Red Thunder (Winds of War Book 4)

by William C. Dietz

  Once the tour was over, he went down the stairs one-by-one. Left foot, right foot, left foot. It hurt less that way. Then Yeltsin went out onto the porch to clear the smell from his nasal passages.

  A loud chorus of moos could be heard from out back. That’s where the barn was. A private stood guard. “Why are they making so much noise?” Yeltsin demanded.

  “The cows want to be milked, sir,” the soldier replied. “Chances are that it’s been more than a day since the farmer milked them.”

  Yeltsin eyed the boy. In the past, prior to the war, each able-bodied male had been required to spend 12 months in the military. Now women who weren’t employed in one of the defense industries had to serve too. Not for a year, but four years. The length of time that some bureaucrat thought the war would last. “Tell me son, were your raised on a farm?”

  The soldier nodded. “Yes, Comrade Major.”

  “Good. Go out back and milk those cows. There’s no reason why they should suffer.”

  Two wooden chairs sat on the porch. After settling into one of them, Yeltsin removed a case from an inner pocket, and chose a cigar. He’d been smart enough to stockpile Cuban Robustos when the war began, and steal more while fighting in Czechia (the Czech Republic).

  The retro Zippo lighter had been taken off the body of a pindo, and was inscribed with the likeness of an American Eagle, and the initials RND.

  Yeltsin rotated the cigar over the flame and savored the rich smoke. The chair creaked as he rocked back and forth. I’m going to find you cowardly bastards, he thought. And you are going to die.

  ***

  South of San Benancio, California

  The sun had set over the ridge, and the company had paused to rest, as Quinn made the rounds. No one complained. But they wouldn’t. Not to the XO. And Quinn could tell that in spite of how tired the soldiers were, they were proud, and for good reason.

  A makeshift tripod had been used to remove the engine from the bus. Roughly 60% of the bus’s metal skin had been removed. A team of volunteers had gone to work on the old crane. It took them an hour to cut the rusted brake away and free the swing arm. And that was completely unexpected.

  While designing the exercise Quinn imagined that the soldiers would climb the cliff, dig a horizontal timber into the hillside, and create a crane from scratch. But taking advantage of the existing crane was an even better idea. And a great example of what the company was capable of. But there was a great deal of work left to do. And as night fell, that work would become all the more difficult, not to mention dangerous—due to fatigue and a lack of visibility.

  But Quinn had anticipated that. The solution was stored in a trunk labeled, “Property of Major Quinn,” and secured with a padlock.

  It was twilight as she opened the trunk and motioned for Specialist Morsi to come join her. Morsi had been quiet and hesitant at first. But, once almost all of the noncoms were removed from the mix, she had become increasingly assertive. She had black hair, olive colored skin, and big eyes, “Yes, ma’am?”

  “There are ten night-vision devices stored in this trunk,” Quinn told her. “That means only ten people will be able to see clearly after the sun sets. Work with the others to decide which tasks have the highest priority and, based on that, who should receive a night vision device. Please make sure that safety is a top priority. If you think safety is being ignored tell me. Understood?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Morsi answered. “Can I ask a question?”

  “Shoot.”

  “Can the others, the ones who can’t see, sleep in shifts?”

  Quinn smiled. “Of course, they can. The objective is to drive the bus onto the base by 1800 tomorrow. Anything that supports that objective is fine. But you and the rest of the team will have to ensure that naps are allocated fairly.”

  Morsi said, “Yes ma’am,” and tossed a salute which Quinn returned.

  Work continued through the hours of darkness. The torch flared and hissed as the last sections of body work were cut away.

  After removing the motor and the gas tank from the bus, and hooking them together, the unmuffled engine coughed, caught, and began to roar.

  Shortly thereafter a cheer went up as the winch lifted the first section of body work off the ground. When it was high enough, the people operating the swing arm made use of a rope to pull the side panel into position over the so-called “landing pad.” The “catchers” were there waiting to receive it.

  Meanwhile a semicircle of fires was burning, providing light as well as some warmth for the exhausted soldiers, who took naps on the ground. And with both Flynn and McKenzie up and around, Quinn took the opportunity to grab a one-hour nap.

