The Monroe Doctrine

by James Rosone

  When the American President had finished speaking, everyone in the room was silent for a moment. No one said anything right away as they digested what he’d said.

  The German Chancellor was the first to speak. “Thank you for giving voice to what many of us had probably been thinking. The Chinese haven’t given any of us many options. I, for one, will not allow Germany to fall under the yoke of communism a second time. I propose our nations begin a massive military arms buildup and prepare to bring the fight to the enemy. The first thing we need to do is organize a naval task force to clear the Red Sea and the Indian Ocean of these Chinese submarines. We need to create a convoy system again so we can protect critical shipping between Africa, the Middle East, and Europe. While my nation may not have the largest navy, we are more than willing to take the lead in organizing a naval task force for NATO if everyone is in agreement.”

  British Prime Minister Vanessa Dunn nodded. “I think that would be great, Chancellor. Judging by how the war is going in the Caribbean, I believe my nation and the French are going to be a bit more engaged there than we will anywhere else.”

  “I agree,” commented the French President. “The Chinese and the Venezuelans are threatening to capture our French colonies and outposts in the Caribbean. We need to come to the aid of our citizens there and make sure they know they are not forgotten in all of this.”

  “Great, then I think the only thing left for us to discuss is what to do about this Russian offer,” declared General Lisa Yeager.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Hamburger Hill

  Bravo Company, 1-124th Infantry Regiment

  Hill 847 – Che Guevara Monument

  Sierra del Rosario Mountains, Cuba

  “I swear to God, if we have to go up that flipping hill one more time, I’m going to lose it!” grumbled Sergeant First Class Jeremiah Grabowski, better known as “Ski.” He cursed under his breath as he reached for an unopened box of ammo.

  “Seriously, why can’t the artillery or Air Force plaster this place and be done with it already?” complained Specialist Jamie Roberts as she blew some hair away from her eyes. She placed the now-reloaded magazine into the front pouch of her chest rig.

  First Lieutenant Henry Hobbs plopped down next to them with an MRE in his hand as he surveyed the group. “Look, I don’t like it any more than you guys do. But here’s the deal—what’s left of the Cuban Army and the Chinese are hunkered down up there in a series of mountain forts they’ve built. To make matters worse, they’ve ringed this place with anti-aircraft guns and artillery, all protected by some of the most advanced SAMs in the world. This place has to be captured and taken out. The only way we’re going to do that is to go in there with rifles and hand grenades and do it the old-fashioned way.”

  Lieutenant Hobbs saw the grim and unconvinced faces of the Guardsmen he’d become good friends with over the years. “The Air Force has lost an enormous number of planes trying to root this place out,” he asserted. “Worse, these are the bastards responsible for that Delta Airlines plane being downed near Ocala. One hundred and sixty-four civilians died on that plane. We can’t allow that to happen again.

  “I know everyone’s tired of fighting. It’s been a rough couple of weeks. Let’s not lose sight of who we are. We’re the Gator Brigade! We’ve fought four tours in Iraq, and a tour in Afghanistan and another in Syria. We’re the toughest National Guard Unit in the Army and, by God, we’re going to take this freaking hill. Now, Sergeant First Class, take Specialist Roberts and go pick up our replacements. Get ’em sorted with their new squads and get ready for tomorrow.”

  Specialist Roberts perked her head up. “Whoa, what’s going on tomorrow?” she asked. “I thought we still had another day before we’d have to go back up there.”

  Hobbs loved that unpolished spitfire attitude of hers. Nothing kept a platoon of infantry grunts on their toes more than a woman who could consistently kick their asses.

  “Tomorrow we’re going back up that hill with the rest of the battalion. The trucks will pick us up at 0600 hours. Our battalion will link up with 2nd Battalion for a 1200-hour assault. Oh, and before you all get your panties in a wad, I’ve also been told we’ll have a sustained artillery barrage on the place prior to our assault, along with a high-altitude stealth bomber run made on some of the stickier spots we’ve identified during our previous engagements.”

