Assault by Fire

by Lt. Col. H. Ripley Rawlings IV (USMC, Ret. )

  Like civilian casualties, thought Tyce.

  The men nodded, and Tyce continued, “Once I’m done talking, get your men into the woods, break out your maps, and pair up with someone who knows the area. I want one senior leader, staff sergeant or above, with every vehicle section. You figure out how to make that happen, but do it quickly. Stay up on your radios at all times, but no chatter. We don’t know who else might be listening.”

  “Is that wise, sir, splitting up?” asked another NCO.

  “Yes, we’re a target together. A big, fat target with no ammo to defend ourselves. Got it? Thant’s the mission for now. Pick covered routes through the forest, and we’ll rally at the city of Parsons for more orders. You all are big boys and girls—I trust you to make it happen.”

  “Time line?” asked another.

  “I’d say about five hours from now.”

  “What then?” asked another.

  “We make a longer-range plan.” Tyce was done. Any more Q&A was likely going to become counterproductive, “Everyone copy? Understood?” He looked around at their faces ready to turn and go, but one of the sergeants—a kid he remembered from Canfield, another local town—blurted out, “Sir, those are our families down there. We can’t just . . . abandon them!”

  Now it was Lieutenant Zane’s turn. He answered angrily before Tyce could. “We’re not abandoning anyone, soldier.” he growled, flashing an angry look. “We’re taking a calculated, tactical step to higher ground. Getting to a position of advantage to take stock, gain some intel, and then strike with precision. We do no one any good rushing in. As a weapons section leader, you should know how important prep is before combat. And you heard the major. We’re not racing in to get everyone killed on a fruitless, hasty assault. We’re living to fight another day. Then we can knock these bastards out of Morgantown. Our town.”

  “Don’t you mean retreating, sir?” The man responded to Lieutenant Zane, but the comment was clearly leveled toward Tyce and his decision to take to the hills.

  Damn it, thought Tyce. The men are on edge and are apt to speak frankly now.

  Not a bad thing ordinarily; he was trying to gain confidence through a difficult decision, they were all volunteers, after all. But it gave Tyce a terrible sinking feeling of doubt coupled with self-loathing that he was once again dooming his men.

  “How about you shut your fucking trap and follow orders!” barked Lieutenant Zane.

  Tyce was thankful for the support, but the timing wasn’t perfect. Using force to keep everyone in line wouldn’t last long, and he knew it. His order was a huge ask. With many of their homes and families threatened, he needed reason and willingness. He needed to give them a solid plan. Something to believe in.

  Still, Tyce’s stomach sank as low as ever, and he started to remember what he hated most about military leadership. Responsibility for men who were going to get killed or wounded once again rested on his shoulders. He set his misgivings aside and spoke in a clear and consistent tone meant to settle the debate, at least temporarily.

  “Okay, look, I know as well as you do that there are thousands of innocent civilians down there. Families and friends. But I also know that the likelihood of the enemy waging war against civilians is less than zero. That means we are the target. Or more likely, our HQ. We get to Parsons, we reorganize, and we come back and kick these motherfuckers’ asses.”

  Tyce normally tried to steer away from too much profanity in front of the men, it made his talk cheap, but it seemed appropriate, and the men needed to know he at least believed in what he was saying.

  Tyce looked to Gunnery Sergeant Dixon, “I also think I know how I can get our hands on some ammunition. Gunny, pull your section into the trees with mine. After everyone’s headed out, I have another mission for you.” He turned back to his leadership. “The rest of you, stay up on your encrypted radios, but don’t make a call unless it’s urgent. These guys look like a modern army, and I’m sure they’ll have direction-finding gear. We link up at Parsons in five hours.”

  The men all raced off to their unit, and Tyce turned to the Gunny.

  “What about the colonel?” asked the Gunny, half under his breath, “By now, he and the Headquarters company have made it to the reserve center. Directly under that cloud of paratroopers.” He pointed to a black plume of smoke rising from the vicinity. More gunfire echoed a deep staccato in the distance.