  The ground was hard, smoke from one of the fires was blowing her way, and the bus engine was running full tilt. I won’t be able to sleep, Quinn concluded, but I can close my eyes.

  Quinn awoke three hours later. It was dark but a ribbon of light was visible in the east. “Sorry to interrupt your well-deserved rest,” Flynn said, as he knelt at her side.

  “But the company is about to hoist the engine up to the landing pad. And everybody, other than the swing arm crew and the catchers, are going to pull on the rope. That includes you and me.”

  Quinn realized that the engine wasn’t running. She scrambled to her feet. “That’s awesome! Where do I go?”

  “Follow me,” Flynn replied. “The tires, axles, springs, shocks and linkages are up top where Corporal Jones and his men are connecting them to the chassis. Once the engine arrives the real work of putting the bus back together will begin.”

  Flynn was into the process, and every member of the company knew that, which would go a long way toward establishing confidence in his leadership. The CSM had taken charge of the hoist—and his parade ground voice could be heard loud and clear. “Grab on!” he shouted. “I will provide a countdown. And when I say ‘pull,’ put everything you have into it. Between the engine, and the transmission, we’re talking about 600 pounds. So, no slacking.

  “The next order will be ‘hold,’ which is very important. The swing arm team will need time to guide the engine into position.

  “Then, when I say ‘lower away,’ do it gently. Any questions? No? Let’s do this thing. Standby.”

  When the moment came it was almost anticlimactic. McKenzie counted, “Three, two, one, pull!” And with nearly 60 people hooked onto the rope Quinn felt very little resistance while she backed away. The main danger was that someone would trip and fall, causing others to do likewise. But that didn’t happen. And after taking three dozen steps backwards, Quinn heard the CSM yell, “Hold!”

  Now, as the first rays of the sun broke over a ridge, Quinn could see the rope. It led up from the ground to the crane’s swing arm, through a big pulley, and down to the engine and transmission. They swayed gently. Quinn knew the catchers were in control of the package, but she couldn’t see them. Were they going to land the engine-transmission on the chassis? Or on the ground? If they could drop the combo into the bus that would save a chunk of time. “Okay,” McKenzie shouted, “lower away!”

  The line skidded forward. Then, without warning, the rope went slack. “The package is in place!” McKenzie announced. “It’s on the frame and ready for hookup!”

  A loud cheer went up. Everyone knew that was the most critical moment. Yes, a great deal of work remained to be done, but the most difficult part of the task was behind them.

  Work continued through the morning as all of the remaining tools, parts, and trash was hoisted up to the top of the cliff and sorted into piles. The torch flared as sections of roof, side panels and fenders were welded into place. The result looked like something from a Mad Max movie. But appearances didn’t matter. Would the finished product carry 30 soldiers back to base? That was the objective.

  The critical test came at 14:26 when Smoker Jones started the engine, released the clutch, and drove the bus 50 feet down the dirt road. The event was greeted by cheers, hand pumps, and a chorus of enthusiastic “
Hooahs.” Two 6x6 trucks arrived shortly thereafter.

  Every member of the company wanted to ride on the bus instead of a 6x6 truck. But there wasn’t enough room. So, in the spirit of the exercise, Specialist Morsi chose the lucky passengers. And Quinn agreed with most of the soldier’s choices which, as it turned out, included a proportional number of Ukrainians.

  Once everything was loaded, and the soldiers were aboard their various vehicles, the convoy departed. Quinn and the other officers were riding in the first truck in order to let the maximum number of soldiers travel in the bus. She held her breath as the so-called “Fat Canary” bounced, waddled, swayed, rattled and creaked its way onto the paved highway.

  Would the bus make it all the way onto base? Or breakdown and rob the company of an unqualified victory? Yes, they’d still have barbeque for dinner, and drink cold beer, but it wouldn’t be the same.

  The suspense continued to build as the bus engine coughed and a piece of yellow sheet metal fell off. The vehicle’s speed fell from 30mph to 15mph, as the much-abused bus entered the city and rattled its way to Fort Ord.

