“Okay. Once you light them up, pull right onto the shoulder and get into some cover.”
“What about the squad cars?”
“Sacrifice the cars, save your men.” Tyce practically shouted through the radio.
CHAPTER 18
Parsons
Tyce’s radio came back to life after what seemed like an endless pause. He couldn’t get to a spot to see without turning around the bend and exposing his group to the oncoming Russians.
“Dragoon-six, Dragoon-six, this is Dragoon-nine-nine,” said Gunny, using both of their military call signs. Tyce could hear explosive rounds detonating in the background. Then, a second later, the sound of the bursts echoed across the valley.
“Nine, this is six, send it,” said Tyce.
“Roger, they’ve got us pretty well pinned down. The squad cars are a total wreck, all on fire . . . my Humvee, too.”
“Copy, we’ll get you a replacement. Keep everyone low. Gotta hit ’em now. Break, break.” Tyce took his finger off the handset and paused for a fraction of a second, then keyed again. “Assault element. You are clear, attack time now!” It had all been so hasty, Tyce began a small prayer that Ned had done what he’d asked and more, used a little battlefield intuition to maneuver.
Captain Blake’s voice came over in a clean and crisp but hushed tenor. “Copy. Here we go!”
Tyce dismounted from his Humvee and he and his men crawled up the small rise and watched through night vision goggles just as Captain Blake and his soldiers stepped out from behind cover and sprinted toward the BTR-90, truck, and Tigrs. Thankfully, all seemed fixated on the police car lights and were blazing away. It had all been a cheap and hasty attempt to focus the Russians and Tyce had banked on the Russian commander being too inexperienced to keep an eye on his “six,” or his backside.
Blake and his men were essentially soundless; the continuous chatter of the Russian machine guns and the booming of 30mm cannon as they reduced the cop cars and Humvee to smoking hulks muted their entire approach behind the Russians.
Just as Tyce had calculated, in their lust to attack what they believed were a pocket of mountain men and cops, the Russians had posted no rearward security, and Blake’s men crawled the ten-meter distance in a few seconds, completely undetected. It was an extremely risky endeavor; they were completely exposed, none of them were wearing body armor, or even helmets. Captain Blake said the protective gear would slow them down too much. Tyce expected one of the Russians to turn at any moment and spray Captain Blake and his men with machine gun fire, but no, the Russians were too intent on covering their own men’s advance against Gunny’s forces on the hillside.
Tyce watched through his night vision goggles as six grenades’ pins were pulled and six high-grade kerosene Molotov cocktails were lit, and all were lofted high into the air. The cloth wicks of the Molotovs traced yellow streaks up into the night air. Ned’s men didn’t wait around to see them land. They sprinted back like wide receivers with clear paths to the safety of the end zone.
Tyce clenched his jaw as he watched the plan unfolding. “Hurry, hurry,” he breathed quietly to himself, pumping his fist. His other hand held his carbine steady against a fallen log he’d jumped behind for cover. Even though he was now Ned’s commander, he still felt the urge to share the danger experienced by his men.
Captain Blake and his men hurled themselves the last few meters, diving for cover just as the Molotovs burst, spilling their flaming liquid onto and down the turrets of the Russian vehicles. A moment later, the grenades detonated one by one up and around the Russian vehicles.
The out-of-breath voice of Captain Blake came over the radio. “Dragoon-six, we’re clear.”
Tyce didn’t respond over the radio, instead yelling “Open fire!” at the top of his lungs.
Next to him, SSgt. Diaz and her machine gun platoon had just made it into position and opened up with the two. 50 caliber machine guns and two M240 medium machine guns. Each gun had only one belt of about sixty rounds. It was their only remaining machine gun ammunition.
Tyce shielded his NVGs from the huge flare as the explosions briefly turned night turned into day. Putting the M4 carbine to his shoulder, he and the other riflemen down the small hillock began picking off individual Russians as the machine gunners raked the vehicle crew’s cabs. In the small valley below, it looked like the earth had opened up into a volcano of fire. Vehicles and humans burned, ammo and fuel detonated, adding to the tumult and cacophony of battle. Ricochets from the heavy guns tore chunks of concrete from the road. Splinters of steel from the shredded vehicles cartwheeled in the air, dealing multiple death blows to the Russians.
