Assault by Fire

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

  “So, it’s your fault? The enemy played a role, Tyce. Those that blame, those that hate. They need something to affix their anger to, and they can’t yell at the Taliban, at ISIS.” Victoria shook her head. “Tyce, there’s no room to dwell on the past. You are in command of your own destiny. Combat is bloody. Combat is tragedy after tragedy. Your job as a leader is to make sense of the things you can.” She pulled him close and kissed him again.

  She opened her blouse a little and pulled his hand up to her neck, then reached over and started slowly unbuttoning the flannel shirt she’d dressed him in only hours before. “And you deserve this, and I deserve you. Be here. With me, for a time. Have the courage to enjoy one fucking thing in your life before you let the world dictate who you are supposed to be.”

  “What about—”

  “What?” She stopped and stared into his eyes. “Your leg? Or your . . . other parts? I already checked, you’ve got everything where I need it tonight. So just stop fucking thinking and kiss me, you total idiot, before I lose patience and go find Blue.”

  “You wouldn’t dare!”

  “Ha!” She laughed the most beautiful and coquettish laughter Tyce had ever heard, “Gotcha. Knew I could break that unbreakable, gruff Marine exterior.”

  Tyce let his hand drop to her open shirt, and this time, he leaned in and kissed her, his lips against hers. It felt wonderful.

  * * *

  Rays of sunlight peered through the cabin windows. Tyce rolled over and touched the far side of the bed, but it was empty. Had he dreamt the night before? No, he could still smell Victoria on the sheets, and he smiled to himself. She was a gorgeous and intelligent woman. More important, she understood something of the trials and tribulations that made him tick. He stretched, but his muscles barely responded. He was still paying for the—what did she say?—sixty-mile ski trek.

  “Well, good morning, sleepyhead,” came Victoria’s gruff and tough voice from the doorway. “I have coffee in the other room.”

  “Mmmmm . . .” said Tyce.

  “That’s about all you said last night, too. Must mean you didn’t mind it too much.”

  “Mmmmmmmm!” he said again, louder, as he tried to stretch his exhausted muscles.

  “I have some Motrin for you to take with your coffee. And better, I have some good news. We’ll be extracted from here and back to Parsons in an hour or so.”

  Tyce sat up in bed. “Really? How—”

  She ignored him and continued, “I also got word from Gunny that he has everyone accounted for over in Parsons. It’s a small Christmas miracle. Besides a few cases of legit frostbite and some ditched and broken Humvees, they all made it. You were right about one thing, though: they are after us. The Russians have wanted posters up for us all over. Well, you, mainly. They have your picture posted in nearly every small town with a reward of six tanks of propane for the winter to the person who steps forward with info about your whereabouts for the Russians. The townsfolk showed me a copy. It’s a pretty good likeness. Looks like you in your dress blue uniform. You look handsome. Still . . . six tanks of propane would go pretty far this winter. A pretty good offer, but I’d need at least seven.” She rubbed his chest to warm him up and flashed him her sly, coquettish smile.

  “How did we get word? Do they have a radio here?” said Tyce eagerly, already thinking of the things he needed to radio over for Gunny to do in his absence.

  “From Gunny. In fact, I was just coming to try to wake you. When I called over to the mayor’s office about an hour ago, I got ahold of Gunny, SSgt. Diaz, too. She wanted to ask permission to go on a foraging run to get some machine gun ammo. Says Captain Blake still thinks he knows some hidden ammo bunkers. Guess the Mayor let everyone weather the storm back in Parsons too, at least until we can get the SF camp.”

  “Called over?” said Tyce, suddenly sitting upright and staring at her.

  “Yeah. The town told me this morning that the landline phones were up and running again. Another miracle. You should be proud of me—I’ve been taking the initiative to make this resistance of yours happen while you slept the night away. Or maybe I was just that good,” she said with a note of glee, pushing his hair back over his forehead and leaning in for a good morning kiss.

  Tyce pushed her aside, much to her annoyance. “We have to get moving.” His tone was urgent. “Now!”

  She tried to push him playfully back into bed. “No, we’re fine. Relax. Gunny has two camper vans on the way to pick us up right now. Should be here in about an hour.” She glanced at her watch. “So you just lay down a bit longer.” Then, in a husky tone, she added, “Doctor’s orders.”

  “No!” he said, pushing her away.

  Her expression changed to irritation at his rebuff of her advances and his lack of acknowledgment for what she figured were some top-rate, infantry-style decision-making skills.

  “We must leave immediately,” he croaked out.

  She seemed about to object more, but he held up his hand and clutched his throat. He was completely dehydrated. “The Russians . . . they’ll be here very soon . . .” A haunted, shaken look came back over his face.

  “No, they won’t.” Victoria was completely shocked by his sudden change in attitude. “Wait, what do you mean? They couldn’t.”

