In spite of the supplies brought south from Shagol, ammo was precious. And Quinn feared that the Sin Jol irregulars would fire just to fire if allowed to. Not to mention the fact that assault rifles can’t stop armored vehicles.
But the Russian 2B14 Podnos mortars acquired at Shagol were a match for most of the incoming armor, except the ancient T-64 tanks, which might be able to withstand the 82mm shells. Or would they? Plunging fire from the top of the mesa would land on top surfaces, where tank armor was often the thinnest, depending on the target’s make and age. Quinn could hope.
The T-64s opened fire with their 125mm guns and the shells landed where they could do the most damage—which was in amongst the ruins south of the mesa. That was the area where dozens of defenders were positioned to prevent the government troops from reaching the fort’s wooden doors.
Thanks to Pruitt’s UAV Quinn could watch as a shell landed, and a geyser of loose snow, dirt, and rock shot straight upwards. “This is Six,” Quinn said. “Mortars 1, 2 and 3 will target the tanks. Fire at will.” The mortars were on top of the mesa and capable of firing on targets two miles away. But the tanks were closer than that, as were the troops following behind them.
The first mortar bomb passed over a tank and landed in amongst a group of Kazakh soldiers. At least a dozen fell. And, when two shells landed in close proximity to a tank, it came to a stop, and seemed unable to proceed. That forced soldiers to expose themselves by flowing around it. The mortar rounds continued to fall.
But the battle was far from one-sided. Dropping shells on, or close to, tanks was one thing, but putting fire on vehicles like Tigrs was virtually impossible.
The vics were too fast, and too maneuverable, for mortar crews to track and hit. And the troops they delivered were able to take cover in the same ruins the Allies were determined to defend. “I’m going down to the surface,” Quinn said. “Keep me in the loop.”
After making her way down several flights of stone stairs Quinn arrived in the parking area. Individuals had to use a door-within-a larger-door to come and ago. And that’s where Quinn found Caliph Jumah. The mullah and three bodyguards were about to venture outside.
Quinn was glad to see that Jumah was going to keep his word, and more than a little surprised to see that the mullah’s weapon of choice was a Sentinel Arms Co. Striker-12 combat shotgun. Similar to a revolver, the weapon relied on a rotating cylinder to deliver shells to the firing chamber. But unlike a revolver, the so-called “Streetsweeper” could hold 12 rounds of 12-gauge ammo. That’s why the weapons were highly regulated in the United States.
But the City of Stones wasn’t located in the United States. “Ah-ha,” Jumah said, cheerfully. “The Ice Queen is about to join the fight.”
The nom de guerre made Quinn uncomfortable so she changed the subject. “That’s quite a weapon you have there.”
“Yes,” Jumah said proudly. “And Omar here has another just like it for when I run out of ammunition.”
That was when Quinn noticed the lanky teenager, the Striker cradled in his arms, and the toothy grin on his face. “I’m a poor shot,” Jumah confessed. “Which makes sense since I rarely practice. But the man who sold me the weapon refers to double-aught buckshot as ‘the great equalizer.’”
Was the salesman an American arms dealer? Quinn assumed he was. She was glad to see that the Caliph’s trigger finger was resting outside the guard. “It’s the perfect weapon for the kind of fighting we’re about to do,” Quinn assured him. “Please follow me.”
Quinn had no idea how Jumah would feel about following a woman into combat, and didn’t give a shit. A corporal and two privates were guarding the door along with an equal number of Sin Jol fighters. “How the hell did you manage to get this assignment?” Quinn demanded, as she passed. “What a bunch of slackers.”
The comment generated a laugh, as it was intended to, and Quinn could see her breath as she stepped outside. She heard a boom when a tank fired, followed by the crack of a mortar round going off, and the chatter of automatic weapons.
Muddy boot prints led Quinn toward the fighting as a stretcher team passed going the other way. Doctor Gulin and Doctor Serikova were going to have a busy day.
“There you are,” McKenzie said, as he waved her in behind an ancient wall. “The bastards are 100 feet away and closing.”
“So, they’re coming up on the MON-50s?”
“That’s affirmative.”
Quinn opened her mike. “Six to Alpha-Eight. What’s your status? Over.”