  “The colonel will have to hold his own. He didn’t make it to colonel for nothing.” Brushing the point aside, he pulled out his map again, “Gunny, did you see that gun store a bit back—the one near the city of Anmoore?”

  “Which one? We passed like five of ’em.”

  “Okay, you pick, then. The largest one, I guess. I want you to do a raid on the local gun store. See if they have any hidden firearms left over from the assault weapons ban that we can . . . um . . . commandeer.”

  “Ha! I thank God we live in West Virginia. Can’t go ten miles without finding a gun store.”

  Tyce’s Humvee drivers and many others had already gotten wind of what was up and pulled off into the woods. Gunny followed Tyce over where the two unfolded the map on the hood of Tyce’s Humvee and formulated a plan to confiscate some civilian ammunition.

  CHAPTER 11

  Dulles International Airport, Washington, D.C.

  The giant Ilyushin Il-76 four-engine Russian jet shook violently on landing. The wet brakes squealed, but the brand-new tires stabilized the big, overloaded aircraft and plowed cleanly through the slushy snow. The engines whined into reverse, and the large plane turned and taxied to the Dulles airport service apron, stopping at gate A6. Every few minutes, a similar aircraft touched down behind them.

  A newly and hastily promoted General Kolikoff raised the window shade from inside the jet and surveyed Dulles International Airport.

  Is it a perk of finally being in the right camp at the right time? he had thought when Tympkin had produced the one-star shoulder boards just before their flight departed. The promotion had done little for his station or even his future outlook. Plus, he was still flying in with little fanfare and absolutely zero of the creature comforts he’d imagined were afforded to a general.

  Barren. Cold. Not much to look at, he thought. It was just the airport, after all, but this was his first time to America, and he had been expecting something different. Something . . . more.

  Rows and rows of neatly parked civilian airliners sat quietly at odd intervals, abandoned at their gates. He scanned the terminal building for any signs of life. There must have been some shooting involved when seizing Dulles, because Kolikoff could see that a few of the large windows were shattered. Four grey shapes passed rapidly by his window going in the opposite direction. Kolikoff immediately recognized them from their tail fins: Mikoyan MiG-35 Russian jet fighters, probably headed out to intercept more remnant U.S. Air Force. He’d calculated they’d be a nuisance until they greatly diminished their numbers, but they were now operating scattered and without any centralized authority.

  If everything was still working according to his and the SPETS-VTOR computer’s plan, there would be even more heavy air transports arriving carrying attack helicopters that would give them more of an edge on the ground while the fighters took care of the skies. Right now, the Russians on the ground would still be attacking American military centers. The infantry had need for more than the multi-role attack aircraft that had just passed. Kolikoff had arrived in the middle of the pack, the third wave. There were fourteen more waves yet to come, and until they had everything on the ground, he was nervously watching for signs the plan or its interwoven time lines were slipping.

  No matter, he thought. This is proof that the plan is working, and we now have command of the American skies.

  With most of America’s active forces still fighting overseas in Iran, the surprise invasion had caught America with little but home defense units, the National Guard, and the not-yet-mobilized reserves.

  “A disorganized rabble
of weekend warriors,” he had explained to the generals in the planning rooms back in Moscow.

  Kolikoff had spent most of the eight-hour flight over the Atlantic rehashing the timetables. He had most of the major moving parts memorized. During the trip, he’d lain awake, restless and fretting over the smallest details in the exacting deployment schedule created by the SPETS-VTOR. Kolikoff and his men had calculated things to the last detail, but they had relied heavily on the timing recommended by the SPETS-VTOR. Much more than his neck was on the line now. But his mind was more at ease now that they had landed. He might soon get radio or other comms confirming that timings were on track.