  Then, a block short of the main gate, the engine quit and the Fat Canary came to a halt. Cray-Cray tried to start it, but couldn’t, and a groan was heard.

  And that was when Flynn turned in his greatest performance. With Rooney snapping photos, Flynn made his way to the back end of the bus, and began to push.

  A cheer went up as every member of the company rushed to help. And, with incredulous sentries looking on, the men and women of the 152nd Training Command pushed the ill-used school bus through the main gate, and onto the base. Cheers were heard as Flynn’s soldiers lifted him up on their shoulders. Quinn smiled. That, she thought, looks like a team.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  One-hundred and eighty-six miles east of Kyshtym, Russia

  Major Viktor Yeltsin knew where the deserters were, thanks to a suggestion from Sergeant Sacha Ivkin, and the GPS plot conducted by a nameless botanik in the Ministry of Defense. But how to get at the murdering bastards? According to Police Sergeant Gorelov, the coordinates were those of an old Soviet era commune, which had been home to a large number of peasant farmers back in the ’80s.

  Now, after the fall of the USSR in 1991, the farm belonged to a single family. And with no Intel to the contrary, Yeltsin assumed that the residents were either dead or being held hostage. The possibility of prisoners meant he couldn’t call in an airstrike on the complex of barns, workshops and dilapidated shacks.

  That meant the officer and his troops would have to clear the commune the hard way, building-by-building. Yeltsin and his men had one thing going for them however, and that was Obshcheye Moroz (General Frost), meaning the Russian winter. The foe that managed to defeat both Napoleon and Hitler.

  It was 0600 and snow had been falling for quite a while. It was about a foot deep, and coming down fast—which reduced visibility to no more than twenty feet. And that was the very thing which gave them a chance.

  Yeltsin led the way. Every step was painful. The plan called for Yeltsin’s squad to approach from the east, while Ivkin and his men positioned themselves to the north, ready to create a diversion.

  Meanwhile, screened by the snow, the heavily armed Ural Typhoon was waiting at the foot of the drive. Had Yeltsin forgotten anything? He hoped not, as a dilapidated shack appeared ahead. The roof had caved in many years before. A sure indication that the structure wasn’t occupied.

  Yeltsin approached carefully nonetheless. The Bullpup Ash-12.7 automatic assault rifle was a comforting weight in Yeltsin’s gloved hands. He rounded a corner and paused. Were there any footprints in the snow? No. And a quick check confirmed that the dwelling was empty. He murmured into the boom mike. “House with the collapsed roof, clear.”

  Yeltsin stepped into the swirling snow. He was wearing a ushanka. The fur cap had earflaps. But they were folded up so he could hear. Snow was beginning to collect on his moustache. Rather than brush it off Yeltsin kept both hands on his weapon. A voice whispered in his right ear. “Shed with the red door, clear.”

  Yeltsin led the soldiers into a long, narrow hot house. Unlike the structures he’d seen earlier this one was in good repair. Trays loaded with green plants sat atop the benches that ran along both sides of the glassed-in structure.

  Yeltsin opened an outside door and paused. Snow filtered in. And there, leading away from the hot house, were small footprints. Like those of a child. “Footprints,” Yeltsin whispered. “Follow me.”

  The tracks zigzagged as if uncertain of where to go. Then they made a beeline for what looked like an animal shed and disappeared at the door. “Gulin, cover the back.”

  Yeltsin heard two clicks by way of a reply, took up a position next to the door, and pulled it open. Belikov stood ready to fire through the opening if necessary. A cacophony of bleats was heard. Goats then. And that made sense.

  Yeltsin entered. The light was dim. The goats were milling about in stalls trying to get out.

  A pile of hay was visible in a dark corner. And, had it not been for the red rubber boot that peeked out from under the hay, Yeltsin might have ignored it. He turned to wave the others back. “Establish a perimeter. Keep your eyes peeled.”

  Slowly, so as to be as nonthreatening as possible, Yeltsin went over to kneel next to the hay. The pain was so intense he worried that he might faint. It took a moment to recover. Then he spoke to the child the way he spoke to his six-year-old daughter Annika. “My name is Viktor. I’m here to make the bad men go away. Will you speak to me?”

