Assault by Fire

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

  Then a lone aircraft appeared, making regular sweeping patterns from north to south. A drone. A high-altitude, wide-wingspan reconnaissance drone, they speculated. Likely fitted with the latest in surveillance gear to see in the infrared and ultraviolet spectrums. The men remained relatively defenseless against it all. It was all enough to make the infantry and reconnaissance men’s hair stand on end.

  It was on this rare occasion that Tyce broke radio silence when they appeared and instructed the troops to go into deeper cover and remain there until it was gone. They were almost certainly reconnaissance aircraft looking for any surviving American troops.

  * * *

  Five hours later, Tyce’s Humvee pulled up to the Parsons town hall. Several of the other four-vehicle Humvee groups had made it and were parked in distributed areas under trees or under the bank and fast-food restaurant overhangs to hide from further aerial observation.

  Tyce spoke briefly with the few men assembled outside the town hall waiting for him, then sent word for Gunny and SSgt. Diaz. The city’s municipal building was an old, well-constructed two-story red brick building with a four-story clock tower that commanded a view of the town and valley.

  Tyce directed four men to go up into the tower to keep a lookout. He and Gunny were discussing what to do next when SSgt. Diaz’s Humvee pulled up and she hopped out, her machine gun over her shoulder and Trigger at her side. The dog’s expression—tail sagging, quiet but alert to the slightest movement or noise—seemed to mimic that of the troops. His eyes glanced around constantly, and his ears changed direction at any new sound, even the ones at frequencies above human hearing.

  “Gunny, how much ammo did we end up confiscating?” said Tyce, petting Trigger as they spoke.

  “Some.” replied Gunny.

  Tyce grimaced, understanding only too well the implications. “Okay, look, here’s what I want to do,” said Tyce. “Let’s see if we can find the mayor and let him know we’re here for some rest and preparation but don’t intend to stay. Civilian authorities are going to be wary of any kind of troops in their valley.”

  “I think we’ll be lucky if we don’t find them whimpering back in their homes,” said SSgt. Diaz with a smile.

  “Yeah, well, tell the men to stay sharp, and let’s head up and see who’s still around at their posts and doing their jobs. If we’re lucky, they won’t be interested in us and we can commandeer some fuel and food.”

  The small group followed Tyce up the stone steps, passing a large copper sign that stated the building was both the Parsons city hall and also the seat of the Tucker County government. The building was old, but clearly was a proud monument to the city and county.

  Two large oak and etched-glass doors creaked open, and they caught a glimpse of the men Tyce had dispatched racing up the wide wooden stairs to try to gain access to the clock tower. Tyce pointed out old black-and-white photos adorning the walls of packs of scruffy boys gathered outside the courthouse through the ages. It was not until they passed several that Tyce realized they were pictures of mountain men from the community who had just volunteered and were being sworn in to head off to World War I, World War II, Korea, and Vietnam.

  Many of them didn’t come home, thought Tyce.

  Tyce and the rest headed up the stairs, looking for someone in charge. After they had climbed to the top, a heavyset, mustachioed man in a grey and blue uniform with a sheriff’s badge halted their progress. He had his pistol drawn and was holding Tyce’s men at bay. In turn, they were looking back at Tyce for instructions. It looked to be a bit of a standoff, but Tyce quickly assessed the situation and defused it.

  “Hi, Sheriff. My men are under my orders to get up into your clock tower and keep a lookout. If we can get your permission, that would be helpful.”

  “Permission not granted,” said the sheriff, now leveling the pistol at Tyce.

  Tyce signaled for his men to lower their rifles, and he ascended the last few steps two at time. “Sheriff, I’m not certain if you know just what’s going on, but we need to keep a watch over the roads leading into the valley. We’ve . . . that is, America has been invaded.” It sounded completely odd coming out of his mouth, enough so that his voice even wavered a bit, making it sound less believable still.

  “So you say.” The sheriff still didn’t lower his pistol. “You the guy in charge?” He asked, looking down the stairs past Tyce and his small group. “Or is there someone else more important coming?”