  He knew that literally several armies’ worth of men, about three hundred thousand, were swarming toward the United States from greatly dispersed locations by ship and by air. By now, all critical U.S. air response aircraft and missile batteries should have been killed on the ground, allowing these follow-on Russian waves to penetrate. Confusion and surprise were Russia’s best friends on the battlefields today. Overwhelming the enemy’s system was a function of Koilikoff’s plan, but it also left many parts vulnerable as they infiltrated the U.S. borders. He would fret over that part until they got the word that their precisely targeted attacks had successfully demolished this scattered defense system.

  America is just too wide and too broad to defend, he thought, a thousand little attacks sow the seeds of confusion and shock, and gradually the door opens.

  These were, after all, locations where no one had really seen an invader for over two hundred years.

  Surrounded by hundreds of sleeping soldiers, Kolikoff was eminently aware that while the men slept fitfully, he, as the central planner for the American invasion, had been struggling to get even a few moments of rest without being awakened by his racing mind.

  He stared through the window as they taxied some more. There was no more time to worry; he knew better than most that, right now, time was of the essence. He needed to get the computer hooked up as soon as possible. He stood up uncomfortably from the mesh cargo seat and stretched aching muscles, then went to the back of the aircraft. There, his three majors were sleeping in a jumble on the steel floor and partially on the boxes that housed the SPETS-VTOR PKS, the portable version of his big-brained computer. He envied the majors their utter lack of concern or even awareness of the massive undertaking going on around them. He shook them roughly awake, pushing them with his boot.

  The portable system was not exactly portable according to most people’s understanding of the word. It consisted of three large military cases, each about the size of a large refrigerator. This smaller version of Kolikoff’s wonder-work combat computer would provide necessary battlefield predictions in the short term until they could set up a satellite uplink. Once established, the system would communicate with its bigger pal back in Moscow and could harness every bit of the powerful mainframe.

  The heavy transport aircraft’s back ramp lowered, and bright morning sunlight broke into the still-darkened space. A gust of bone-chilling winter wind entered the cabin along with the bright morning light. Everyone aboard grumbled loudly as they came awake.

  A Russian airman’s voice boomed above the whine of the jet’s still-spinning turbofans, directing everyone to stand aside. A forklift appeared behind the big Russian air force sergeant and banged noisily up the plane’s ramp. Two men ran aboard the aircraft and unhitched the SPETS-VTOR computer system boxes, and the big forklift proceeded to lift them and head back down the ramp.

  At the same time, the front entrance opened and a hard-edged, dirty, and battle-weary Russian army officer squeezed into the crowded compartment. He looked around the plane, holding up a photo and scanning the faces of all the soldiers.

  Spotting General Kolikoff, he pointed at him. He shouted above the noise, “You are to come with me, General. Immediately.” He signaled to someone outside the plane’s forward hatch, and four soldiers boarded quickly, grabbed both Kolikoff’s and his majors’ military packs, then raced up the Dulles jet bridge.

  “How . . . I mean, what is your mission with me, Captain? Am I under arrest?” asked Kolikoff with some trepidation. This was not in his plan, and he still had a deep-rooted fear from his days in front of a firing squad. The entire aircraft was now focused on him.

  The captain stared at Kolikoff for a moment, thoroughly puzzled. Then something funny seemed to register, and the captain started laughing. Judging from the dry, caked mud on his uniform and streaks of dirty sweat across his brow, he looked like he hadn’t laughed in a while. He turned back to the front of the aircraft, still laughing, and said, “Sir, just follow me. I’ll explain the rest as we go.” The words didn’t exactly settle Kolikoff’s still air-sickened stomach.

  * * *

  Together, they all followed the captain through the mostly dark Dulles terminal. Past several lobbies with closed fast-food and pizza eateries, wine bars, and even some fashionable clothing stores. All were darkened and closed. Kolikoff spotted two blood-stained bodies in blue uniforms. From the look of it, they were airport police officers. Probably didn’t even have weapons, just looked official as the first wave of Spetsnaz seized the airport. You didn’t have to be military to die in a war, just look like you might be an off icial and they’d take you out. Spetsnaz didn’t take chances. It was the first sign to Kolikoff that he and the men had entered not just a war zone but a battlefield to boot. The differences were not subtle.

