Red Thunder (Winds of War Book 4)

by William C. Dietz

“Because their CO doesn’t have any reserves,” Quinn concluded.

  Hiller nodded. “Yes, ma’am. That’s my guess.”

  “Tell me about the control tower,” Quinn said.

  Hiller wrapped her fingers around the metal cup to keep them warm. “There are at least two soldiers up top,” Hiller responded. “They stay inside most of the time. Every now and then one of them comes out onto the walkway for a look-see. Melnik thinks that one of them is an officer, and the other is a noncom.”

  “Why?”

  “Because rank hath privilege,” Hiller replied. “No offense intended.”

  “And none taken,” Quinn assured her. “Do they ever appear at the same time?”

  “Maybe once an hour.”

  “Could you kill both of them at the same time?”

  There was something ineffable about the look in the sniper’s bright blue eyes. “Yes.”

  “Okay,” Quinn said. “Have another cup of coffee while I pull the brain trust together.”

  The better part of half an hour was spent briefing officers and noncoms and dividing the 152nd into four teams, one for each pit. The enemy positions were staggered so they’d be less likely to fire on each other.

  The plan was to advance through the snowfall, get in close, and neutralize the pits one-by-one. Four members of the 152nd would be left in each fighting position to prevent the Ivans from taking them back.

  If everything went as planned the Allies would have control of the runway, if not the entire base, within an hour or so. Then Quinn would put out a call for help and spend all of her time worrying until a plane arrived. Meanwhile she would contact Dean and tell him to get out of Dodge on his own. That would be a hard thing to do. But he would understand.

  It took 15 minutes for the lead elements of the 152nd to get in place. And that included Quinn who wanted to take the point, but was refused by Sergeant Mahowski. “With all due respect ma’am, that’s my job. I suggest you take the 3-slot.”

  Quinn knew Mahowski was right. The point position was critical and she was rusty. The snow continued to fall as Mahowski led the column past the lights that marked the end of the runway and onto the airstrip.

  The weather wasn’t good enough to use drones. That’s what the manuals said. But Pruitt was determined to give it a try. By using a Black Hornet rather than a larger UAV the operator thought she could fly below the soupy conditions. And the gamble paid off. By flying just ahead of the column Pruitt could spot the Russians before Mahowski did and deliver a warning. “It’s time to go belly down and worm it, “she said. “Over.”

  “Is ‘worm it’ a technical term? Over.”

  “It is now. Do it. Over.”

  Without turning to look at the person behind him Mahowski held his left-hand palm out. The column came to a stop. Then, in order to get the team off the runway, Mahowski stepped off the tarmac and onto a “Green Parrot” mine. It blew his right foot off.

  The explosion was so unexpected that it took Quinn three or four seconds to process what had occurred. Then the thoughts began to flow. Now she knew why the enemy believed the fighting positions were sufficient.

  The advantage of surprise had been lost. The Russians would counterattack and the unit had a seriously injured man to care for. “Get a tourniquet on the sergeant! This is Six … Prepare to engage enemy forces. The areas to the left and right of the airstrip are mined. Stay on the runway … I repeat, stay on the runway!

  “Teams 1 and 2 will follow me. Team 3 will guard our flanks, and Team 4 will watch our six. Let’s go. Over.”

  Quinn ran without looking back. What she’d said about the Russians was true. But maybe, just maybe, the cold sleep-deprived Ivans would be slow to react. And, if the 152nd could catch the Russians while they were down in the first two pits, the Allies could inflict some serious damage. “Grenades!” Quinn shouted. “Weapons pit on the right!”

  The four-man fighting position looked like an open grave. Figures in dark uniforms were trying to turn an LMG to the north as three grenades soared over her head. Quinn heard three overlapping explosions, saw geysers of filthy snow shoot up into the air, along with what might have been body parts. Quinn used the Val automatic rifle to spray the fighting position with bullets. “Tangos down!” Quinn yelled. “Follow me!”

  Quinn saw the sudden flash of gunfire from the area ahead. They’d been lucky enough to attack the Russians in Pit 1 while they were struggling to react. Not so the Ivans in Pit 2. They were up on the runway and surging her way. “Hit the dirt!” Quinn shouted. “RPGs! Put some fire on those bastards!”