“I have a bird over the ruins. Over.”
“Give the order to blow the 50s when they’ll do the most good. The CSM will push the button. Over.”
“Roger that,” Pruitt replied. “Stay north of the Three Amigos. Over.”
“The Three Amigos” were the only columns standing. As such they marked the east-west line where the MON-50 command detonated mines were waiting.
The 50s were very similar to American Claymores and designed to detonate on command. Each device would throw 540 steel balls for more than 100 feet unless something, or some person, got in the way.
The 152nd had only ten of the devices. But they were positioned to cover obvious pathways and McKenzie hoped to make good use of them. And because Pruitt could see the enemy from above, she was the right person to make the call.
Suddenly Quinn heard an explosion above her and looked up to see a puff of smoke and a cloud of debris. “God damn it!” Pruitt exclaimed. “The bastards went after my drone with a UAV of their own! We lost the Raven.”
Quinn turned to McKenzie. “Blow the mines.”
The CSM pressed a button, the MON-50s produced a momentary roar of sound, and screams were heard. Quinn knew the effect was less than what McKenzie had hoped for, but that’s how it was. She turned to wave a platoon of troops forward. “Follow me!”
“And me!” Jumah bellowed, as he charged into the limestone maze. The jumble of collapsed columns, fallen walls, and free-standing arches reminded Quinn of a corn maze she had explored as a child. Some of the passageways meandered out into the battlefield beyond, while others were dead ends.
The proper thing to do was pause, look and listen. But Jumah hadn’t been to basic training. He bellowed a challenge and charged, shotgun at the ready. That was the moment when Quinn realized how stupid she’d been. If the Caliph was wounded, or killed, the agreement to build an airstrip could die with him. Would Karimov honor the agreement? There was no way to be sure. She had to keep the mullah alive.
Quinn caught up with Jumah just as he was about to pass through the gap between two broken walls. She made a grab for the leather harness he was wearing and jerked so hard that both of them fell over backwards. Machinegun fire lashed over their heads. The government troops were there! Just feet away.
Jumah had the good sense to roll sideways into the protection of a wall. Quinn did the same. A squad of soldiers arrived at that point, tossed grenades over the barrier, and waited for the explosions. Omar aimed his shotgun at the center of the passageway and pulled the trigger. A mine exploded and tossed a geyser of mud up into the air.
The squad of soldiers dashed through the gap. Quinn heard bursts of automatic fire followed by a moment of silence. Jumah got to his feet. “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” Quinn replied. “Remember—stop, look, and listen. And never run through a chokepoint without pausing to look for tripwires and pressure mines.”
Jumah smiled, and gestured toward the gap. “Ladies first.”
Quinn made her way forward followed by Jumah and his bodyguards. “This is Charlie-Six,” Salazar said. “Put fire in the area south of my position. Platoons 2 and 4 will secure our flanks. Over.”
Quinn and Jumah caught up with Salazar moments later. Unlike mortar shells in movies, the bombs were silent as they passed over. When they landed Quinn heard a sharp crack-boom and saw smoke rise. “This is Charlie-Six … Mortars will cease firing! Platoons 1 and 3 will advance! Over.”
Salazar hadn’t gone far—no more than 20 feet—when dozens of enemy soldiers emerged from the nooks and crannies where they’d been hiding. And rather than being 100 feet apart, as was the case in most firefights, the combatants were separated by no more than 10 feet.
The government troops had been told to aim low, below American body armor, then high. A burst of bullets hit Salazar in the legs. He was on his knees when three bullets tore through his throat. Blood flew, and some of it hit Jumah, who fired the Striker and kept firing. A blast of double-aught buck erased the enemy soldier’s face.
McKenzie yelled, “Major!” Quinn turned to see an enemy soldier charging her with rifle raised. She took two steps backward and tripped. The Kazakh looked huge from her position on the ground. Shoot him, Quinn thought, but knew she was out of time. The rifle butt was falling and death was seconds away.
That was when the Kazakh’s head jerked, a fountain of blood erupted from the top of his skull, and sprayed the air. The man toppled over sideways. The distant sound of a rifle shot followed. Quinn, still on the ground, thumbed her mike. “Hiller? Was that you?”