  Down the rest of the Concourse, Russian soldiers scattered amongst the gates were working with vast arrays of communications equipment and hastily cracking open boxes from transports backed directly against the terminal. Long lines of weary Russian soldiers spilled out of arriving passenger jets and into the terminal. They were bleary eyed from their flights but likewise looking around curiously at the terminal with the interest of kids in a new playground. As each soldier entered through their gates and into America, they were directed toward a neat line of logistics officers standing next to the broken-open wooden crates. Each one handed the men a rifle and machine gun ammunition, rations, grenades, and various other equipment. Washington’s Dulles airport was back in business, just not in the manner intended by the former occupants.

  Once they were outside the front of the terminal, the cold wind whipped the faces of Kolikoff and his three majors to a bright red, and they all squinted and blinked in the bright winter morning’s sunshine. This was their first good look at America. They didn’t seem impressed.

  “This is it?” said Major Quico, careful to keep his voice low so Kolikoff wouldn’t hear him. “It just looks like Russia . . . I mean, where are the discos and the girls?”

  “They are not here at the airport, you idiot,” said Major Pavel.

  “But where is the Statue of Liberty?” asked Major Drugov.

  “Idiot!” said Pavel. “That is in Boston.”

  A large, black SUV was waiting for them. They stowed their gear and took a seat. Inside, they were greeted by a full bar and big screen TV. The captain had clearly commandeered the best vehicle he could lay his hands on. Pavel reached toward the bar, but received a quick slap from Kolikoff, whose look was enough to get the major to immediately sit back down.

  The SUV drove off, and finally the special forces captain spoke, “General, I am Captain Shenkov. I am a special forces commander. We seized our objective and exceeded the time line, but I lost most of my men. They sent me and what’s left of my unit to be your personal bodyguards.”

  Kolikoff was beginning to get the picture of what his operation looked like on the ground. A lot of personal sacrifice. A lump swelled in his throat, “How were you able to seize it so quickly?” he heard himself say.

  “The resistance was smaller than we expected. I guess they never really planned for a full and determined attack. We exploded into their midst; they were not ready for us. Still, it was a very bloody fight. We only just completed mopping up.”

  Kolikoff knew by heart which Spetsnaz forces he’d assigned to w
hich targets in the invasion order for the American capital of D.C. But, in his sleep-deprived state, Kolikoff hadn’t thought to look at the patch on the captain’s uniform before they got into the SUV.

  “And what was your objective, Captain?” asked Kolikoff.

  “We came ashore yesterday aboard one of the phony cargo ships—Shujaa was her name. Our objective was to capture the Pentagon.”

  CHAPTER 12

  Parsons, West Virginia

  The drive to the city of Parsons, West Virginia, had been hair-raising. Radio silence was broken more than was comfortable to Tyce. Some of the reports were from scouts spotting Russian forces and seemed legit; while others were just ghosts called over the radio by skittish men broken into the new realities of war. The sky was littered with an ever-growing mix of aircraft. A mix of small attack jet fighters and larger, high-flying aircraft which were presumed by most to be assortments of heavy lift transports. For the last part of their journey, every fifteen minutes or so, the men spotted or heard something new overhead. Because of the bumpy roads and with parts of the route through deep woods, no one was really certain who the aircraft belonged to. So they bolted for forest cover when any aircraft was spotted.

  A few sky battles raged overhead. The men watched from under cover as fighters and bombers fought in winding and looping spirals. The fighters chased higher-flying aircraft; then other fighters joined the mix. At any other time it would look like a wonderful aerial display of the modern flying age. But the men watched as a dozen or more aircraft were shot down, falling toward earth in flaming, smoking heaps. Missile launches scratched at the sky with long white streaks. Many of the battles started in view, but the ultimate fates of the pilots often occurred out of sight and over the horizons. Without any of the specialized, ultra-high-frequency radios needed to communicate, they couldn’t talk to any of them, or even really guess who was winning.