  “No. I’m Major Tyce Asher. I’m in charge.” Remembering he was just in charge temporarily until the colonel could be found, he added, “For now . . .”

  “Okay, then come with me.” The sheriff holstered his pistol and indicated a door with the word “MAYOR” emblazoned across it. “Send your men back down. There’s no guns allowed in the county courthouse. And when you’re done, go talk to the chief of police. I don’t work with any federal government ninnies.”

  Tyce and his men stared at the sheriff, a little taken aback by his boldness, but proceeded.

  Maybe this wasn’t a good idea after all, thought Tyce, but he and Gunny gave SSgt. their weapons and nodded for her to lead the men back as Tyce and Gunny followed the sheriff into the mayor’s office.

  Inside, they found an old, traditional, but comfortable waiting room. The walls were lined with framed children’s drawings, obviously from some contest to decorate the mayor’s office. An interesting touch.

  A mayor of the people, Tyce thought. I’ll be able to work with this guy. He’ll want to protect his community.

  The sheriff knocked on the next set of doors.

  “Mayor, you have some visitors.”

  The door opened revealing a middle-aged, well-dressed, and shapely red-haired woman. She gave a half-smile but narrowed her eyes when she saw Tyce and Gunny. With a quiet Southern accent, she said, “Why, hello there, boys,” waving them into her office. “We’re mighty busy, but why don’t y’all come on in and have a seat?”

  Tyce was not interested in tying up any more of his time line with local bumpkin politicians, even beautiful ones. Before anyone was even seated, he impatiently began, “Okay, ma’am—”

  “Honorable Mayor Susanna Holly of Parsons works,” she interrupted in a forced but patient monotone, pointing to the words on a wooden name block on her desk: MAYOR SUSANNA HOLLY.

  She smiled as she returned behind her desk, sitting slowly and deliberately, smoothing her skirt and making a teepee with her hands, “Or sometimes just Susanna . . . once folks get to know me a while.” She winked.

  Then her smile faded a bit, “Now, what can Tucker County do for our brave men and women in uniform?”

  “Yes, Mrs.—er, Honorable Mayor . . .” Tyce tried to restart his address to her.

  “Why don’t we start this way, Major,” Susanna said, quickly recognizing his military rank. “You all have come to our fair city and county in the mountains because the Russians have taken over Charleston and Morgantown. You and your boys are looking for a place to hole up while you figure out what’s going on, and the little town of Parsons looked like a damn fine spot from your maps.”

  Her eyes scanned between them both, then settled back on Tyce. Underneath her Scarlett O’Hara Southern charm, it was obvious Mayor Susanna Holly was an exceedingly intelligent woman, and likely a very cunning politician. Things were starting to come into perspective for Tyce. He wasn’t about to march into town and provide instructions or even make demands of the local civil authorities—least of all with her at the helm.

  Tyce tried to recover. “Yes . . . that about sums it up. I will add something, though. If we don’t do something about these . . . Russian invaders”—the word Russians still sounded surreal to Tyce—“your authority here in Parsons may not last.” Till now, Tyce had suspected, but hadn’t known for sure it was Russians, “I’m not sure how long they’ll let you keep on being mayor.”

  “Well now, Major, you let lil’ old Susanna worry about that. If they even make it up this far,�
� she said with a grin.

  Her small attempt at humor, small though it was, made the men smile.

  “Meanwhile, you have my permission to grab some fuel and food for your troops. I suspect that’s your ulterior motive, isn’t it?” she winked again, “I’ll see that they open the McDonald’s across the street for your boys. Maybe you can do some planning with my police chief. We can bring in some of the local boys who live up in the hills. They’ll give you tips on places you can hole up until you can get yourselves straight.”

  Tyce was waiting for a “but.” Something told him Mayor Holly was just too shrewd to let the opportunity of Tyce owing her a favor pass her by.

  “Well, that would be a real help. We may have to stay in the hills a little while. At least a few days. We really need to find out just what the Russians are up to.” Tyce scratched his head. Russians. Why in heaven’s name would they be interested in invading the United States?