  “’Bout freaking time we got some air support,” grumbled one of the other sergeants.

  Sergeant Grabowski stood. “Thanks for the pep talk, boss. Sometimes we just need to let off some steam and know we’ve been heard. Rest assured, LT, we’re going to take this hill, one way or another.”

  “Hey, the only time I get concerned about you enlisted folk is when the complaining stops. Then I know you guys are up to no good,” chuckled Lieutenant Hobbs.

  Hobbs motioned for Ski to follow him for a moment. As the two moved away from the group, Hobbs told him, “When you pick up the replacements, make sure you hit the supply tents up and grab a bunch of extra grenades. I also want you to tell the replacements to pack an extra Mk 80 rocket in their rucks or packed on the side of it. Master Sergeant Lightman from the weapons platoon is going to have the SMAW crews carrying those new anticave and bunker rockets. We’re going to try and use a lot more of them this time around than the last two goes of it.”

  Ski nodded and jotted down some notes so he wouldn’t forget. “I’m on it, sir. See you in a few hours,” he replied and turned to go find Roberts.

  Ski liked Hobbs. He was prior enlisted, having been a sergeant first class before he had crossed over to becoming an officer. He’d made the switch right at the age cutoff, so he was actually a pretty old lieutenant.

  Grabowski walked back to the group, which was still smokin’ and jokin’. “All right, Roberts, you heard the boss. Let’s go grab the replacements and see what they brought us,” he announced.

  Specialist Jamie Roberts was part of the new crop of female soldiers that was being allowed into the infantry. She’d put to rest the argument about women not being able to pull their weight in the infantry when, during her first PT test with the unit, she’d not only maxed the event, she’d smoked nearly all the guys in the unit.

  Roberts was a sophomore at the University of Central Florida, where she ran on the track and field team. She was also a mixed martial artist who had competed in a couple of lower-level UFC fights. She might have been gorgeous to look at, but she was also an ass-kicker of a soldier in every respect.

  As they were walking down the dirt road that led to the battalion headquarters area, Ski asked, “You still glad you joined the Guard last year?”

  Roberts gave Ski a grin and a wink. “What, and miss out on all of this? Are you kidding me? Yeah, I’m still glad I joined the unit. Besides, the skills I’ve learned from the Army have already helped me become a better fighter. I’m also hell-bent on graduating without any student loan debt. My parents had me go through that Dave Ramsey course on personal finance. No way am I racking up debt when the State of Florida will cover my tuition if I join the Guard.”

  “Yeah, that’s good. You got a plan. Me, I got two more years and I’ve got my twenty. Then I’m out. Looking back on it, I should have joined after I left the Rangers—I’d have my twenty and could be sitting on a beach with a cold one while I let you youngsters fight this one.”

  “Why didn’t you? You’re like a total badass,” Roberts said. If Ski had to guess, she had a bit of a crush on him.

  He chuckled. “Yeah, well. I was so burnt out from the Rangers. I also needed to get more help with my PTSD. I wasn’t in a good frame of mind back then,” Grabowski explained as they approached the battalion headquarters area.

  “Hey, what do you two want?” barked the battalion command sergeant major, Bishop, with a cup of coffee in his hand.

  “Sergeant Major, Lieutenant Dobbs sent us over to fetch our replacements and get them squared away before the big push tomorrow,” countered Grabow
ski as he walked towards the often-grumpy CSM.

  Grabowski and Bishop had known each other for close to fifteen years. Ski’s dad and Bishop were best friends. Ski was also the only guy in the battalion to have served in the 75th Ranger Regiment, which gave him more clout with Bishop. He essentially regarded him as the unit badass.

  CSM Bishop softened his demeanor. “Ah, good call. Here, come with me. I’ll take you over to where we have them staying. Most of them are unfortunately fresh from Benning, so little in the way of experience. That said, we did get twenty-two individual augmentees from the Iowa Guard. They’re from the 1st Battalion, 133rd Infantry Regiment, so at least they’ll know what they’re doing.”

