The Monroe Doctrine

by James Rosone

  “Who knows? Maybe the Americans will have some of their Special Forces units try to neutralize our HQ-9s and SS-NX-13s. If they do that, Major Du, they’ll have completely neutralized our entire purpose for being here. Then they can skip landing forces here and just bypass our little island altogether.”

  That was their biggest concern, being left to die on the vine like so many small Japanese island garrisons had been during World War II. That was not a fate they wanted to share in.

  They drove through some of the smaller communities of the island as they made their way over to St. George’s. When they’d officially arrived on the island, they’d taken over the old fort that overlooked the harbor. Fort George offered them a relatively secure place to establish their headquarters element and maintain control of the largest city on the island. Up in the jungled mountain region, they’d deployed their SAM unit and their antiship unit on the northern side of the island.

  When they pulled up to their headquarters building, several of the nearby guards snapped to attention as Colonel Lin stepped out. He returned their salutes and headed in.

  “Major Du, send a message to the company commanders that I want to hold a meeting tomorrow at 1000 hours. I want them all present. We need to discuss some strategies for how we’re going to handle the Americans once they do finally arrive.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll get right on that.”

  The following morning, Colonel Lin went over a more detailed plan he’d been given by their higher headquarters in Venezuela. The force there was going to start lobbing some ballistic missiles at the Americans. Once they did that, it wouldn’t be long before the Americans began their march towards Venezuela—a move that would most certainly necessitate them having to attack his garrison. Now was the time to get his troops ready for whatever might be coming their way.

  Chapter Twelve

  War of Attrition

  ODA 7322, Bravo Company

  Las Terrazas, Cuba

  Sergeant First Class Rusten Currie lowered his field glasses and wrote something down on his map board. A moment later, he handed it off to Captain Larry Thorne. “That’s it, sir—that fracking gun that’s been hitting the port and any marshaling areas nearby.”

  Five hundred meters from their position were two PLZ-05 self-propelled artillery guns. The 155mm howitzers had been lobbing rounds relentlessly at the ships in the Port of Mariel while they were trying to offload the heavy armor and weapons of the 3rd Infantry Division. At first, there had been twelve of these SPs shooting at the port, but after eight days of concerted hunting by five different ODA teams from 7th Group, they had managed to thin their numbers.

  “Good eye, Currie. Let’s go round up the boys and see if we can’t add them to the kill list,” Captain Thorne replied softly.

  The two of them scooted out of their position and made their way back to the rally point. On their way, the captain sent a short message, letting the other teams know they’d found the primary target and to head back to the rally point. After everyone had gathered together, they’d figure out a plan to disable or destroy the guns. Once that had been completed, they’d resume their search for the holdouts.

  It took nearly an hour for the remainder of the twelve-man team to reconstitute. During that time, Currie and Thorne looked at the map of the gun’s location and some of the terrain around it. If this were any other conflict, they’d simply call in an air strike and let the flyboys rain steel from the sky. As it was, the Air Force had been taking a beating from all the SAM sites scattered along this mountainous ridge that seemed to span the western half of the island.

  “OK, so here’s the plan,” Captain Thorne began. “We’re going to let Hawk use that cannon of his to try and disable those two SPs on his own. If he can do that, then it’ll save us from trying to do it ourselves, and hopefully we won’t have to shoot it out with these guys. From what Currie and I could see, it seems our ChiCom friends have wised up to what we’ve been doing and now have these guns being protected by at least a company of regular soldiers.”

  Hawk cut in to add, “It’s not that I don’t want to use this cannon you all have had me hauling through the jungle and all, but why aren’t we just calling in a HIMARS or artillery strike on this place and letting them light it up?”

  “I already tried that, Hawk,” Thorne explained. “The 105s are tasked with another urgent TIC mission we don’t want to pull them away from. The HIMARS unit across the strait has fired eight volleys in the last six hours. They’re spent on ammo that can reach this target for at least eight hours. Keep in mind, those long-range rockets they’ve been using aren’t exactly something the Army kept a lot of in stock. From what I’ve been told, that unit alone has burned through twenty-five percent of the entire inventory so far. That leaves us with our SMAWs or your cannon. I’d rather try the cannon first before we have to use the Gustavs.”