  Susanna didn’t skip a beat, making Tyce even more sure she had just played him like a fiddle. “Okay, Major, it’s a deal. You all can use our gas and get some local facts.” Her lips curled up into an alluring but deadly smile that didn’t quite materialize through her unblinking eyes. “But let’s just make sure you remember that when our little old town needs some help. We might have to call on you for some little favors . . . From time to time.”

  Great, now he was in for more than one favor. Well, he supposed it was the right thing to do in this crisis. Work with the civil and duly elected officials. Tyce and Gunny stood and followed the sheriff out. Tyce looked over his shoulder and saw Susanna’s gaze following them, her arms across her chest, and her signature charming but disarming half-smile playing on her lips.

  CHAPTER 13

  The Pentagon, Washington, D.C.

  Kolikoff was rushed through a number of dimly lit corridors. In several spots, blast marks on the walls told the tale: the Pentagon had not given up without a fight. Overhead fluorescent lights had been knocked down and some sparked, giving the otherwise modern and well-organized hallways an eerie look. Kolikoff was not really used to the sights and smells of combat. He noticed an acrid mix from explosives or gunpowder and the stink of burning plastic. The heavy odors instantly turned his and the majors’ stomachs.

  Debris was scattered everywhere. Flags of the U.S. military—Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines—were strewn across the floors, and men rushing to and fro trampled over them with seemingly little concern for aught but whatever mission they were on. The area must have been some kind of ceremonial entrance or planning area for high-level personnel. Important-looking papers and dossiers stamped with SECRET or TOP SECRET littered a floor covered with spent shell casings and broken glass from display cases.

  Kolikoff hoped someone was looking through the documents; there were probably valuable secrets they could use. Right now, the fighting Russian soldiers had little regard for the preservation of documents and computers. Kolikoff supposed soon enough Russian intelligence officers would be combing through it all. All part of processes that happened well below his and the SPETS-VTOR’s strategic level of war. He had only drawn up the higher-level plans. The so-called “big blue arrows.” Individual units were assigned to their sectors and would have a host of tasks that he wasn’t privy to. Still, it was odd to be racing along on foot, well below the tactical level. He had a pistol on his side, but he’d been told there was little need for it now. He hoped that was true, because he wasn’t a very good shot. Much better at politicking and staff work than any actual soldiering.

  As the small group continued deeper into the Pentagon, he heard and saw Russian troops running on adjacent corridors. At one point, their security detachment leader, Captain Shenkov, held them up while he spoke into his squad tactical radio throat microphone. After listening for a moment, he held up his hand and indicated for Kolikoff and the majors to kneel as he put his rifle to his shoulder and aimed down the corridor.

  “What is it, man?” hissed Kolikoff ducking behind Shenkov, and with the three majors ducking wild eyed behind him for cover.

  A few bursts of gunfire from an office farther along the hallway. Now Kolikoff understood the reason. Clearly, a few holdouts had barricaded themselves in some of the smaller, tertiary offices. Well, you have to give them credit, Kolikoff thought. The Americans were willing to fight to the death to defend even this giant, five-sided monument to military bureaucracy.

  Two dull explosions later, Captain Shenkov nudged them to start moving again. Kolikoff and the majors tried to peer into the office as they passed but could only see the backs of heavily armed Russian Spetsnaz men, their chests heaving from the exertion of the recent battle, standing among detritus and overturned desks. A Russian officer, his pistol drawn, appeared to be about to deliver the coup de grâce to some unseen enemy behind the desks. They passed, Shenkov indicating for them to hasten their pace. An odd feeling passed through Kolikoff as the sounds of two pistol shots echoed behind him.

  * * *

  Finally, after descending three flights of stairs, they were led to a long corridor. The doors at the end had been blasted open with demolitions. Four men from Spetsgruppa V, the badasses of the badasses, who had taken the building, were resting by the massive steel doors in broken office chairs. Two were cleaning their new AK-12 assault rifles as the other two talked and smoked what looked like American cigarettes, obviously a perk of the capture. The men barely looked at Kolikoff; even his general shoulder boards were not enough to impress these battle-hardened men, but they quickly rose and nodded to Shenkov as he passed.

