He closed the last few meters and slid like a baseball player coming into home, tumbling into the ditch around where the Quad-50 had been dug in. He had only a small window when the Mi-24 crossed over the treetops on its attack run, its nose dipping toward the barn. In the gun position the helo passed directly above him, its 30mm cannon dropping heavy shell casings all around him. Gunny wasted no time ripping the canvas cover off the quad-50.
He sat down hard on the bare metal seat and furiously worked the hand cranks to rotate and elevate the machine. No one had known exactly which side of the valley the enemy aircraft might come from or even what kind of aircraft might come for them. Tyce and the general had been insistent that they’d wait until the time of most need to race in air cover. That was when Gunny was supposed to unveil their final bid for success. Without it, there was always a chance the Russians would overwhelm them.
The big bird filling his sights, he cranked down on the trigger with all his might.
Tak-tak-tak-tak-tak!
The Quad-50’s four barrels blasted heavy-caliber bullets directly into the helo’s nose and underbelly. The Mi-24 pilot hit his thrust and tried to jerk up on the collective in one last desperate attempt to climb up and away, but the volume of fire from the machine guns was too great.
Chunks of his airframe ripped loose. The pilot couldn’t see a thing through the torrent of bullets slamming his helicopter cockpit. The windscreen exploded, sending a thousand shards of glass into his and the weapons officer’s faces. The fat Russian bird yanked sharply upwards, tracing a smoking, flaming arc up into the sky. Then it seemed to simply run out of power and hung in the air, suspended at its zenith for the briefest of seconds before it began a lazy death drop back to earth, its nose still pointed up. The bird came crashing tail first down into the tall pines. A big black and red orb of fire and smoke rose skyward as all of its remaining aviation fuel burst into flame.
The second Mi-24 was still attacking and looked like it had a narrow approach on Tyce and the 88mm. It began an attack with a rocket run.
Gunny wasted no time. He cranked the hand wheel as fast as he could to a point that would account for the almost 1,400-meter distance to the second helo. Using the firing Russian rockets as a reference in the dark sky, he said a Hail Mary and gently squeezed the trigger.
For a second time, the M45 Quad-50 reliably hammered out four white hot jets of .50 caliber bullets. The gun’s rate of fire was nothing short of spectacular. In World War II, it had earned the nickname “Meat Chopper,” and today it would add to its reputation as its rounds screamed skyward and made contact with the other Russian chopper.
The distance and the lack of clear visibility put him at a distinct disadvantage, but the second Mi-24 stopped firing, and he could hear the whop-whop of its heavy blades as it flared up and pulled away. Out of rounds and losing sight of the rapidly departing aircraft against the night sky, Gunny stopped turning the hand crank and just stared into the open darkness, and panting heavily.
Still riveted to his seat, Gunny watched thick smoke rising from the four barrels when a cheer rose up from the trenches behind him. It started small, but then came like a wall of thunder. All the men had watched his spectacular display of heroism and bravery.
“Gunny, you da man!”
“Holy shit Gunny, you killed ’em.”
“Fuck ya, warrior!”
The shouts were joined by war whoops, rebel yells, and shrill sports arena whistles.
Gunny flopped his head back, gave a huge sigh of relief, and allowed himself a giant grin as the men continued to hurl encouragement and genuine cheer.
CHAPTER 26
Harman
Tyce couldn’t stop smiling. The ambush had worked. The Russians had a few tricks up their sleeves, but by using the general’s advice and sticking to his own, well-rehearsed plan of successive ruses, the Russians had been beaten. He grabbed the radio and congratulated the men at each of the three ambush points and told them to break their positions and come up the hill to his actual HQ. The phony HQ still burned brightly in the valley floor. Even that ruse had worked.
After sending out orders, he pulled out his canteen and gulped the whole thing down in just a few chugs. He glanced around the small gun position and patted the lightly smoking beast as if it were a dog that had done its master proud. He reached over and pulled SSgt. Diaz to her feet, checking over her wound.