  Ski nodded but didn’t say anything.

  After walking around a few vehicles, they came upon a couple of large tents. The sergeant major called out to the replacements to form up.

  It was as the soldiers filed out of the tents that Ski realized how hard their battalion and brigade had been hit. Since the start of the Cuban campaign, they’d sustained a little more than a thirty percent casualty rate. This last week alone, trying to take this mountain/hill fortress had cost them dearly. Ski had lost two of his friends, and another four had been injured. It brought back a lot of bad memories from his four tours in Iraq and two in Afghanistan. It had taken him years to get over the PTSD from that before he could even think about joining the Guard and finishing his time in the military to get his retirement.

  “All right. Listen up, everyone,” Bishop bellowed. “This is Sergeant First Class Grabowski. He’s a platoon sergeant in Bravo Company and he’s here to pick up replacements. Bravo Company has been in the thick of it since the start of this war. I want you to listen to Grabowski and do what the other veterans in the company tell you. We’re making another push up that mountain tomorrow, so best get yourselves mentally and physically prepared.

  “They’re all yours, Sergeant. Just don’t take all the veterans, if you will; I need to keep some around for the other companies,” he said with a wink.

  Grabowski walked up to the group. “I need twenty-six of you to replace the folks we’ve lost the last few weeks. How many of you have seen combat before?”

  Maybe a quarter of the replacements raised their hands. Mostly, it was the guys from the Iowa National Guard. Grabowski pointed to a quarter of those with their hands raised. Then he filled out the rest of his replacements with fresh recruits from Fort Benning.

  Once he had his replacements, he pulled them into a half circle and told them what was going to happen next. “I want you all to head to the supply tent and pick up a double load of ammo,” he began. “Each of you grab eight hand grenades and two white smoke grenades—we need a lot of extras to clear the enemy trenches. Grab a single Mk 80 SMAW rocket and place it in the bottom of your ruck—these are for taking out the bunkers.”

  When they returned to the company area, the replacements got lunch and filtered into their new platoons and squads. The rest of the day was spent getting ready for what would surely be some tough days ahead.

  All night, the mountain fortress was bombarded by rocket artillery and good old-fashioned 105 and 155mm artillery. The gun bunnies laid it on thick as they sought to butter the place up before the infantry had another go of it.

  Hunkered down in some of the nearby hills and mountains was a series of PLA 122mm howitzers and mortar teams; they were able to lay down fire on the Americans as they assaulted the main mountain. The interlocking defenses had forced the Americans to capture one hill and ridgeline after another to get close to the center of the main enemy defenses.

  The 101st Air Assault Division had been slugging it out in the surrounding area for a couple of weeks while the Florida Army National Guard got the dubious job of having to capture the main enemy fortress. The Gator Brigade actually had a lot more experience fighting in the swamps and tropical environments than many of the active-duty units did.

  The following morning, while Ski and a few others were eating a hearty breakfast of biscuits and gravy, bacon, and hash browns, the Air Force arrived and started giving the mountain some much-needed love. Many of the new replacement soldiers paused their eating to step outside the tent and see what was going on. For many of them, this was the first time they’d seen an air strike like this. The veterans and those who had been on Cuba since the start of the conflict simply continued eating their breakfast like it was no big deal.

  Ski checked his watch—it was time. He stood and got everyone’s attention. “Second Platoon, it’s time to load up. Go grab your patrol packs and whatever else you need for the next twelve to twenty-four hours and meet me at the trucks.”

  The battalion motor pool had a handful of trucks on standby to drive them the dozen kilometers to the actual front lines. Once there, they’d link up with their sister battalion and prepare to assault the hill.

  As they sat in the back of the truck, one of the replacements suddenly asked, “Sergeant First Class, is that a Ranger combat patch?”

  With a flat expression that didn’t betray any emotion, Ski answered, “It’s from my younger years, when I was on active duty.”

  “When did you serve? My dad was in 2nd Battalion. He got out back in ’06,” commented the soldier.

