Two drinks tonight?”

  “I'm so sore, baby. My back hurts, my legs, and even my hair.” he said as Dolly neared wanting her ears scratched.

  “Hell, no wonder, you're twice the age of most of the young men and women who fight in this damned war. You should leave the missions to those officers who are younger. There's not an officer under you, including me or Captain Simmons, that can't carry out any mission you can do. Let us do our jobs.”

  Wiping his face with the dirty tee shirt he'd just slipped off, he said, “I'll seriously give it some thought. If you don't mind waiting, I'm going to shower and clean up a bit.”

  “Where else would I go? It's not like I can jump in a car and run to the mall or go see a movie. I'll be here when you're done.” She laughed, which was a sound John loved.

  John took his shaving gear and soap and moved for the showers, with Dolly in his footsteps. The showers were really just some 55 gallon barrels cut in half with holes knocked in them. The barrels acted like a sprinkler system when water was added. By pulling on a rope, the water barrel at the top pivoted and allowed water to flow into the sprinkler. The water was never warm, so fewer showers were taken in the winter when water had to be heated and all washing was done in tents. John remembered his mother calling a bath like that a 'sponge bath.' He smiled at the thought of his momma, who'd been dead for years.

  He showered, removing the face paint, and then shaved. As he combed his hair he gave thought to the big bathroom he once had in his home. It had been spacious and beautiful, compared to what he had now, but this one worked. He'd learned after a few years of war many things he took for granted before, he missed deeply now. He missed simple things, like a flushing toilet, library, movies, grocery stores, and eating out in a fancy restaurant. Those days were over and would never be back as long as a war plagued the United States. He squatted by his dog, gave her a big hug and then said, “Come, Dolly, let's get back to the tent.”