by W. R. Benton
Seconds later the wounded Sergeant and Kusyavich's body were placed on the floor of the cargo compartment. The gunner suddenly screamed and his firing stopped. He fell back, landing on top of the body bag, the front of his shirt covered in blood.
“Taking ground fire! I repeat, the landing zone is hot and I am taking fire from the tree line.”
Taking the handset from his radioman, the Lieutenant said, “Go, go, go, Medic One.”
As the helicopter moved forward, the nose went down and the aircraft began to move into the air. Smoke, not seen before, was trailing the aircraft now and the pilot’s control panel of lights looked like a Christmas tree, lit up in greens, yellows and reds.
The Lieutenant listened to the communications between the helicopter and base.
“Uh, base, I have one dead and a wounded passenger on my helicopter. I am going to be lucky if I make it home. Wait one, Base.”
“Roger, Medic One.”
“Be advised I have two wounded crew members, too, so I request an ambulance if I make it back, over.”
“Copy, keep us informed of your condition, over.”
“Roger that, Base. Medic One, out.”
Ten tense minutes later the Lieutenant heard the chopper pilot say, “Base, I just flew over the perimeter fence and I can go no further. I am sitting this baby down at the beginning of runway two seven left, over.”
“I have alerted all emergency responders, Medic One.”
“Be advised, I am shutting down now and evacuating my aircraft at this time, out.”
Back at the ambush site, Master Sergeant Kovarov introduced himself to the Lieutenant and said, “I am Senior Sergeant Slavavich's replacement.”
Shaking hands with the Sergeant the Lieutenant said, “Just do your job, which is to keep me from getting us all killed, and we will get along fine. I am new to this, so I depend heavily on Senior Sergeants to help me keep us alive. Speak up at any time you see me make a poor decision or taking a risk we can avoid. I am learning as each day goes by so I will need your help.”
Smiling, the Master Sergeant said, “I will do that, sir. Right now, I think we need to be moving. I am sure that sniper is still very much alive.”
Back on the Russian base, the senior officers were in a long meeting with the Commander. He walked constantly now at most meetings, pacing and angry that his great plan against the partisans was having poor results. His only good news had been from Lieutenant Demian and his cell. While the many cells had enemy body counts, most lost more Russians than they had American bodies, or just a couple less. His average, so intelligence said, was 1.5 Americans for every killed Russian, thanks to the Lieutenant or his losses would really look bad to Moscow.
The pager in his pocket went off and, glancing at it, the short note read, “Moscow on the line for you, and General Shepkin Lev Vyacheslavovich is holding, sir.” Unlike most officers, Ippolit did not like or use cell phones. He was much more comfortable using a pager and carrying a radio that allowed him to communicate with aircraft, base or any other commander under his command.
“Gentlemen, I must leave, but stress to your leaders in the field. I want more American bodies and they'd damned sure better find me some. I have a call from Moscow, so this meeting is over.” he said and then moved to his office.
When he entered, his secretary said, “Will you take it here or in your office, sir?”
“My office.”
He walked to his desk, opened the drawer and pulled out a crystal glass and a quart of quality vodka. He poured the glass full, took a long sip and then picking up the phone said, “Colonel Josef Ippolit speaking, General. How may I help you today?”
“What is this I hear of a new offensive you have going against the partisans, Josef?”
“Yes, sir, I have broken my units down to squad size and most of my troops are in the field right now. As of this morning, I have over 340 Americans killed and less than 200 Russians. It will take time for my leaders in the bush to adjust to this new method of killing our enemies.”
“Good, very good, and if you keep it up a star will be waiting for you when you return to Moscow. Has any progress been made finding or killing the American Williamson?”
“Our agent took a shot at him, took off part of his ear, but was then arrested and hanged, according to our verified sources. Looks like their army treats spies like we do.” He took a large drink of vodka. It was too early to be drinking, but calls from Moscow scared him half to death.
“I think you will find that universal. Keep up the good work and I will call soon with a promotion in my hand. I have to go because I have a meeting in ten minutes.”
“Call anytime, sir, and know I look forward to hearing from you again soon.” he lied, and then added, “Goodbye, sir.”
“Goodbye, Josef.” The phone went dead.
Dialing three, the number to his secretary, he said, “I am in the mood for some dictation right now.”
“I will be in just as soon as I freshen up, sir. Should I prepare for a short dictation or a long one?”
“Long, and be sure to be prepared to spend a couple of hours. Put all calls on hold.”
“Oh, yes, sir.” the twenty-one year old Private said as she smiled. Dictation was the Colonel’s code word for sex. She knew if she worked this right and kept the man smiling, she'd return to her home a Sergeant or junior officer. She was at an age where she enjoyed any sex and the Colonel had taught her many things, things she was more than willing to do to further her military career. She felt her body tingle at the thought of him taking her roughly, like he had the last two times. She stood, unbuttoned the top three buttons on her blouse and entered his private office.
“Come in, my dear, I feel my rough side coming out.”
Oh, yes, she thought as she made her way to the man.