Almost as soon as it had begun, the firing slowed down to a few sporadic shots as the warriors next to Tyce and Ned’s men picked off individual targets with their rifles. Tyce looked over, and in the flicker of the fires from the burning vehicles, he could see SSgt. Diaz racing between her four machine guns, checking them over and assisting her section. Tyce hoped they had spared a little ammo, but he was pretty certain in the rush of battle, they’d used it all. They needed to be sure they killed the Russians down to the last man.
Dead men tell no tales, thought Tyce as he watched a burning Russian take two bullets to his torso and collapse, still on fire. A gruesome death, but they wouldn’t have afforded us any better. War is hell, in so many ways.
Suddenly, the BTR started moving. Its engine whined at a high pitch, presumably stuck in a lower gear. Three of the tires were burning, but it looked like none of the kerosene from the Molotovs had made it into the crew compartment, though a few of the .50 caliber rounds must’ve caused some slight mechanical damage.
“Shit! Shit!” shouted Tyce, his voice, louder than he’d intended, echoing over the suddenly silent valley.
“I’ve got it, sir!” yelled SSgt. Diaz from down the way.
Tyce looked over to see SSgt. Diaz sitting behind one of her machine guns. Looks like she had saved some rounds for just such a contingency after all, and she opened up with perfect accuracy into the rear of the vehicle. Tyce and the rest of the men stared at her, illuminated from the sparks of her muzzle flashes, her biceps quivering as she fired round after round into the BTR. About half her shots seemed to be having an effect. At any other angle they probably wouldn’t penetrate, but Diaz clearly knew where to hit the vehicle and make it count. Wisely, she fired at the flat sides that presented themselves instead of the sloping sides, which would increase her odds of a ricochet.
In spite of this, after a few bursts, SSgt. Diaz stopped firing. She looked at Tyce and shook her head. She was out of ammo. Still, the hits had an effect. The vehicle’s driver, in a frenzy to get away and unable to steer, his vision possibly blinded by multiple fires atop his vehicle, plowed willy-nilly into the burning Tigrs and trucks, running over everything in his path, including a few still-burning Russian soldiers. Rubber tires on fire, the BTR blazed a path toward Gunny’s position, but then skidded down the ravine and crashed sideways into the icy waters of the Cheat River.
Gunny and his men had been keeping low to avoid getting caught in the crossfire, but now he came over the radio and asked permission to pop up. Tyce ordered a cease-fire on his side of the valley since they were facing a little too directly toward Gunny and told his men to stay down. After a short time, the top of the BTR opened. It must have been flooding with water, and the survivors inside had made the choice to die a freezing, drowning death or take their chances against the Americans.
Three men from the back and the driver leapt from the BTR and shot wildly in Tyce’s direction, possibly disoriented from the crash, or possibly still thinking that the wrath of SSgt’s machine gun was an ongoing threat. The Russians each got a few rounds off. Gunny, chief and his men rushed forward and responded with precision shots, taking each of the enemies out with one or two accurate bullets. The last man fell into the river with his finger apparently stuck on the trigger, bursts of 7.62mm still firing as he fell off the vehicle and
continuing once he dropped facedown into the water, sinking rapidly in his heavy gear. Tyce could see the chief standing up on the embankment above the river firing his pistol into the BTR and anything else that caught his eye.
Didn’t take him long to ‘get some,’ thought Tyce.
He’d seen it a hundred times before. The rush of adrenaline in a battle made some men cowards and other men conquerors. At least until the adrenaline wore off and they realized what they’d done.
A gruesome end to the battle. All of it remained hellishly illuminated by the Molotov-induced and still-burning gas and tire fires on the Russian vehicles.