  Ski smiled. “That’s cool, but I don’t recognize your name. I was in 3rd Battalion my entire time. We honestly didn’t interact very much with the other battalions. My group was largely on loan to JSOC, so we weren’t even part of the standard Ranger rotations.”

  “Wow, that’s pretty cool you were part of JSOC. What made you get out?” asked another replacement, in awe that their platoon sergeant had worked with Delta and SEAL Team Six.

  “When you spend more than five straight years in combat, you tend to get burnt out. I needed a break, so I got out. Ended up spending two years in Thailand learning to be a monk as I fought and overcame my own PTSD. Then and only then did I join this unit to finish out the rest of my time for retirement. Only two more years and I pop smoke for the last time,” Ski explained.

  In the distance, they heard the artillery let up, only to be replaced by several dozen enormous explosions. Looking at the mountain fortress they’d be assaulting, Ski saw a dozen large plumes of smoke rise into the air.

  “What kind of bombs are those?” asked one of the privates.

  “Those are likely GBU-31s—two-thousand-pound JDAMs—probably from the B-2 that was supposed to hit some of those bunkers we identified from our last attempt to seize this freaking mountain,” scoffed Ski angrily.

  “Damn, how can anyone survive those things? Crazy,” commented one of the soldiers. A few took some pictures with their phones: souvenirs for home.

  Ski shook his head at how soldiers these days carried their phones with them. They were inseparable from their electronic devices, or so it seemed. He had a phone with him, but he usually kept it in his ruck at the base camp. He might take it with him, but he usually had a very specific reason for bringing it if he did. Not these kids; they acted like tourists. Ski just hoped they’d remember their training, listen to orders, and maybe, just maybe, not get themselves killed.

  Forty minutes later, they were at the base of the front lines. The Gator Brigade had stacked their various companies and battalions up, so when one unit needed reinforcements, or the brigade commander wanted to rush one sector of the enemy lines, they could.

  Alpha Company was going to lead today’s charge forward while SFC Grabowski and Second Platoon, Bravo Company, watched and waited for their turn to come next. They knew once the shooting started, they’d be ordered in to assist Alpha in pushing past the resistance. Then Charlie would join them, followed by Delta before the next battalion would be fed into the meat grinder.

  Twenty minutes after Alpha moved forward, a handful of explosions erupted somewhere in the dense underbrush. Ski heard shouting in the distance, intermixed with a lot of gunfire. When he surveyed the faces of his cherries, Ski could tell they were getting a bit nervous. It was to
be expected. Still, he did his best to reassure them they’d be all right.

  “Just remember your training,” he told them. “Keep your heads on a swivel, and do not hesitate when you spot the enemy.” Then he turned very serious. “This isn’t a game,” he reminded them. “You don’t come back if you get killed.”

  Lieutenant Dobbs had been talking on the radio. During the middle of his conversation, he suddenly looked up at Ski with a grim expression. He handed the device back to his RTO, then turned back to Ski. “That was the CO. He said we’re up. Alpha’s in a heavy fight. They want us to hook to the west and approach from the Devil’s Head. Apparently the JDAM that hit it didn’t take the whole thing out. They want us to try and clear it.”

  Ski grimaced at the information. He collected his thoughts for the briefest of moments before he turned to the squad leaders. “We’re headed back to that bunker complex at the Devil’s Head. The JDAMs did a decent job of tearing the place apart, but we need to go clear it out. I want First and Second Squads out front. Third Squad, you’re our reserve. Fourth Squad, I want your SMAW teams to lay into those bunkers as best you can. We brought you a ton of Mk 80 rockets. You keep their heads down while First and Second Squads get in close and take ’em out with grenades if necessary.”

  The squad leaders all nodded and went to work getting their soldiers ready.

  The Devil’s Head was an outcropping on the mountain. The enemy had built a string of bunkers for their machine-gun teams there, as well as some smaller field guns. The damn place provided enfilading fire across many of the paths needed to move further up the mountain. Taking it out was a top priority but something that had eluded them on their previous tries.