  Victoria filled up a glass of water from a pitcher by the bedside and handed it to him, staring at him with frustration. He gulped it down greedily, some of it sloshing down his face and neck.

  Then he croaked, “They did it. They turned the phones on.”

  He paused, sipping more water, his throat starting to clear. “They wouldn’t have turned the phones on if they weren’t monitoring. Every word.”

  She stared at him, a look of mixed shock and horror growing with the realization of the truth of his words.

  He nodded as if acknowledging her fears. “If you called an hour ago, the Russians will be here in no time. We need to get out of here. And let the town know to get ready. They’ll have to blame us for the dead Russian platoon. They’ll have to tell them we killed the troops and left or there will be reprisals. The Russians will likely kill half the town.”

  Tyce looked up at Victoria. His words had shattered her newfound feelings of safety and security in the town and their brief sanctuary in the cabin.

  “Oh my God, Tyce,” she said, the horror of her own actions finally dawning upon her. “I screwed up, big-time.” Gone was her usual self-assured attitude, and she bit down on her lip. Staring into his eyes, tears beginning to well up in hers.

  Tyce continued, “We need to find a way to warn Gunny. He’ll drive right into them.”

  “I . . . oh . . . oh no. I’m so sorry, Tyce. I thought that . . . I tried to do everything I thought you would do. I would never have guessed they’d tap the phone lines.”

  “They control all the infrastructure now, Victoria.”

  His heart jumped a little. Her usual tough exterior, her strong bearing, had cracked, and she was deeply upset. She had just wanted to prove to Tyce and the troops that they could count on her. That she had a use in this new world order, and that she would fight for Tyce and to regain their nation. That she could heal and do a spot of organizing when needed. Now she stood motionless, her confidence gone.

  Though he knew there was no time for such things, he realized he’d hurt her feelings. And he also realized he cared for her, deeply. They had only moments left, but he needed to make sure she was not stunned into immobility. He’d seen that before on the battlefield. When greatly shocked or distressed in combat, some troops just sat still in true shell shock.

  “Stop. No time. You could never have known.”

  It was painful, but he tried to soften his tone and his expression some. “Let’s just get to a vehicle and scoot. See if the old man can get us a car.” He stood up painfully and looked around the room for his prosthetic leg and his rifle. “I’d rather not hike over another mountain, if we can avoid it.”

  He found them both resting in the corner
and hopped over. He hastily buckled on his leg, then grabbed his rifle and the stack of rifle magazines while Victoria watched him. He was all business again. The cold, hard warrior was back, and the man whose chest she’d rested on so comfortably all night was gone. She had hoped she’d bought them a little peace and quiet. She’d thought if she helped and did the right things, there might be a chance for more intimacy. A closeness she needed in the chaos and worry of this stupid war. A feeling she had yearned for.

  He pulled on his winter overcoat and managed a weak half-smile aimed at her as he slapped a magazine into the rifle, pulled the charging handle, and racked a round into the chamber.

  She frowned deeply, both outwardly and inwardly, and dashed out to get a car, but without another word.

  CHAPTER 32

  Morgantown

  General Tympkin’s plane touched down with a hard bump. The small, commandeered American twin-prop Beechcraft C-12 wasn’t well suited to the snowy and windy conditions of West Virginia, and Colonel Nikolaevich knew the general was going to be in an even darker mood than usual. Nikolaevich had his staff all turned out, their grey winter overcoats flapping against the chill wind and the rush of air from the propellers.

  The general stepped onto the rickety metal stairs shoved next to the plane and, upon spotting Nikolaevich, narrowed his eyes. Tympkin looked at his footholds coming down the ice-covered rungs, and Nikolaevich made a quick trip to the base of the stairs and called his staff to attention, then pushed a heavily gloved hand up to his brow in a salute.

  “Good morning, General. It is indeed—”

  “Cut the shit, Nikolaevich, and lead me to your office. We have matters to discuss, and because of you, there is now an urgency . . . from the top.”

  “Yes, General.”

  Colonel Nikolaevich half-led and half-followed the general to the third story of the Morgantown reserve center.

  * * *

  The colonel’s office was pretty much as the former occupant had left it, minus the decorations, trophies, and awards. He ushered the general in and took his coat, then handed it to his aide. Before Nikolaevich could even get his coat and gloves off, the general had sat in the colonel’s chair and behind his desk.

  “Comrade Colonel . . . what am I to do with you?” he sighed.

  The colonel had been practicing his opening defense in his head for several days and began quickly. “General, with the resources at hand . . .” His well-rehearsed speech trailed off. General Tympkin’s gaze turned to a scowl and scared him to death. He tried to began again, “General, Insufficient assets—”

  The general slammed a fist against the wooden desk, making pens jump and paperclips scatter from their holder. “Maybe I am not being clear. You will stand. You will listen. I will tell you what to do, and then you will do it. At no time will you speak unless addressed. Am I clear?”