  There was no reply at first. Then the hay stirred and a pinched face appeared. The little boy was clearly frightened. “They shot momma. I think she’s dead. So I ran.” Tears were streaming down his cheeks.

  “That was the right thing to do,” Yeltsin said reassuringly. “How many men are there?”

  The boy looked uncertain. “Ten? Twelve? I’m not sure.”

  “Did they hurt other people? Or just your mother?”

  “They hit papa, and I heard screaming.”

  “Do you have sisters? Or cousins?”

  The boy nodded. “Da.”

  An image of the naked woman, who’d been lying on the bloodied table, flickered through Yeltsin’s mind. “Okay. One of my men is going to take you to our vehicle where you will be safe. The rest of us will stay to help your family. Do you understand?”

  The boy snuffled. “Yes, sir.”

  “Good. Belikov, take the boy to the Typhoon. But circle wide. Do you read me?”

  “Yes, sir,” Belikov replied as he approached the child. “Come on, son … Give me your hand.”

  Yeltsin stood. The pain lessened. He opened the mike. “Follow me.”

  A wind swept in from the west as Yeltsin left the protection of the goat shed. Snowflakes performed a dance and whirled away. What appeared to be the main house loomed ahead. If Yeltsin could see it, the deserters could see him. He spoke softly. “This is One. Two will open fire. Keep it low and centered on the north end of the house. Over.”

  That was important, because if Ivkin and his men aimed high, Yeltsin’s soldiers would take friendly fire.

  “Ponimal,” Ivkin replied. (Understood.) And his men began to fire.

  Their AK-74s produced a hellish racket. Yeltsin waited for the sound of return fire which, judging from the sound of it, was coming from a PKM general purpose machinegun. Yeltsin waved his men forward. “Remember the hostages!”

  The enlisted men passed Yeltsin as he limped forward. But Sergeant Galkin was there to lead them. A burly private kicked the back door open. Another fired into the kitchen beyond. Both soldiers entered. Yeltsin followed. The kitchen was a mess, but empty of people. “Kill the man on the machinegun,” Yeltsin ordered. “But watch for hostages.”

  Half the team turned right into a hall that would take them to the machinegun. “This is One,” Yeltsin said. “Stop firing on the house. Over.” Ivkin and his men obeyed.

  That was when a disheveled man step
ped out of a bathroom and fired a pistol. Yeltsin heard the bullet snap past his ear, turned, and fired a burst from the Ash-12.7. The first bullet hit the renegade crotch high. The rest climbed up to smash the deserter’s face. He fell into the room behind him. “Eight hostages,” Galkin said. “Second floor, west bedroom.”

  “Search them and check to make sure they’re legit,” Yeltsin advised. “You never know.” The chug, chug, chug of a heavy weapon could be heard from outside.

  “This is Chazov,” a voice said. “A BMP-97 is headed for the highway. It’s firing on us.”

  “Kill it,” Yeltsin replied, and made for the front door. He threw it open in time to see the all-wheel drive BMP cut across the snowfield in front of the house as it tried to reach the highway. The vehicle was armed with a 30mm 2A72 automatic cannon which was throwing shells at the Ural Typhoon. The Typhoon could take a lot of punishment. But a 30mm round hit the top mounted machinegun, killed the operator, and left the vehicle toothless.

  But not private Losev, who was outside of the vehicle, peering through the sight of a 40mm RPG-7. He fired and the rocket propelled grenade streaked toward the spot where the BMP was headed and scored a direct hit. There was the sound of a report followed by a red explosion. Once the smoke cleared, Yeltsin saw that the vehicle had stopped. A man climbed out and raised his hands. Sniper Dima Kozar had emerged from the house by then. Yeltsin pointed to the deserter. “Shoot that man.”

  Kozar had been upstairs, had seen the little girl who’d been chained to the bed, and heard her sobs. The rifle came up in one smooth motion and seemed to fire itself. The deserter collapsed. Flakes continued to fall. And, within a matter of minutes, the body disappeared.

  ***

  Aboard a C-5 Galaxy, over the Allied occupied Czech Republic