“How’s it feel? Hurt much?”
“Nah, feels fine. I’m ready to go, sir.”
“Atta girl,” Tyce heard himself say, instantly regretting it. He was so used to having only male leaders, but now both SSgt. Diaz and Victoria glared at him in the partial moonlight. Then all three broke into an uneasy and fatigued laughter.
Bill Degata looked at the three of them in confusion, “What’s so funny?”
“Nothing, Mr. Degata,” said Tyce, still chuckling. “Let’s get down from here and go see how everyone else is doing. I’d like to see if we took any casualties.” They all gave Bill and the general a hand down the dark trail.
Once they were gathered around the hunting shack, Tyce had his Humvees brought up the logging trail. Victoria went to her ambulances and started treating the wounded as they arrived. All three ambushes started trickling in a bit at a time. Tyce greeted each column of men, eager for some news. One by one, the units reported in. A few shrapnel wounds, a lot of scrapes and cuts—but then came the fatality reports, fifteen KIA. Tyce’s heart sank. It all seemed now to be a Pyrrhic victory. His spirits down, he walked over to confer directly with his leaders as they arrived.
* * *
The general walked over to Tyce as he sat on his Humvee hood, quietly listening to the details from Lieutenant Zane, Captain Blake and Gunny Dixon.
Everyone turned toward the general when he couldn’t suppress a few dry coughs, but he covered his mouth with a handkerchief and managed to croak out, “How’d the Quad-50 do?”
Tyce looked at Gunny, “What’d you think, Guns?”
“Holy crap, sir. That thing might be old, but it sure did the trick.” Then, realizing the impact his comment might have on the older general, he said, “But, you know, oldie but goodie.”
“I think you need to stop while you’re ahead.” said SSgt Diaz.
“It sounds like hoorays are in order for the home team,” said the general before again breaking into a small coughing fit.
“Absolutely. You OK, sir?” asked Gunny.
“Hoo-ah!” said Ned.
“Maybe,” said Tyce, a little worried about the old man’s health.
The general recovered and sensing Tyce’s mixed emotions asked, “Remember, lad, trust your instincts, even when things are going badly. Let the military half of your brain take over, and it will find a way through the madness”—the old man held up a radio—“and maybe trust your men a little. They captured a Russian radio. My Russian is pretty rusty, but we think we heard the name of your opposite number, the Russian commander who took over Morgantown. His name is Colonel Nikolaevich. We’re not getting any more transmission, but maybe we can give it a go later. Listen in to them for a change.”
Tyce appreciated the captured equipment as well as the words of wisdom. He just still wasn’t certain he was doing it right, and their losses seemed to prove it. He was used to having a higher headquarters to call for help in a pinch. The general certainly was providing the spiritual guidance he needed. But that didn’t give him the leadership or the support and supplies he desperately needed.
Tyce turned their attention back to business. First, he congratulated them. Even though he took the losses personally, he felt they deserved his personal thanks. Next, he asked for an ammo count. Even with the ammo commandeered from gun stores by Gunny and what little Ned was able to redistribute, the unit was once again almost completely dry. Finally, it was time to go over the next part of the plan.
Tyce had been so absorbed in the ambush that he’d only given rudimentary thought to what was next. Now, aft
er the hard work and casualties, he wanted to give the men a break, if possible. He pulled out the map and asked them where they thought the best location to set up shop for a while would be. Somewhere they could lick their wounds, get some food, rest, and hopefully find a source of ammunition. Most of the reservists had a better idea of the surrounding areas since they had grown up and lived most or all of their lives in West Virginia.
“Somewhere in the Monongahela National Forest,” recommended the general. “It has many entries and exits, and some areas are so dark, even on the brightest of summer’s days you can’t see inside the deepest nooks and crannies of the forest.”
“Why not back at the SF training facility?” Captain Blake suggested, using shorthand to refer to the special forces facility. “I think there might be some ammo there. There’s a few bunkers we never looked into, and it’s real near Parsons. The townspeople have been good to us, and they were a town worth defending.”
