Assault by Fire

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

  “Oh, you mean you, Chief?” said Tyce, a look of incredulity on his face. “We’d be privileged to have your assistance, but I thought you were committed to the town and couldn’t leave for military purposes.”

  “No,” the chief smiled. “Not me. But he is right here in my station. In fact, he’s right downstairs. In my jail. Caught him with a load of weapons and explosives. We were going to charge him with looting, but you’re welcome to use him, I suppose. I guess I’ll have to help you break him out of my own jail . . .” he trailed off, an unhappy smirk on his face.

  Tyce’s expression fell, too. A jailbird. Not quite the bona fides he’d been hoping for.

  CHAPTER 15

  Tyce and SSgt. Diaz followed the chief through the police department HQ, their garage, and down to the Parsons jail. SSgt. threw her machine gun over her shoulder, a belt of ammo hanging out, her muscles bulging. “Hey, sir, follow my lead with this guy. I’ve dealt with prison types before.”

  “You’ve been to prison, Diaz?” he asked, but from her expression, he immediately regretted asking. As her boss, he shouldn’t worry much about her past. “Sorry, probably stuff you don’t want to talk about.”

  “Nah, I don’t care. Just brings back some sour memories of my days before the Corps straightened me out. I’ve been to prison more times than you can count.”

  Tyce eyed her up. Obviously, there was a lot he still didn’t know about his troops.

  She smiled. “Not me personally, sir. Though, I’ve had more than a few, ahem, brushes with the law. No, my ex went up the river.”

  Tyce looked at her quizzically.

  “Oh, I forget you don’t know shit about New York. ‘Up the river’ means Sing Sing.”

  “Sing Sing? The prison? I thought that was just in the movies.”

  “Nope. It’s a state pen. Those electric fences hold back some of the worst criminal minds in New York. And it’s very much open for business. Bursting at the seams, in fact. Or at least it was last time I checked. Hopefully the Russians keep the guards. You don’t want my ex, or any of his gang, or even guys like him out of jail. They belong in the hoosegow. Trust me, if they let those guys out, we’ll have a lot more to worry about than the Russians.”

  When they got to the basement, the chief unlocked the big steel door and pointed to the back. The only man in the detention cell was lying on his side, his wrists bound, his back to them.

  Diaz approached first, lowering her weapon to her hip in a menacing fashion.

  “Hey cell warrior, heard you got popped with some hot swag. Where’d you strap the dinner gongs?” Diaz’s rapid switch to full street demeanor coupled with a renewed emphasis on her Big Apple accent, Tyce was surprised to find he could barely understand her.

  The man didn’t turn, but he responded in a deep Southern drawl. “Took ’em off a dead Russkie, Bronx. He didn’t need ’em no more, and I fig’red I could find a good use for ’em,” the man said, as nonchalantly as if he were retelling an old war story in a bar.

  Tyce had seen the man’s mangled motorcycle in the garage before coming down to the basement. It was riddled with bullet holes and badly crumpled, and the man himself looked like he’d hit the pavement. This dude is damned lucky to be alive, thought Tyce.

  “Did you bitch and run?” asked Diaz.

  “Nah. Russians popped some caps. Did you see my bike?”

  “So, you bitched out.” teased Diaz further.

  Tyce gave her a look as if to tell her to knock it off and get back to their purpose.

  “Anyhow, I ain’t talking, unless you gonna buy me a new cycle?” the man said. Obviously the motorcycle had meant a lot to him.

  SSgt. Diaz knelt down beside him, pulled out her combat knife, and cut the zip tie free. Tyce looked on dubiously. She kept her weapon toward the man as he slowly rose up from the steel bench, eying them both.

  “What’s your name?”

  “Wynand.”

  “Just Wynand?”

  “Yep.”

  “Okay, Wynand. Just how handy are you on motorcycles?”

  “Been riding one since I was fifteen.” Wynand rubbed his skinned elbows and looked SSgt. Diaz up and down, then over to Tyce, “What’s with the She-Hulk? She actually in the military, or do you just keep her around to chew nails and spit horseshoes?”

  “She is most definitely in the military,” Diaz spat out. “Has been for over thirteen years.”