Tyce lifted his head up from the trench, picked up the radio, and transmitted to his troops, “All stations, all stations, this is Dragoon-six. We’ll go in and check the area. Gunny, keep us covered, but watch your shots. Once I give the all clear, I want everyone picking up any serviceable weapons and all the ammo you can find.”
Looting the dead was frowned upon. American weapons and ammo were not compatible with the Russian weapons. But one or two working AKs and some ammo would greatly benefit Tyce’s troop in future firefights. Tyce judged that they had used more than seventy-five percent of their ammo on the ambush, and without a resupply, they were no good to anyone.
Tyce made his way down the steep slope, holding a few saplings to steady himself along the way. From the road’s edge, he surveyed the carnage. Military vehicles twisted and burned beyond recognition. Fires still burning everywhere. The occasional cook-off of ammunition inside the burning truck seemed to be the last remaining threat. Captain Blake and SSgt. Diaz’s troops carefully picked their way through the wreckage.
Tyce watched them for a moment and reflected on his own combat experiences. Now that all appeared to be safe, a shred of doubt—or was it some remorse?—set in.
Nope, he thought. They are invaders, and this is our duty to our country.
CHAPTER 19
Outside Parsons
Something in the river caught Blue’s attention—movement out of the corner of his eye. He walked down to get a closer look. He hadn’t seen anyone in days, so he wasn’t taking any chances. He crept to the edge of the woods and looked into the river’s heavy rapids. There, pinned against the rocks by the current, were two Russian soldiers floating trapped in a swirling eddy. Their faces were ashen white and ghostlike against the dark waters, but they looked to Blue as if they’d only been in the water about ten or twelve hours.
Floated from upstream, thought Blue. Good. If someone else is killing Russian soldiers, then it’s upriver I go.
He checked the bandage on his throbbing shoulder, then painfully pulled the mountain rucksack back onto it. His legs wobbled a bit from days of hiking, wounded and without sustenance, through the woods. But he had remained hidden, not knowing who to trust . . . yet. The dead Russians were his first sign that there might be someone fighting back. Some kind of organized resistance.
And they just might have need of a good shot, he thought. Placing the custom, wood stock .460 Weatherby Mk V over his shoulder, he picked his way back carefully to the deer trail he had been following toward the city of Parsons.
* * *
Tyce felt like he was getting an ass chewing from a colonel or general.
“So you actually thought that by wiping the Russians out down to the last man, they would not come looking to find out what happened?” said Susanna in a tone that she might have reserved for bad dogs or misbehaving children.
“Look, Mayor, we did what we needed to do to win.” Tyce glanced at the Chief of Police, but he remained stony-faced. Tyce was on his own, “This is how combat goes. Not all of it is predictable. And the Russians aren’t just going to pack up and go home anytime soon. By the looks of things, they are here to stay. They’ve annexed America, and if we don’t do some—”
She interrupted him in a low and slow condescending drawl, her head cocked to the side. “Well now, let’s just see if we can remember. Wasn’t it a man bearing a striking resemblance to you who told me yesterday that his whole plan hinged on the last of the Russian vehicles pursuing you out of town to make them think you had no aff iliation with Parsons?”
“Well . . . yes, that was the plan, but . . .” Tyce heard himself stammering like a schoolboy. “We had a chance to take them all, without losing any men, and we took it. That I don’t regret, Mayor.”
“That’s an admirable thing, Major. I just wonder how many of my citizens need to get killed when the Russians follow up with a larger force and start interrogating . . . say, my gas station attendant, Ron. Do you think he has the training or resolve to last under a Russian interrogation?” She glared, both of her deep blue eyes boring a hole into him. “Any explanation besides just that dumb look on your face will do, Major Asher.”
“Look, Mayor, I promise we can get the Russians to leave you and the town of Parsons alone.”
“How do you intend to do that?” she asked, her tone both skeptical and stinging.