Master Sergeant Kovarov kept a short leash on the Lieutenant, but made suggestions to the man frequently. He taught the man to stay off the trails, but walk close enough to see the pathway clearly. They found less booby traps and their rate of speed increased. During their noon meal, he made the troops pick up all their trash and carry it out so the partisans had no idea where they'd eaten. He left a camp as clean as possible and even made an effort to straighten any bent grasses. The idea, he told the young Lieutenant, was to keep his enemy guessing if they were in the area or not.
“Sir, the less sign of us they see, the more relaxed and off guard they will be when we ambush them. Nothing causes panic in troops like being ambushed when they have no idea the enemy is within miles of them.”
“Makes sense. How long have you been in the army, Master Sergeant?”
“Thirty-five years, and if I complete this tour alive I am retiring, sir. I am getting too old to walk all day carrying a full pack and weapon. I will retire to my country home and sit in a rocking chair and sip vodka all day.”
“Sounds good, the sitting all day and sipping vodka. I see some young kids enter the army and they're dead within a month, so how in the hell did you survive all those years?”
“Some of it was luck, some I am sure were acts of God, and in others I had good leadership. So take your pick. Unlike now, in the old days we were trained better, had less sophisticated weapons, and mainly did our jobs using guts and determination.”
“I understand, and it is the older sergeants like you that keep most of us alive. Nothing beats experience. We need to get moving, because I want to be about five miles further south by dusk to set up an ambush, because it is next to a trail the resistance uses frequently.” the Lieutenant said as he donned his heavy pack and unknowingly grunted.
“Getting heavier with each passing day, huh?”
“Yep, that it does, now, get the troops moving and I want them in place before dark.”
The Lieutenant handed the phone back to his radio man and said, “The Intel guys and gals think they have broken the code the resistance uses to send messages.”
Shrugging, Master Sergeant Kovarov said
, “Okay, so what does that mean to us right now?”
“If they have truly broken it, then Colonel John Williamson will be with this group moving down the trail later this evening.”
“Sonofabitch, that is good news. What I would give to capture that man! He is responsible for the death of many Russians, sir.”
Grinning, the Lieutenant said, “They would not pay you a cent of the reward, but I am sure they would promote you and make you the hero of the decade if you captured or killed him.”
Meeting the young officer’s eyes, Kovarov said, “Just being the man to take him out or capture him would be reward enough for me. He is a fine soldier and we are lucky they do not have many like him. He can be kind and considerate or as nasty as we can. Rumor has it that after we nuked one of their units in Mississippi, he carried a suitcase nuke, stolen from us, to Pearl, Mississippi and then set it off. He is personally responsible for hundreds of thousands of Russian dead, injured, and dying. He is one of the best they have and I respect him.”
“I know little of him, except tonight he may be leading this group we are to ambush. If so, let us pray we kill him.”
“I hope we take him prisoner, I really do, but strange things happen in wars. It may be you and I who end up as prisoners, or dead, and not him.”
“Or, we might end up severely injured. Have our folks eat early, go to the toilet, drink, or whatever they have to do now, before dark. Once it is dark, they are not to leave their positions for any reason. I want a fifty percent watch all night. I will be checking folks, too, and if I catch one sleeping, I will take his or her ass to court. Tonight of all nights, we have a big fish to catch and a chance to really make our unit shine brighter than all others.”
And, I will have a chance to get my hands on Colonel John Williamson. I do thank you for bringing him into my life, God!, Master Sergeant Kovarov thought. No one but the Lieutenant saw him smile.
Chapter 10
The night was cool, but hardly cold, as Colonel John Williamson and his troops moved down the well worn trail to link up with another cell so both could be resupplied. It was chilly due to a drizzling rain they'd had most of the afternoon and he worried about hypothermia and secondary illness, like colds or flu, hitting his people. While most commanders in traditional units rarely had a need to be concerned about simple illnesses, because they had better medical care, a resistance unit did. Just a run of measles or chickenpox could cause a partisan unit to be pulled from the field. A simple toothache could render a man or woman in a partisan outfit unfit, and quickly, too.
Russian choppers were heard moving around, but so far none had flown directly overhead, so John wasn't too worried about infrared detection (IR), not as long as they didn't come any closer. They had no real protection against the system, except for covering with a blanket or poncho, which would work for a few minutes. If the bird hovered overhead long enough, the screen would start to show heat leaking from whatever covered the person. It was, at best, a very temporary method of hiding from IR.
“Hold up a minute and let's take a little time to eat.” the cell leader, Isaac Brown, said as he moved a little deeper into the woods. “This way we'll not have to stop to eat until we reach camp in the morning.”
“Smart,” John said, “and I like the idea. If the choppers near us, scatter and we'll hook up down the trail a mile or so.”
They sat in a circle, their backs to each other, so they could see completely around them. Each wore NVGs and the world had a green glow. Some had the Russian rations, the Green Frogs, but others liked the Chinese rations. John liked his foods spicy, but he'd not seen hot pepper sauce in years. If he'd have had pepper sauce, then he could have eaten anything. He found the Chinese rations strange and unusual, while the Russian rations had a lot of fat and grease. When he could get them, he got the American MREs, which he loved. During the first few years of the Middle East war he ate a lot of them, only they were getting harder to find these days. He'd seen peppers and usually had a few, only he'd not been able to find any vinegar and it was a key ingredient in pepper sauce.