“Yes, ma’am,” the sniper said from the top of the mesa, as she fired again. A Kazakh fell across Quinn’s torso. It took all of the officer’s strength to push the dead soldier away.
The rifle was gone, but the pistol was ready. Quinn pulled it, saw a man fire at Jumah, and pulled the trigger. The first bullet hit the man’s left arm. The second passed through an ear.
The Caliph remained on his feet. He whirled, shot the attacker again, and shifted his fire. Another government soldier went down and the tenor of the battle shifted. Having been met with stiff resistance the enemy soldiers began to pull back.
It was an orderly process at first, but soon turned into a rout, as a steady stream of soldiers ran south. And, as Quinn emerged from the south side of the ruins, she saw that the government vehicles were withdrawing as well, along with one of the tanks. “This is Six. Cease firing. Over. Bravo Six. Do you read me? Over.”
“Quinn held her breath. Was Andruko still alive?
“This Bravo-Six. Over.”
Quinn heaved a sigh of relief. “Put the tractors to work. And I mean now. You’ll have the rest of day to finish work on the strip and not a minute more. Over.”
“Roger,” Andruko replied. “Over.”
“Good job, everybody,” Quinn added. “What a bunch of ass kickers. I’m proud of you. Over.”
Quinn heard a chorus of enthusiastic “Hooahs,” and smiled.
All of the soldiers who weren’t working on the airstrip, or the burial detail, were divided into platoons and sent out create an early warning network. Their orders were to delay the enemy if government troops appeared and to fallback if necessary.
Bodies were collected, sorted into groups, and buried separately. One grave for the Sin Jol fighters, one for the government soldiers, and one for five members of the 152nd, including Lieutenant Salazar.
Caliph Jumah offered to hold an ecumenical service and Quinn accepted. Jumah wove Muslim, Christian and Jewish prayers into a moving, ten-minute service held in the open. Meanwhile, snowflakes collected on his shoulders and on the ground, where they lay like a shroud.
After pushing dirt over the graves Andruko put the tractors to work on the airstrip as Quinn returned to the Bat Cave. Dean was waiting. “I just got off the horn with my boss,” Dean told her. “We have to be ready by tomorrow morning. The runway will freeze overnight. But it’s going to warm up tomorrow. And it will rain by noon. That’s when our strip will turn into mud.”
Quinn understood. Even if a rescue plane managed to land successfully, it would have a great deal of difficulty taking off, and might be stuck on the ground. Disaster piled on disaster. “What kind of plane are they going to send?”
Dean made a face. “A C-130 Hercules.”
Quinn was shocked. C-130s were legendary transport planes, but had been around for a long time, and were powered by turboprops rather than jet engines. “You must be joking.”
Dean shook his head. “No, I’m serious. I asked my boss about it and he said, ‘Listen asshole, I’m sending you the plane you need … Not the plane you want.’”
“He calls you an ‘asshole?’”
“Yes, it’s a term of endearment. Or so he tells me.”
Quinn frowned. “Men are crazy. ‘The plane you need?’ What the hell does that mean?”
“I asked him,” Dean replied. “Believe me, I did. He said I don’t need to know.”
“Okay, at least we’re getting a plane,” Quinn said. “What about air cover? What are they sending? A crop duster?”
Dean laughed. “Sorry. I have no idea.”
And that’s the way things stood as the sky faded to black. Quinn pulled her troops back into the mesa, and told Wilkins to determine what each soldier would be allowed to carry onto the plane. “The less we take with us the lighter the plane will be,” she told him. “So, I want you to give most of our gear to Sin Jol. They will sure as hell need it.
“Not the Strela launchers though—not until we board the plane. As for the rhenium and gold, I want it palletized, and pre-loaded onto a truck. Except for a single bar of gold which Dean will deliver to Jumah. But get a receipt.
“Regarding the troops, each person will be limited to no more than two personal weapons and 100 rounds for use if the plane goes down.”
“Seriously?” Wilkins asked. “That could happen?”