“What about melting into the woodwork?” suggested Gunny, who was a family man. “Maybe let the boys go home for a week, see their families, ensure they’re safe, then come back renewed and recharged.”
Tyce thought long and hard about that recommendation, but his fear was that many would not return.
“Well, some of the reservists and Guardsmen had jobs besides the service,” said Gunny.
“True,” said Tyce, “but we’re at war. The rules have to be different now.” He didn’t like the words he said, even while he was saying them. He vaguely remembered General George Washington saying the same words at Valley Forge, or some such. Even under an oppressive regime, the American ideals were what were most important, and his home state of Virginia’s motto was Sic Semper Tyrannus: thus always to tyrants, meaning tyrants would never win. Tyce wondered if he was becoming a tyrant for not letting the men return. He caught himself saying out loud, “W.W.G.W.D.?”
Victoria seemed to get it right away, “George would have probably fought some more, then given his men some furlough after a big fight and a promise of a pay increase, and then given them a big speech to ensure they understood their duties to their nation and returned. He still would have lost about ten percent, though.”
Behind a phony mean streak, Victoria conceals a very intelligent side, thought Tyce.
“What about the ski resorts?” recommended Lieutenant Zane.
Everyone stopped and stared at the junior man. They were about to scoff at him when Tyce interjected, “Let the man speak.”
“Well, sir. The ski resorts all have an abundance of food, warm fireplaces, dorm-style rooms. Good hilltop—defensive positions. Groomed slopes mean easy visibility and good fields of fire for our crew-served weapons.”
“Hey, you really got something there,” said Gunny.
Tyce pulled out the map and looked to Zane. “Show me. Which ones?”
“Well, I’d recommend . . . here.” He pointed to a mountaintop about five miles away, “Snowshoe ski resort. It’s a bit far, but at last count, we have over six hundred men. Snowshoe should have enough food and fuel stored up to last us through the winter. Probably some ‘chichi’ shops with extra Gucci snow gear, too. We could augment the men’s equipment and ensure no one gets frostbite before some of the really harsh conditions begin.”
“I’m in,” said Captain Blake.
“Makes sense to me,” said Victoria. “I’ll bet they have a fully stocked medical facility, too. They’d have to, dealing with all the breaks and lacerations folks get on the slopes.”
Tyce was about to lay down a verdict when a shout went up from the northern perimeter where they’d left men to watch the Russians and ensure they continued their retreat. Word was sent back that something had been spotted in the sky. Tyce had half-expected another air attack but hoped the burning BTRs would keep any high-flying, thermal-detecting aircraft guessing.
A runner came over from the unit that had spotted it. Out of breath from hauling ass to get back to Tyce’s command post, the kid heaved a moment while everyone waited for him to catch his breath.
“Sir . . . we see . . . paratroopers.”
“Holy shit,” said Tyce. They all looked up, and sure enough, even from their spot back in the woods, the unmistakable sight of hundreds of parachutes could be seen by the moonlight.
In moments, the sounds of approaching jet aircraft also rumbled overhead. Tyce had been on the other side of owning the sky in Iraq and Afghanistan and knew that those high fliers were just picking their targets in their thermal sight systems.
The general spoke. “They’ll prep the objective for the paratroopers with some fast mover attacks, if they can lock onto any thermal signatures. If you don’t get everyone into the deep pines, I’d say we’re about to be walloped by attack aviation.”
“How long have we got?” asked Zane.
“Probably fifteen to thirty,” answered Ned.
“Okay, let’s go!” said Tyce to all leaders present. “We go by units. Commander Remington and Alpha-Med, you stay with and follow my Dragoons. Captain Blake and B Troop, you use your Humvees, and Lieutenant Zane, take your Charlie Company. Pick your own routing and try to stay off one anothers’ paths. We have no time to spare, and this is one of those circumstances where trying to clump together in a long ranger file will just make juicier targets for the fast movers. Then those paratroopers will encircle you and pick you off. Get to your units, take five to brief them, then move out!”