  Quinn saw a flash of light followed by a boom as an incoming weapon exploded somewhere behind her. That was followed by a cry of “Medic! We need a medic up here.”

  Quinn scrambled to her feet and began to run. The order, or versions of it, had been heard on battlefields for thousands of years: “Kill the fucking bastards!”

  The Allies collided with the Russians and all hell broke loose. All of them were dressed in the same uniforms. That made the chance of killing an ally high. But Quinn knew she’d never seen the Russian sergeant before and shot him in the face.

  Then an enemy soldier collided with her from the side, knocked Quinn’s rifle loose, and drove her to the tarmac.

  ***

  The improvised shooting stick had a Y shaped branching at one end, and was sharpened to a point at the other, so it could be driven into the ground. By lying on her back with the shooting stick between her bent legs, Hiller could rest her weapon on the device, and aim at the top of the control tower. And Melnik, who was located 50 feet away, had a similar stick.

  Of course, nothing was perfect. Snow had an unfortunate tendency to accumulate on the lens of Hiller’s scope, both snipers would be visible from the tower, and their overall situational awareness was severely impaired. A serious no-no at Fort Benning’s sniper school. Well, fuck them, Hiller thought. Theory is one thing. Getting the job done is another.

  That was the moment when Hiller heard a distant explosion, followed by a series of loud bangs, and the harsh rattle of gunfire. The snipers had a squad level frequency all to themselves. So, there was no need for the usual protocols. “The tangos will come out to see what’s going on,” Hiller predicted. “The man on the right belongs to you. Don’t miss.”

  Two dimly seen figures appeared right on cue, and made their way forward to the rail, where they raised their binoculars. As seen through the veil of softly falling snow they looked more like shadows than actual people.

  A target is a target so there was no reason to hesitate. Hiller placed the crosshairs of her scope where the man’s head should be. Then, as her right index finger began to tighten, she made some final adjustments. One for the angle and another for the breeze. The rifle thumped her shoulder and the target went down. A headshot. Hiller felt sure of it.

  The sound of a second shot came from the right. Hiller saw target 2 vanish. A miss! “Damnit.”

  “I’m sorry,” Melnik said contritely.

  “I know,” Hiller said, as she got up off the ground. “I am too. Well, come on … We’ll do it the hard way.”

  Melnik appeared out of the snow. “The hard way? What’s that?”

  “We’ll go in after him,” Hiller said. “Sling your rifle and draw your pistol.”

  “But he can shoot down at us,” the Ukrainian objected.

  “Yeah,” Hiller agreed. “That’s why you’re going up first.”

  ***

  Quinn was in deep trouble and knew it. The Russian soldier outweighed her by 60 pounds and was bull strong. Worse yet she was on her stomach, he was straddling her back, and the man’s fingers were wrapped around her throat.

  Quinn’s handgun was trapped beneath her, and the world around her was starting to fade, as she felt for the PSS pistol. Yes! There it was, hidden in her left sleeve.

  As the wrist gun came free Quinn managed to bring the weapon up past her right ear. Then she jerked the trigger, and kept jerking it, unt
il all six rounds had been expended.

  Quinn knew that at least one bullet had found its target as the fingers fell away from her throat and the weight disappeared from her back. She rolled to the right, pulled the SPS 9mm from its chest holster, and shot the Russian again.

  McKenzie appeared out of the surrounding mist to offer a helping hand. “Nice work, Major … You killed the bastard at least four times.”

  ***

  The door to the control tower was unguarded and unlocked. Hiller pulled it open and gestured for Melnik to enter. “Hug the inside wall,” she advised. “Keep your eyes up, and if you spot him, shoot the bastard six times.”

  Melnik looked scared and that was understandable given the circumstances. Pistol held high, the sniper began to climb.

  The stairs wound around the structure’s inner core. Hiller was reminded of the lighthouse her family had visited one summer. Slit-like windows pierced the outer wall and the stairs were made of metal. The suspense continued to build as Melnik advanced step-by-step and Hiller prepared to fire over the kid’s head. But, as it turned out, she didn’t have to.