  Prior to them heading back out to the jungle, their resident sniper had turned his XM2010 ESR in for the venerable Barrett .50-cal so they could leverage its armor-piercing antimateriel projectiles. The only downside to bringing the weapon with them was its weight. It also meant they didn’t really have a sniper rifle to use other than the man-portable cannon.

  Hawk sighed at the explanation, as did the rest of the team. “All right, sir. You made your case.”

  Thorne turned to the rest of his team. “OK, I want Hawk set up here. Then I want Garcia, Milan, and Diego to set up along this position here. This will give you a good covering position across this area, should the enemy figure out where Hawk’s shooting from.”

  Thorne turned to the next fire team, which consisted of Dawson, Currie, and Andrews. “I want you three positioned over here. If the enemy does come after Hawk or the others, then I want Andrews to lay into them with the Mk 48. Tear ’em up. Dawson, you’re also carrying our lone SMAW. If Hawk isn’t able to take those guns out, then it’ll be on you to try and get a shot off before those vehicles are able to escape.”

  Dawson nodded as he looked at Currie and Andrews.

  “The rest of you are going to hang tight with me over here. When they disable the vehicles, they’re going to run right past us on their way to the rally point. I want you guys to start lobbing forty-mike-mike rounds at them to try and sow some additional chaos. If they send guys after us, then I want a wall of lead sent in their direction. We’ll peel back one at a time as we fall back to the rally point. Hank, it’ll be your job to blow the claymores on your way out. Everyone got it?” Thorne asked.

  Everyone nodded their heads. They knew the drill; they were ready to get this mission over with. If things worked out, in another day they’d be back at the FOB for a hot shower, some hot food, and a few days of R&R before the next mission.

  *******

  Currie had propped himself up against the side of a tree as he looked at the soldiers a few hundred meters away. They had a decent security perimeter set up around the howitzers. The guards looked alert; they had their weapons held at the low ready and they were doing a good job of staying focused, looking off into the jungle around them for signs of trouble.

  A couple of soldiers closer to the howitzers appeared to be using some sort of heating pellets. They had a small kettle warming some water—probably to make tea for themselves.

  A few other soldiers were sitting against trees with what appeared to be packaged meals. One soldier said something that caused a few of them to laugh. He then pulled a camera out and started taking photos of everyone. A couple of them posed doing stupid stuff; others tried to look tough and serious. A few waved the guy off, not wanting to be in the picture themselves.

  “They’re just like us,” commented Dawson as he attached the Mk 6 Mod 0 rocket to the SMAW launcher. The high-explosive anti-armor or HEAA rocket would punch a hole right through the armored turret of the howitzer if Hawk wasn’t able to disable it with his rifle.

  Currie grumbled. “They are. I don’t disagree with you, brother. It’s too bad that in this exact moment
in time, we’ve been destined to be enemies. I’d like to think if we weren’t out here in this jungle paradise, we’d probably be able to laugh and shoot the breeze together over a few beers.”

  “Hey, cheer up, Eeyore. Once Hawk plinks a couple of rounds in those vehicles, they’ll give you a warm hug and offer you a beer for your troubles,” joked Staff Sergeant Andrews as he repositioned the Pig.

  Time seemed to move about as fast as molasses in winter. The three of them sat there quietly, waiting for what would come next. Not having anything else to do, they watched their opponents intently, completely oblivious to what was about to happen to them. In a few minutes, their entire world was about to change.

  “Man, we’ve been sitting here for like thirty minutes. What’s taking Hawk so long?” Andrews questioned nervously as he fidgeted with his weapon.

  “I don’t know, but we’re going to have a problem in a few minutes,” commented Dawson, pointing off to the side.