  Tyce glanced at SSgt. Diaz, who glared angrily at Wynand and fingered the trigger of her weapon. Many still didn’t believe females could serve in the infantry. SSgt. Diaz was not just an exceptionally fit Marine, though; she also thought quickly on her feet and employed her machine gun section with precision.

  “Look,” Tyce interrupted. The gang-like posturing was not going anywhere, “I’m going to cut right to the chase. I need a scout. Someone who can think and act quickly, who can go below the radar and get some information for us.”

  “I didn’t escape your dragnet, boss man. What makes you think I can help you recon the baddies? Assuming that’s what you’re after.”

  “Call me a good judge of character. I need someone who can get in and out and get me the lay of the land in Morgantown. Mostly, someone to find out if the Russians have arrived in strong enough numbers that they can start pushing their forces into the mountains to look for the likes of us. Would you be willing?”

  “Depends.”

  “Ah, yes. You probably want a new motorcycle. What would you say if I got you a nice BMW cruiser from the police impound lot?”

  “I’d say forget it . . . I only ride ’Merican-made iron. Harleys.”

  “Okay, make it a Harley, then.”

  “Dyna or a Fat Boy. I won’t take anything smaller than twelve hundred CCs.” Even incarcerated, Wynand seemed pretty slick at sniffing out a deal.

  “Deal. In fact, just to make sure you don’t run off with your new ride, I’ll even give you the Russian weapons back when you return. And maybe even a little more.”

  “Wait. You’re sending me to recon Russians with no weapons?”

  “Yup.”

  Wynand scratched his head, contemplating the deal. Tyce couldn’t be certain, but it looked like he was also plotting how he’d get away from Tyce and Diaz as soon as possible. Tyce hoped he’d settle on the best, most logical conclusion: do the job, get some free stuff, and then run.

  “Okay. I’m in. Where do I pick up the wheels?”

  “You can ride with me to the impound lot. I’ll brief you on the way and show you what we know about the Russians, but more importantly what we still really need to know about their composition, disposition, and strength.”

  “Planning on launching an attack?”

  “Well . . . that’s need to know, Wynand. But if you have the stomach for it, I could use you beyond just reconning the Russians.”

  “Got it, boss man. I’m in . . . for a bit. What’s say you lemme have some heat. A shotgun, a pistol. Something for my own protection.”

  “For your sake, I think you’d be better off unarmed. If they capture you with a weapon, especially with one of the Russian weapons we caught you with, I’m pretty certain they won’t be as understanding as we were.”

  Just then, one of the men, Corporal Keller raced in, practically out of breath, “Hey, sir, the eastern blocking force has a few military vehicles stopped.”

  “Okay, good. We could definitely add some more fighting power to our ranks.” Tyce thought rapidly. Maybe it was Colonel Nepo finally coming to take back charge of his unit. “What kind of vehicles? Trucks? Anything with some armor would be a welcome surprise.”

  “Uh, no, sir. They said it was a couple o’ ambulances.”

  “Ambulances? What—military hospital ambulances?”

  “Yes, sir, and that’s not all. The head . . . uuuh . . . person in charge is ordering the men around at the checkpoint. Yelling at them and such. They say it’s . . . like, a navy admiral.”

  “What the hell. Navy ho
spital personnel . . .” Tyce shook his head in disbelief.

  Wynand spoke up, “Looks like your troubles are just starting, my friend.”

  “About right. Let’s go get you over to Gunny for a briefing, and I’ll go check out the latest crisis.”

  * * *

  Tyce arrived at the eastern blocking force in less than ten minutes after dropping off Wynand, but looking through his Humvee windshield, he could see things were still pretty heated. Three personnel in U.S. Navy utility uniforms were lambasting his men. For the most part, the men didn’t seem to be standing up for themselves, and in short order Tyce could tell why. Their leader was a curvy female in a well-fitting uniform who not only had her fiery temper on display in full force, but was also completely disregarding his men’s orders to get back to her vehicle. She was forcefully and effectively holding off their attempts to zip-tie her and put her and her sailors in the containment area as they were ordered to do with any new arrivals.

  Tyce walked over, and before he could speak, she took notice of him and pushed one of his Marines aside. “Are you in charge of these . . . these . . . infants? ’Cause I’m here to tell you, this is some real bullshit. Have you not trained your men to recognize and respect a U.S. Navy uniform?”