“But where to?” asked Lieutenant Zane.
“Snowshoe. Your recommendation was perfect, Lieutenant Zane.”
With that, they all raced off to get their units moving.
“What about my guns?” pleaded the general, his voice cracking.
“Sorry, sir. No time to pack them up and bring them down. We’re going to have to ditch anything that can’t be hauled out in the next few minutes.”
And with that, Tyce raced over to his Humvee, gesturing at Victoria to get her ambulances moving and stacked up behind him.
Less than five minutes later, every one of Tyce’s units was in the woods and making their way southward under cover of the dark forest and across the cold, desolate Allegheny Mountains. As they departed Harman Valley, a few snow flurries began to fall.
CHAPTER 27
Snowshoe, West Virginia
Tyce struggled to open the door to his Humvee. The howling snowstorm pushed back against him with fury. When the frozen, heavy steel door finally cracked open, snow and chill wind whirled into the vehicle like a frozen demon. For the tenth time in the last hour, Tyce jumped out and cleared the windshield with gloved hands.
He caught himself nervously looking behind, as if expecting a Russian BTR to come tearing through the snow, its autocannon blazing. But through the blizzard, all he could see was a sheet of white and the dim white glow of the headlights of the Humvee behind. No sooner had he finished cleaning the caked ice from the wiper than the windshield was partly covered with snow again. He gave a thumbs-up to the driver, who cranked the wipers and defroster again. Spotting another figure outside the Humvee behind, he trudged through the knee-deep snow toward the figure.
As he approached, he recognized the big form of SSgt. Diaz, with Trigger by her feet and partially under the hood of the Humvee for warmth.
He tried to yell over the wind. “About ten or twelve more miles!”
She looked up at him, her balaclava covering her mouth and goggles over her eyes. She’d pulled someone else’s uniform jacket up over her head to protect her head from the whipping wind. Her lack of specialized winter clothing was yet another reminder to Tyce that they had been woefully unprepared for this. After their exercise, they’d intended to be fully secured back in their barracks in Morgantown by now.
She pulled the balaclava down and tried to yell back. Instantly, wind and snow smacked her chapped lips, making verbal communication near impossible. “I sent my gunner back to count all the vehicles. Every time we stop to clear the snow, I send him back to check to make sure we hav
en’t lost our Tail End Charlies in the snow,” she said, using the military terms for the last few vehicles in a convoy that sometimes had a hard time keeping up.
Tyce didn’t want to complicate things further and nodded, giving her the thumbs-up and patting her on the shoulder. “Not much farther!” he yelled against the storm, then walked back to his Humvee.
Looking forward, he could barely make out where the edge of the road met the forest. He signaled the driver to follow him and walked ahead as the Humvee followed slowly. He knew he could see the road better than the driver, whose windshield was constantly covered up in spite of the wipers whipping back and forth violently. He longed for the warmth of the Humvee, but he had to get his troops to safety.
He walked a few hundred feet, then went back to the Humvee. They drove even more slowly to keep the road in sight as Tyce warmed himself up, then his Humvee gunner traded out walking in front for a bit.
* * *
Two hours later, with Tyce leading the snowbound convoy and fuel running dangerously low across the group, Tyce thought he spotted something ahead. He approached a little more cautiously. They could easily run into a Russian patrol and not even see them until they were right against one another.
It was a sign. A large, ornately carved wooden sign. It was mostly covered in snow, so he wiped it off with his arm until he could make out the word “Snowshoe” and the carving of a large rabbit, which he presumed was the symbol for the resort.
Tyce let out a heartfelt whoop, which was all but lost to the winter wind but raised his spirits immensely.
He struggled through the snow and back to his Humvee. There, he sent the gunner back to inform the other vehicles they’d arrived at their new base. He allowed himself a few minutes of warmth in the heated Humvee, then he resumed trudging through the snow, leading his wayward band on the road up the mountainside.
CHAPTER 28
Snowshoe
Assault by Fire Page 18