  The stairway surfaced on the east side of the tower. And as Hiller arrived, she saw that a man she took to be an officer, was speaking into a mike.

  The officer turned to look at the newcomers and turned back again. Melnik aimed his pistol at the man, but removed his finger from the trigger, as Hiller grabbed his arm. “Listen to him!” she whispered. “Tell me what he says.”

  The Russian delivered another sentence, before hanging the mike on a hook, and dropping into a chair. “I am General Oleg Dedov. And you are?”

  “He said, ‘Tell my wife I love her,’” Melnik said. “Then he said, ‘I am General Oleg Dedov. And you are?’”

  “My name is Corporal Hiller,” the sniper said. “United States Army. Private Melnik belongs to the Ukrainian Free Forces.”

  Melnik translated as the officer spoke. “We are training women,” Dedov observed. “You will be sorry when they arrive on the battlefield. Russian women fought in World War II. Some were snipers.”

  “It’s going to end here you know,” Dedov added. “The high command is going to destroy the runway rather than allow you to use it.”

  “Oh, yeah?” Hiller said. “And how exactly, will they do that?”

  Dedov listened to the translation and smiled. “They refused to give me all of the missiles I requested earlier, but the situation is different now. Six cruise missiles are in the air, and headed this way.”

  After listening to the translation Hiller nodded. “Tell him thanks.”

  Melnik said “Korol Xïll raxmet ayttı.” (“Corporal Hiller said, ‘Thanks.’”)

  Melnik flinched as Hiller shot Dedov in the head. Hiller switched to the company frequency as the officer slumped to the floor … “Hiller to Six … We’re at the top of the tower. There are six, I repeat six cruise missiles inbound, all targeted for the runway. Get everyone off it now.”

  ***

  Three weapons pits down, and one to go. That’s what Quinn was thinking as Hiller’s warning arrived. Should she trust a corporal to make that kind of call? Not every corporal, but Hiller? Yes.

  “You heard her!” Quinn shouted into her mike. “Team 4 will provide security while the rest of the company prepares to exit on the west side of the runway. Remember the mine field! LMGs will be on point followed by assault weapons. Fire them into the ground to clear a path. Execute! Over.”

  “On me!” Lieutenant Salazar ordered, as he waved a soldier with a light machinegun forward. As the gunner fired short three-round bursts, Green Parrot anti-personnel mines began to explode. And when the first man ran out of ammo Salazar waved another soldier forward. “Take his place! Keep firing!”

  In the meantime, all Quinn could do was wait. When had the missiles been fired? And from where? Their lives depended on the answers and there was no way to know.

  Finally, once Teams 1, 2, and 3 were clear of what would be the blast zone, Quinn ordered 4 to follow them. Fortunately, the last group of Russian soldiers, the ones in Pit 4 were keeping their heads down, waiting to be attacked. And they would be attacked if Hiller was correct. But not by the 152nd.

  There was one last thing to attend to before Quinn could cross the mine field herself. “Charlie-One-Two, this is Six. Are you well clear of the runway? Over.”

  “This is Two,” Hiller replied. “We’re clear, and will rejoin after the boom-booms are over.”

  “Roger that,” Quinn said, as she stepped onto the well-trodden trail. “Keep your head on a swivel. We don’t know how many Ivans are lurking around. Over.”

  Hiller delivered two clicks by way of a reply.

  Concrete revetments had been constructed to shelter Shagol’s jet fighters from explosions. But they hadn’t been sufficient to protect all the planes from the B2s. Some MIG-29s seemed to be intact. Others were little more than piles of burned out slag.

  By taking shelter behind the revetments the men and women of the 152nd were fairly well protected when the roar of turbofan engines was heard. Six explosions marched the length of the recently restored runway. The ground shook as successive blast waves threw snow and shrapnel in every direction. Once the attack was over an eerie silence settled over the base. “Spread out!” Andruko ordered. “Take defensive positions.”

  It was the right thing to do. But Quinn had a feeling that if any Russians had survived the latest battle, they were in hiding and likely to stay there.

  With that in mind Quinn left the protection offered by the revetment and followed the muddy path through the minefield and back to the runway. McKenzie and two soldiers followed. Not because they’d been ordered to, but because they wanted to protect her.