  Currie grabbed for his pocket binos so he could see what Dawson was pointing at. At the far end of this little enemy encampment, a cluster of soldiers was gathering near one of the APC vehicles they had figured was acting as a headquarters vehicle or some sort of FDC for the guns, similar to how the US operated its mobile artillery units.

  “Yeah, I see it. It looks like they’re gearing up for a fire mission,” Currie announced. “Let me call it in. We may need to engage those vehicles on our own, Dawson.” Currie reached for the radio that would connect him with their CO.

  “Honey Badger Six, Honey Badger Two.”

  Man, I liked our old call signs, Currie thought.

  A couple of seconds went by before the radio chirped softly. “Badger Two, Six. Send it.”

  Currie smiled. He liked Thorne—he was short and sweet with his convos over the radio.

  “Six, we’re seeing a flurry of activity taking place around the FDC. Break. Guns appear to be readying for a fire mission. How copy?”

  “Stand by,” was the only reply they got.

  Some of the Chinese soldiers near the vehicles started barking orders to the soldiers sitting around. They rushed to their positions on the gun crew. The turrets on the two vehicles turned slightly. Then the barrels elevated to a new position.

  “Two, Six. When the gun fires, Hawk is going to place a single round in the recoil buffer on the side of the barrel. Break. Then he’ll do the same to the other barrel. Stand by to either withdraw back to the RP or hit the remaining vehicle with the SMAW and bug out.”

  Currie looked at Dawson and Andrews, who just shrugged.

  “Uh, that’s a good copy, Six. Out.”

  “Huh, never heard of being able to disable a gun like that, but hey, if Hawk thinks he can do it, more power to him,” Andrews said. He turned to look back at the ChiComs. “They look like they’re just about ready to fire the gun,” he muttered.

  “Yeah, I’m going to get ready to hit the vehicle on the far side of the camp with this thing,” Dawson said. “I think if Hawk gets lucky and hits the first one, he likely won’t get a chance to nail the second.” He went through his checklist to make sure the rocket launcher was ready.

  They heard some shouting in Chinese as the soldiers prepared to fire the cannon.

  BOOM…BOOM.

  The first truck fired its 155mm howitzer, sending the ninety-six pounds of high explosives hurtling through the air toward the American lines. Seconds later, the second howitzer fired, doing the same.

  Currie heard more shouting in Chinese as the enemy gun crews went to work preparing to fire their next round. A good crew could tick off three rounds a minute—a really good crew might be able to get off five rounds a minute. Judging by how smoothly this crew was operating, they were somewhere in the middle.

  “They’re preparing to fire another round.”

  “Did you guys hear if Hawk fired his shot?” asked Andrews.

  Currie shook his head and Dawson shrugged.

  One of the PLA soldiers standing behind the open rear hatch of the howitzer had the firing lanyard in his hand. He twisted and turned his body with the lanyard as the gun fired.

  BAM.

  The barrel of the howitzer recoiled into the turret just like it normally would, only the recoil wasn’t absorbed. Instead of stopping and returning to its normal position, the cannon shot back into the turret and ripped itself right out. The soldier standing a few feet outside the turret got slammed by the barrel as it shot back. The Chinese soldier let out a scream of agony as several of his comrades stared at the howitzer, in shock and disbelief at what had just happened.

  The second howitzer fired its round without a problem. While that crew was preparing their gun to fire a third round, the other crew scrambled to figure out what the hell had just happened to their gun. A couple of medics ran over to their injured comrade, while what appeared to be a couple of senior sergeants tried to examine the barrel and the turret inside.

  One of the soldiers pointed to something on the side of the barrel, then started shouting at the soldiers around them. Several other soldiers began shouting and raised their rifles, pointing them in different directions. No one was shooting yet, but they were clearly aware of the presence of someone in the area.

  The other howitzer stopped shooting as a soldier jumped up on the turret to do a quick check of the barrel. As the soldier was looking at it, he fell backwards. A fraction of a second later, everyone heard the loud report of a .50-caliber rifle crack through the air.