  Respect from warrior to warrior in the same unit? thought Kolikoff.

  Still, unacceptable behavior. But after a glance at their hardened scowls, he decided it best not to reproach them for their breach in military decorum just now.

  * * *

  Once past the entrance into the room, Kolikoff surveyed his new home: a large, central office surrounded by smaller, glassed-in offices facing the central room. The so-called “Iron Room” in the Pentagon was to be their new headquarters. The command center for the rest of the invasion—and subsequent pacification—of the different states.

  A main computer screen and ten or twelve computer workstations. Most of it looked to have been captured intact. He didn’t have long to take it in. Six men bustled in wheeling the crated SPETS-VTOR on handcarts. Disregarding Kolikoff, they began breaking open the boxes and installing the SPETS-VTOR on top of the existing computers and monitors and connecting them.

  “Do we have a satellite uplink?” Kolikoff asked one of the technicians.

  The junior officer glanced at Kolikoff for a moment. “Yes. All is in order. Please keep out of the way while my men get everything installed.”

  Although the initial phases of the invasion had been completed, America was far from pacified. Kolikoff and the SPET-VTOR had predicted a full six months to destroy organized resistance. During that time, the Russians were vulnerable.

  A commotion at the door distracted Kolikoff from his thoughts. He turned in time to see the four Spetsgruppa men jump to attention. The two smoking men hastily extinguishing their cigarettes under their boot heels, the other two jumping up, pieces of their disassembled rifles spilling onto the floor.

  Five black-clad soldiers entered and looked around briefly, then signaled outside the door. General Tympkin entered behind them. He took the room in quickly and smiled on sighting Kolikoff.

  “Viktor! You have made it in one piece. And it is fitting I find you here, in the veritable belly of the beast.” He came in closer, inspecting the technicians who remained at work installing the SPETS-VTOR.

  “Good, you are already setting up shop.” He clasped a hand on Kolikoff’s shoulder. “Listen, Viktor, I am very proud of your accomplishments. Your predictions have allowed us to make gains we could not have dreamed of ten or even five years ago.” General Tympkin came in even closer, and his voice lowered. “I must ask . . . are you confident in the next phases? I understand most of
the Americans, the civilians I mean, were disarmed of their assault-caliber rifles. But many reports have been coming in that they are still engaging civilians with hunting rifles or shotguns, and in some of the inner cities, they have received murderous fire from pistols and Molotov cocktails.”

  Kolikoff looked at him with surprise. “Well, General . . . we predict . . . that is we . . . uh, the SPETS-VTOR . . .” he stammered.

  “Ah, no matter, no matter. We are well ahead of the time line.” He gripped Kolikoff by his new shoulder boards in a fatherly way. “And as I say, the boys are sweeping these dissidents aside with ease. They pose little threat to our heavily armed forces. The invasion’s first waves and the infiltration tactics and ruses you invented have been more than effective. The precision targets you gave us have all but knocked out any real military resistance. It seems that little computer of yours has been spot on.”

  Kolikoff smiled but remained silent.

  “Ah, I see you are just fresh from the airport. Nyet? I should give you some updates and let you hook up your big brain.”

  General Tympkin sat in a large, comfortable leather office chair. Kolikoff looked around for another chair, then wheeled it over to the general, who seemed in the mood for a chat. Kolikoff noticed his chair was bloodstained. Several bullet holes dotted the back, and the stuffing was coming out. There wasn’t time to appear squeamish in front of Tympkin, though, so he sat down, then instantly regretted it. He could feel the still-wet and sticky blood as it seeped through his camouflage trousers.

  “Let me fill you in on the latest happenings. I know you understand the plan in the larger sense, but war is war, Comrade General, and things change once we make first contact.” Seeing some shock in Kolikoff’s eyes, he added, “Not to worry, the men have improvised where there were gaps in the plan, as our field generals are supposed to.”

  The slights, both that his plan had gaps and that he wasn’t a field commander, were not lost on Kolikoff.