  Tyce saw the rank insignia of a U.S. Navy lieutenant commander on her collar, the equivalent of Tyce’s Marine Corps rank of major. He held up a hand to wave back the men, who were still trying to get her and her sailors to comply with the roadblock and vehicle search procedures.

  “Lieutenant Commander . . .”

  “Remington,” she said, pointing to the name tape on her breast pocket. Tyce refrained from looking down at her name tape and tried to maintain eye contact.

  Instead, he replied, “Look. We’ve had a lot to worry about in the last day or two, and you can’t fault my men for being cautious. Now, what, can I ask, is a U.S. Navy medical team doing up here in the woods?”

  “Haven’t you heard?”

  “Heard what?”

  “D.C. is . . .”

  Tyce’s eyebrows went up, shocked he was talking to someone who might bring news from the capital.

  “Yes?” he said, mentally preparing to hear that D.C. had been nuked.

  “Captured. Taken over. The Russians have seized D.C. and the Pentagon, the whole area, and are installing the secretary of state as the new President of the United States. They were rounding up all the troops, anyone in uniform. So I . . . we . . . well, we fled. We figured there might be some kind of resistance forming, and we aimed to make ourselves useful.”

  Tyce was shocked but not surprised to hear that D.C. had fallen, but he still had more pressing concerns. He figured someone else would have to deal with D.C. With the Russians on all sides of the Blue Ridge Mountains, Tyce was virtually surrounded. It made sense though. Of course they would seize D.C. Probably used some of their best troops for that.

  That gave Tyce a thought, though, It might mean the troops in Morgantown were not their best. Hopefully bottom-of-the-barrel leaders, too.

  After all, there were about ten or twenty other military bases, state capitals, and other industrial centers Tyce could think of—just off the top of his head—that were more important than their little neck of the woods. That might just be their greatest advantage. As he contemplated the situation, things gradually become clearer.

  “Okay,” Tyce started, “you can join us. We could very much use some medical assistance based on what we’re planning to do.”

  “Wait,” she said, hands on hips. “Who the hell said I wanted to join you?”

  “You said you were looking for the resistance. Well, I’d say you found them . . . us.”

  She gave Tyce a derisive look from head to toe. “You? You’re the resistance?”

  “So? The U.S. Marine Corps isn’t good enough for you, Miss?”

  “So, it’s Commander, Dr. Remington, or Victoria to my friends. Which you are not.”

  Tyce sighed. He could use less of the sarcasm, but he was becoming used to it. That made two women who seemed very quick to try to put him in his place. Unfortunately for him, both seemed to have succeeded.

  Last thing I need, he thought, more fiery women who would rather banter than focus on more pressing matters.

  Even in times of war, the military keeps up a jocular banter, sometimes harshly so—whether to keep sane or to ensure the pecking order was still intact, constantly challenging those in leadership seemed to be a caveman-like response. It was just as present here as it was in locker rooms and athletic fields around the world.

  “Okay, I get it. You are one tough cookie, but I have a regiment of Marines and soldiers . . . at least, what’s left of one. For what it’s worth, we are ready and armed, and we intend to take the fight to the enemy.”

  She eyed him again, this time with dubious pursed lips and furrowed brow. “I guess I was expecting, like, a general, or a tank commander, or something.”

  “Tanks wouldn’t be of too much use up here in the mountains . . . Vicky.” Tyce smiled. He had absorbed enough heat, and thought he’d better toss a bit back.

  “Definitely never Vicky . . .” She glared.

  “Look. I think we can help each other.” Tyce glanced past Victoria at her two medical Humvee ambulances. “Are those fully stocked?”

  “With a full field surgery,” she said proudly.

  “Do you know how to work a full field surgery?” now it was his turn to be a little dubious. She certainly didn’t look like any surgeon he’d met. Most navy surgeons were stuffy old men who wore beady, odd-color-framed glasses and had little in the way of a bedside manner, or even any real people skills. She seemed quite the opposite.

  “Yes. And I’ve taken care of plenty of your boys downrange in both Iraq and Afghanistan.”

  “Good enough for me. Let’s cease fire. Saddle up—you and your troops follow me to our headquarters.”