Tyce had been working on an alternate solution ever since last night’s firefight had ended a little too well. The initial plan called for leaving a few Russians alive, then racing out of town to the south so the Russians could plausibly believe an explanation from the town that he was not intending to make Parsons his holdout. It was not the best plan, but it was just feasible enough, and Tyce had counted upon the Russians not being willing to harm civilians. That plan had gone to shit thanks to an extra belt of API, armor-piercing. 50 caliber rounds that SSgt. Diaz had saved and used on the BTR. When the Russians inspected the vehicle and found the back and side looking like Swiss cheese, plus no fewer than six dead Russian soldiers in the back . . . well...
“The Russians are keen on signals intelligence.”
“Explain.”
“We have plenty of army field radios. We are going to retreat south of town and set up a radio site. The Russians will suspect it’s our headquarters.”
“What happens when they attack you with all sorts of missiles and stuff?”
“That’s the beauty of the radio transmissions. We can set up the antenna and a dummy HQ in a barn or something. But the relay wires, the actual radios, we can have miles away.”
“Like remote control or something.”
“About like that.”
Tyce tried to sound convincing, but in actuality, he knew very little about how to establish radio retransmission sites. What he did have was several communications men who had been to school for just that kind of thing. Radio fakery in combat was nothing new, but he was counting on the Russians concluding that he and the other reserve and guard forces had the same equipment as the frontline troops still in Afghanistan and Iran.
“So where is the barn, the site you intend to fake out the Russians?”
Tyce pulled out the Michelin map he’d been using. “Here.” He pointed to a Y-intersection in the road about twenty miles south and east of Parsons.
Susanna drew closer and squinted at Tyce’s map. “Harman?”
“Yes, the town of Harman,” Tyce tried to sound convincing though he was making this pretty much up on the fly now.
“Town . . . it’s more like a village.” She was near enough now that Tyce could smell the scent of lilacs and cloves. Her shampoo or perfume, he guessed. After smelling sweaty Marines for the past few months and after the stench of last night’s battle, it smelled kind of nice. Tyce wondered if that was all a part of Susanna’s thing.
Does she use everything available to her to negotiate, even her femininity? Tyce didn’t have a lot of time for such things, but clearly dealing with civilians was going to be a part of his new world order and he’d better get used to it.
As she spoke next, her voice lost its air of authority. “Well, I guess that’s far enough away from us that it might work.” She looked up at Tyce. In spite of her commanding presence, Susanna was shortish, no taller than five-foot-five. She touched him gently on the arm. “You be careful now, Major. I just might have a use for you
before this thing is all said and done.”
As much as Tyce liked being on her good side, he still couldn’t shake the feeling he was being manipulated.
Oh, well. Better to owe some favors to a small town, he thought. After all, what’s the worst they could end up getting into?
* * *
Tyce was sitting in his vehicle, feet propped up, staring at the jumble of tourist maps and trying to make sense of is all, when one of his Marine sentries walked in.
“Hey, sir, we caught a guy poking around the perimeter.”
“Okay,” Tyce waved him away impatiently. He had NCOs who could take care of curious passersby.
“He was carrying this, sir.” The Marine lifted a beautiful. 460 Weatherby Mark V Deluxe with walnut stock and a Leupold VX-3i hunting scope. An exceedingly accurate, custom-built rifle. It would only be found in the hands of a very skilled rifleman, Tyce realized instantly.
Tyce sat bolt upright. “Where is he? Was he speaking English?”
“Oh yes, sir. He’s an American for sure. Might be a bit . . . you know, slow. I think he’s some kind of backwoods mountain man. He’s a big ol’ boy.”
“Okay, bring him over.”
“Got it.”
The man started off before Tyce stopped him. “And Marine . . . leave the rifle.”
Tyce smiled a bit. He knew if he had wavered on that point, the rifle would get “lost” very quickly among his ranks, likely ending up traded to one of his snipers for something of high value.
“Ah, no issues, sir.” The man feigned indignation for being called out.
* * *
In less than half an hour, four Marines escorted the rifle’s owner over to Tyce’s command vehicle. All four stood around, more than a little curious about how things would transpire between the newly captured man and their boss.
“What’s your name?” Tyce asked, putting his hand out in a friendly gesture.
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