They were fairly silent as they ate, most scanning the countryside or occupied by thought of other places, people or times. Eating was about the only time they relaxed a bit. It was very stressful being in a resistance unit and when moving like this, there was a better than fair chance of being killed or maimed. Mines were constantly on their minds, as were booby traps or ambushes. If a person relaxed for just a second, they could be deader than hell a heart beat later.
“I got movement near the trail.” Brown whispered and lowered his food to the grasses. He pulled his rifle around and slipped the safety off.
John, sitting beside the man, placed his hand, palm open, against the Lieutenant's chest and whispered, “Don't start anything.”
The man nodded in understanding. At first all they could see was movement, then from the shades of green a man formed and he was in a Russian uniform, wearing camouflage face paint, and carrying his weapon at the ready. He was either scared or very alert, because of the way he constantly scanned the area around him, including over his head. He must have felt, smelled the food, or saw something, because he suddenly stopped. Minutes passed and then he spun around and disappeared back down the trail.
When the Lieutenant looked at John, he shrugged and said in a whisper, “I don't know why.”
“He noticed something out of place.”
John stood and said in an urgent tone, “Move, and I mean do it now. I want Fetters on point and I want us off the path. Keep the trail in sight as you move, Thomas, but stay off the trail. I want as fast a pace as you feel comfortable with, too.”
Tom Fetters was an old hand who'd been in the resistance since day one, and was the one of the best men in the unit on point. He was young, mid-twenties, thin, maybe five feet and nine inches tall. He wore a trimmed brown beard and his hair was long. He was clean and usually in good humor. His teeth were bad, so he rarely smiled. Big brown eyes conveyed his deep intelligence. He was a total professional in the field. He'd served a hitch in the army with an airborne unit, got out and went to school, where he studied history. The country fell before he graduated.
“Yes, sir.”
He was halfway through the Russian ambush before he noticed anything wrong and by then the main group was about to enter the kill zone. He'd seen one of the Russian Privates move and found himself looking right at his enemy but only with help from his NVGs. Tom fired a long burst on fully automatic as he fell with two bullets in him. He felt a hot poker go through his upper left shoulder and another struck his left leg. He dropped and crawled into the brush.
The Russian Private who had moved swore in her mind to tell no one she'd moved and busted the ambush. The Master Sergeant would see her shot. This ambush he wanted badly for some reason.
“Shit.” John said when the firing started. He saw Tom go down and he turned and had his people move off the trail and head due west, 90 degrees from the old direction. He needed some distance between him and the Russians. He had them in front and behind him. He knew Tom would catch up if he wasn't captured or killed, because he was an old trooper.
They moved at a slow trot and covered well over a mile before John said, “Take five minutes to rest and we'll walk for a bit.” Running or trotting with a 60-70 pound pack was no easy matter and most of them were gasping for breath.
“W . . . what happened . . . happened . . . back there?” Lieutenant Brown asked, as he gasped for breath.
“ T . . . Thomas spoiled . . .spoiled a Russian ambush . . . is what happened.” John said.
“Where is he?”
“I saw him go down, but I'm not . . . sure if he was hit or not.” John was cooling down some from the run now and was slowly regaining his breath.
“Will he know where . . . to find us now?”
“I don't think so, because I . . . just moved in a direction I prayed there were no Russians. He does know that typically, in a situation like this, a 90 d
egree escape route is our only option. He's experienced, so he'll make it back, if he can.”
“He's a good man to have around.”
“That he is. We'll know in a day or so if he survived the ambush.”
Since most were breathing normally now, Brown said, “Let's move, and I want Mary on point and James, you are our drag man.”
After they'd covered about a mile, Lieutenant Brown asked, “Why didn't we try to get to Tom back there?”
“There are a number of reasons, but the biggest is we can't risk the whole cell for just one person, no matter who that person may be. I would have left you and would expect you to leave me. Now, sir, we need to stop talking.” John said and then winked.
If he wasn't killed or captured, Tom will make it back, John thought as he adjusted his pack straps.
Once the shock of being fired at and hit wore off, Tom continued crawling deeper into the woods. Growing up a hunter, then serving with an airborne unit, he was well trained and knew how to camouflage himself well, but he was bleeding hard. He pulled a bandage from his personal first aid kit and treated both wounds. No longer being able to track his blood trail would make it more difficult for the Russians.
After crawling as fast as he could for almost a mile, he covered himself with leaves, and waited for the Russians to come. He must have passed out for a while, because he was too scared to fall asleep, but then he heard voices in Russian. He remained still, knowing his face paint would make if hard for them to find him, especially at night. While NVGs allowed the wearer to see almost as well as during the day, a well camouflaged person was hard enough to see even in daylight.
He spotted two soldiers moving toward him. One looked to be a female, but if not, he was a very young trooper.