“Any fucking thing could happen,” Quinn replied. “And our job is to cover all the possibilities. Think about it … The nearest Allied air force base is in India. That’s 700 air miles from here. In order to get there our plane will have to pass over Kyrgyzstan, Tajikistan, and a chunk of Pakistan. All of which are aligned with the Axis, and all of which have fighter jets. So, the mission won’t be over until you’re sitting in the NCO club, drinking beer.”
“Cold beer,” Wilkins stipulated.
“Of course,” Quinn said with a smile. “Nothing less will do.”
Quinn knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep and didn’t try. What was the enemy doing? Had the government given up? Would the Kazakhs allow the 152nd to depart rather than lose more troops? Or, would they attack?
The answer to that very important question arrived at 0133 in the morning when Pruitt announced that what might be scouts had infiltrated the area from the south. Then the vehicles started to arrive. Trucks mostly, loaded with soldiers, who formed into company-sized columns and marched north.
Quinn felt sick to her stomach as the government troops advanced, took possession of the newly created runway, and began to dig in. Not on the airstrip however. And that suggested that the Kazakhs planned to use the runway after a battle they were certain to win.
Quinn took Dean aside. “Call your boss. Tell him the airstrip has been overrun. And tell him to cancel the evac.”
Dean shook his head. “There’s no need to call. He knows.”
“How’s that?”
“The agency has an RQ-4 Global Hawk circling above us at 50,000 feet. If they want to cancel, they will. Otherwise the party is on.”
Quinn knew a Global Hawk could remain airborne for more than 30 hours. And when one UAV returned to India another would take its place. So, all she could do was trust the SOG officer, and the agency. That made her feel helpless.
The enemy made no attempt to advance. Not after the ass-whipping they’d suffered the previous day. By surrounding the City of Stones, the Kazakhs could starve the Allies out if they chose to.
The hours crept by. When the sun rose something like 1,500 enemy soldiers were massed around the runway—and six Kazakh Su-25 fighters were circling the mesa just out of Strela range. Quinn knew the agency could image that, and expected them to call the evacuation off.
But they didn’t. And, at exactly 0500, four USAF F-35 fighters fell on the Russian made planes like birds of prey. It wasn’t fair really. The Americans had been flying combat missions for months, wh
ile most, if not all, of the Kazakh pilots had never fired a shot in anger.
Two government planes were blown out of the air, a third disappeared to the east trailing black smoke, and the rest ran. Dean spoke to the flight leader over the radio. “This is Delta-Six. Welcome to Kazakhstan. And thank you. Over.”
“This is Slapshot. It’s good to be here. Thanks for the invite. Over.”
“Please feel free to mow the grass south of the mesa. Over.”
“No can do, Six. Our job is force protection. You can thank us later. Over.”
Dean was standing next to Quinn on top of the mesa. He offered a shrug. “I tried.”
Then a different voice was heard. “Hey ya all … This is Hedgehog, in from the south. I understand some doggies are waiting for a lift. Over.”
Quinn turned her binoculars to the south. And sure enough, there was a C-130, coming her way. “Roger that,” Dean said. “We made a runway for you … But a thousand tangos are camped on it. Over.”
“Don’t you worry, none,” Hedgehog said. “We have an app for that. If you have people out there pull ’em back. Over.”
What the hell was Hedgehog talking about? Quinn couldn’t make sense of it.
“No prob,” Dan replied. “Our people are under cover. Over.”
“Glad to hear it,” Hedgehog said. “Coz I have a present for you! It’s addressed to a guy named ‘Asshole,’ from a dude named Haster. Over.”
Dean laughed. “And what, exactly, is that present? Over.”
“It’s a GBU-43/B motherfucking MOAB. Keep your heads down. Over.”
Although Quinn had never seen a MOAB put to use, she knew that the acronym stood for “Massive Ordinance Air Blast.” But was generally referred to as the “Mother of All Bombs” by military types.
In spite of the nickname a MOAB was a thermobaric rather than a nuclear weapon. “Thermobaric” meant the bomb was designed to use the oxygen present in the air at the drop site to generate a powerful explosion. Or, as it had been explained to Quinn, “What a MOAB does is suck the oxygen out of the air and light it on fire.”
Red Thunder (Winds of War Book 4) Page 27