  She motioned for her sailors to mount up, but couldn’t resist one more barb. “You have a headquarters?” A phony skeptical expression on her face.

  Tyce was deciding whether to ignore the remark when a Marine radio operator ran over with a yellow canary—a sort of military callback slip for radios. It was from Gunny: “Mr. Wynand has been briefed and given detailed instructions of zones where we need intel in Morgantown. Request permission for him to depart friendly lines.”

  Tyce nodded to the radio operator. “Aff irm. Tell Gunny permission granted.”

  Tyce watched Victoria order her sailors around. They were cooperating. Now that the dust had settled, she even looked to be getting some help from some of Tyce’s Marines.

  What am I getting myself into, bringing in noncombatants? A navy medical officer and her sailors. And now sending a civilian into harm’s way. Tyce thought. He was getting in deep, and that made his stomach crawl.

  He had considered sending one or more of his men to recon the city and roads in a civilian vehicle, but as far as he knew, everyone was still playing by the rules. He wasn’t about to be responsible for being the first to break the Geneva Convention, getting his men publicly shot—or worse, hanged—for conducting reconnaissance out of their uniforms. And likely cause a lot of other rule-breaking from the Russians in response.

  Later, they just might have to break the rules, but for now, it would be stupid to even show up on the Russians’ radar. As far as they knew, he didn’t exist. They were ghosts in the hills, and he needed to keep things that way for the time being. He knew that the enemy had tremendous firepower, while he was struggling just to get ahold of some more ammunition.

  Not exactly in the Marine Corps playbook, but war is war, he thought. And Wynand has a better chance of developing some useful intelligence than any of my Marines or soldiers.

  CHAPTER 16

  Parsons

  “There’s no doubt about it, boss man. They are coming. And if my guess is right, their main force will be here in about ten or twelve hours. Can’t be sure, but there were some smaller group
s, too. Look to be sweeping through all the mountain roads.” said Wynand.

  “All in military vehicles?”

  “Best I could tell.”

  “Armament?”

  “Jeep-looking things, rifles and machine guns. A few mini tanks with wheels.”

  “BTRs . . . ” said Tyce, thumbing his chin and lost for a moment in thought.

  “They don’t look like they ’spect much. Just cruisin’.”

  Tyce and the others gathered around a big map of Tucker County on the sheriff’s office wall. Their group included a few of the new additions—Captain Ned Blake and his senior troops. The operations staff had stuck little red pins representing the enemy into the map based on the last spot Wynand had given them. The intelligence officers had been calculating the rates of march of each of the various trucks and Russian armored cars. From Wynand’s report, it sounded like their main vehicles were the GAZ Tigr, similar to a Humvee, and the BTR-90, a fearsome armed and armored car with a big 30mm cannon.

  The intelligence chief looked up at Tyce and nodded. “That’s about right. Twelve hours if they’re scanning and searching, ten if they’re hoofing it.”

  “Okay.” Tyce looked around. “Captain Blake, I want to slow them down. Give us time to prepare. We set up an ambush to the south.” Tyce pointed to the likely road they’d take based on Wynand’s reports, “Dig in and hit them hard from the flanks. Something akin to what the Taliban used to do to us in Afghanistan.” Most troops in the makeshift HQ, except the youngest who had never been deployed to war, nodded their understanding.

  It’s good to have some battle-hardened warriors in the mix, thought Tyce. We have some instant understanding and standard operating procedures from our shared experience of fighting counterinsurgency all over the Middle East.

  Tyce wondered if they would be too overbearing for the local constabulary. The police chief and the town’s sheriff had never really dealt with this many troops before.

  Let alone actual combat, Tyce thought.

  Gunny leaned in. “What are you thinking, sir?”

  “Hmm . . .” said Tyce, foreboding thoughts of getting citizens to work with soldiers shattered for the moment. “I’ll tell you what I’m thinking. Draw them in, then double ambush. One outside the city, about a mile and a half north. Just something to whet their appetite. I want them to get a taste, but then I want them to send in a lot of toys for the second ambush. Something deep in the mountains.” He pointed to a spot on the map. “This valley. Harman Valley. It has good roads and good woods. The first ambush will also delay them so we can set up a shitstorm at the second. They won’t fuck with us for a while if we can whip ’em good.”