  A Chinese soldier pointed in the direction of where Currie knew Hawk was located and opened fire. As soon as one soldier started shooting, half a dozen others followed. More soldiers rushed to get into position and join the melee.

  Currie wasn’t sure if those soldiers realized the sniper was probably close to a thousand meters away. They had no chance of hitting him.

  “Dawson, can you see if Hawk was able to put a hole in that barrel or whatever he needed to do to disable it?” asked Currie. As the words left his mouth, he heard a loud clanging noise and saw sparks near where the barrel and the turret connected.

  Whoever was in the turret of the vehicle decided he’d had enough of being shot at and popped the vehicle’s self-defense smoke screen. The smoke grenade canisters mounted on the sides of the turret deployed, shooting half a dozen smoke grenades around the vehicle.

  The radio chirped in Currie’s ear. “Two, Six. Hawk says he thinks he nailed the recoil buffer, but he’s not one hundred percent sure. Break. Can you guys still see it? Can Dawson still nail it with the SMAW?”

  Dawson looked at Currie; he’d heard the question. “He can’t be serious?! That place is swarming with ChiComs now. If I fire the SMAW, they’re going to be on us like white on rice.”

  “I know, but can you hit it?” Currie barked. He wasn’t any happier about this than Dawson was, but he also didn’t want to have to do this again later.

  Dawson looked over the edge of a fallen tree, then turned back to Currie. “Yeah, I can hit it.”

  “Six, Two. Dawson can still hit it. Break. If we do this, these guys’ll be on us like a fat kid on a Snickers bar. How copy?”

  The volume of machine-gun fire and single shots from the Chinese soldiers had increased. They had broken themselves down into smaller teams, covering each other as they bounded forward. Every few minutes, the loud report of another shot from Hawk reverberated through the jungle, and another PLA soldier would be ripped in half.

  “Ah hell. You guys get ready to cover me,” Dawson announced. “I’m going to scooch over to that tree and fire my rocket at that thing.”

  “Six, Two. Disregard my last,” said Currie. “Stand by for SMAW. Out.” He readied his own rifle for action. He placed a fresh magazine on the log he was hiding behind, along with a single white phosphorous grenade. His plan was to unload a single magazine at the enemy, then throw the WP grenade at them to help cover their retreat.

  “Oh man, things are about to get real, Currie,” commented Staff Sergeant Andrew
s as he flicked the safety off the Pig.

  The roar of single and rapid-fire shots from the PLA soldiers advancing in the direction of their sniper had remained steady. Currie heard a couple of small crumps and blasts as the grenadiers in their ranks lobbed 35mm grenades in Hawk’s direction. Every thirty to sixty seconds, he’d hear another thunderclap from Hawk as he’d send another 750-grain slug across the distance between them to disintegrate another enemy soldier.

  Swoosh! An RPG took off, headed in the direction of their sniper.

  “Firing!” shouted Dawson to make sure he was heard over the gunfire. He popped out from behind a tree and brought the SMAW up to his shoulder, took aim at the self-propelled howitzer and fired the 83mm rocket. It leapt from the launcher and covered the short distance in seconds before it impacted against the rear of the vehicle, exploding its warhead into the turret compartment. In seconds, the entire thing blew apart as some of the powder bags and extra rounds cooked off inside, adding to the fiery cauldron engulfing the vehicle and everything around it.

  “I’m firing!” Andrews roared as he depressed the firing trigger.

  Ratatat, ratatat, ratatat.

  Controlled three-second busts from the Pig opened up on the unsuspecting soldiers nearby. A handful of them were slapped with dozens of rounds as the gunfire crisscrossed across their ranks. A couple of them dove for cover, returning fire at Andrews as best they could.

  Currie spotted one enemy soldier taking careful aim at them. He squeezed the trigger of his Sig Sauer Spear rifle twice, sending a 6.8mm bullet into the man’s body armor. The second round struck the base of the enemy soldier’s throat, ripping it right open. Arterial spray spurted from the wound as the man dropped his rifle and clutched at his neck with both hands, falling backwards as he did.