  Once on the airstrip Quinn paused to take a long, slow look around. Her breath fogged the air. Snowflakes twirled. A siren bleated in the distance. Six missiles and six craters. Enough to prevent a transport plane from landing. That was the intent. And that was the result.

  So, Quinn thought bitterly. We won but we lost. Our hope, if any, lies somewhere to the south.

  Quinn turned to discover that McKenzie was standing a few feet away. “We’re going to plan B, Command Sergeant Major. We need transportation, fuel, weapons, ammo and food. Dispatch your scroungers. I want to leave in an hour.”

  McKenzie grinned. “Hoo-ah!”

  Both soldiers echoed the cry. “Hoo-ah!”

  The 152nd was still alive.

  ***

  The City of Stones, Kazakhstan

  The City of Stones had been bombed on and off around the clock. The exact purpose of the raids wasn’t clear since the government had yet to send the troops necessary to dislodge Sin Jol from its fortress. “They’re over-extended,” Abdulov claimed. “The bombings are intended to pin us down.”

  Finally, after nearly two days of waiting, Dean was going to get an audience with Caliph Jumah. Abdulov came to get him. Together they made their way through the ancient limestone fortress to the cave-like office where Aybek Karimov spent most of his time. Karimov looked up from his laptop as the men entered. “You’re on time … Good. The Caliph is a busy man. He will see you for 30 minutes and not a second more.

  “Mr. Dean, I see you are carrying a pistol. Please leave it here. You will be searched. If you are carrying other weapons surrender them as well.”

  Dean was carrying other weapons. Including a combat knife, and a set of kactet (brass knuckles), taken off a body in Ozersk.

  Karimov’s eyebrows rose as Dean placed both items on the wooden desk. “You are a violent man.”

  “Russia is a violent country,” Dean replied.

  “And the knapsack?” Karimov inquired. “What does that contain?”

  “A present for the Caliph. It’s my understanding that it’s customary to bring a gift for one’s host in Kazakhstan.”

  “Ah, you are referring to the gold bar that Abdulov told me about. That’s fine so long as there isn’t anything else in the bag.”

/>   “There isn’t.”

  “Good,” Karimov said, as he stood. “But I have to check.”

  After inspecting the pack Karimov nodded. “Please follow me.”

  Dean was accustomed to the labyrinth of tunnels by that time, but by no means a master of them, and was completely lost when they arrived at the Caliph’s quarters.

  Sin Jol had lots of enemies, including a long list of nation states, militant groups like Al-Qaeda, and Kazakhstan’s largely Russian controlled government. So, security was tight. Abdulov and Karimov were subjected to the same level of scrutiny that Dean was subjected to.

  There was even some discussion as to whether the gold bar could be used as a weapon. But, when Karimov called that idea “Absurd,” the man in charge of the checkpoint relented. “You can take the Amerïkandıq şoşqa (American pig) in now.”

  “Şığıs şığını jäne öledi” (Eat shit and die), Dean said as he passed through the checkpoint. The look of shock on the bodyguard’s face was something to see.

  Three men were seated in the waiting room, all of whom watched with envy, as the group went straight through, and into the cave beyond.

  Caliph Jumah’s office consisted of a vaguely round room, furnished with traditional Kazakh wall hangings, enough ornate chairs to seat 12 people, and colorful handcrafted carpets. Given the furnishings Dean suspected that Jumah, unlike Karimov, spent very little time on administrative matters. No, Jumah was a thought leader, a political as well as religious figure, who spent most of his energy doing deals. And a deal was what Dean needed.

  Jumah rose from his chair to come forward and shake hands. The Kazakh had thick black hair shot with gray, creases at the corners of his eyes, and a bushy beard.

  Was that a manly thing? Yes. Facial hair was a long-established feature of the Islamic “look” for men. But it was a statement too. Dean knew that beards were regarded as a sign of “radicalization” in nearby Tajikistan. And it was possible that Jumah wanted to be seen as edgy.

  “I am Caliph Jumah,” the mullah announced. “I was told that you speak our language. Is that true?”

  “It is,” Dean said in Kazakh. “My name is Daniel Dean. I’m here on behalf of the United States Government.”