  Colonel Nikolaevich leapt to attention, “Yes, General.” He felt rivulets of sweat drip uncomfortably down his back, into his trousers, then down his leg.

  “You have three days. And I will never hear again from you about ‘assets’ and ‘resources.’ The American 10th Mountain Division, whatever was left behind when they deployed to Iran, were assessed to be only mechanics and support personnel. The American version of our undesirable units. Hoodlums who have been caught doing drugs, failing their fitness tests, or just too attached to Mommy to deploy. This assessment came from the highest levels. It was wrong. So right now, the battle in the highlands of New York at a place called Fort Drum is consuming most of our reserve forces. Meanwhile, a little place called Camp Lejeune and another called Fort Bragg are quickly becoming smaller versions of the quagmire that has become synonymous with Fort Drum. And that’s just the American East Coast. Do you get the picture, Colonel?”

  “I do, sir.” Sweat was now beading on Nikolaevich’s brow, threatening to turn into a full-blown faucet and drench his face, but he did not dare remove his gloves or coat at this point in the general’s speech.

  “Good. So maybe you’re not a complete idiot.” The general let the harsh nature of the words sink into his subordinate. “Now, here is the part you must pay very close attention to, Colonel. When Comrade President Kryptov came to the Pentagon, he stared at my maps for about an hour before speaking. After an hour, he turned to me and pointed to the red markers on the computer screens over the hills of West Virginia and asked me a remarkably simple and straightforward question. One which I will now pose to you.” The general leaned forward and placed both palms flat on the wooden desk. “How . . . the . . . fuck . . .?”

  Nikolaevich stared into Tympkin’s eyes, then began to answer in a dry voice. “Comrade general, it is hardly a failure—”

  “Ah,” interrupted Tympkin. “You see. You should be proud of yourself. You already got out more words than I’d have expected before I wanted to bash your nose in.” He leaned back again and smiled, but it was a sinister and completely unforgiving smile, the kind that churns men’s stomach into a pot of gastric acid.

  General Tympkin stood up and called outside the room for the aide to bring his greatcoat and gloves, then turned back to Nikolaevich.

  “You have three days. Then I return to hear your plan. I will bring my staff. You will personally brief a full and organized plan to pacify your assigned region. And if I hear ‘more resources,’ I will demote you to private and send you into the ranks of our 8th Guards Division who, right now, are fighting and dying outside Fort Drum. Maybe then you will provide some use in our struggles. At least you can give your life and die for a team that is currently winning their fight with blood and courage.”

  With that, the general turned, put on his greatcoat and gloves, and walked back to his plane.

  CHAPTER 33

  Parsons

  Tyce was dirty from head to toe. Caked in mud, soaked to the core, and stinking like a horse. How had Victoria even tolerated being near him? he thought, but he figured she must have been filthy too, so it hadn’t mattered.

  Susanna had kindly offered the troops the use of the police chief’s locker and shower rooms. She then offered Tyce the use of her own shower in the mayor’s office. He questioned her motives for a second, but after getting a whiff of his own scent, he quickly accepted.

  After finding nothing but women’s bath products in Susanna’s shower, Tyce came out smelling like lavender but loving the clean feeling. Toweling off, pleased with himself for not stinking, and scratching at his freshly cleaned hair, he looking forward to a hot-water shave.

  He entered Susanna’s vacant office, where she had said he could store his things, to grab his shave kit from his rucksack. At least, it had been vacant when he went in to take a shower. As he entered, whistling the Marine Hymn, naked and with the towel slung over his shoulder, an older man sitting in the office chair coughed uncomfortably.

  Susanna sat at her desk and looked at Tyce from head to toe, letting out an amused sigh. “Mac, I want you to meet Major Tyce Asher. He’s the Marine whose assets I’ve been describing to you,” she said with a grin. “Hero of the West Virginia mountains.”

  Tyce hurriedly covered himself with the towel and smiled. Susanna had done it again. There was clearly never going to be a time when he could turn his back to her.

  “Major Asher, this is the governor of the great state of West Virginia. The honorable Mr. Ted MacIntyre. We just call him Mac.”

  “Honored, sir,” said Tyce, continuing to clutch the towel around his waist. After another awkward moment of hesitation, he stepped forward and shook the governor’s hand.

  Tyce had been so flustered that he hadn’t noticed two men at the window.

  The governor spoke. “Major Asher, I’d like to introduce you to the Vice President of the United States and the secretary of energy.”

  Tyce had partially recovered his composure after being surprised out of the shower by the governor, but this was a lot more to bear. His expression went flat, and out of the corner of his eye he could see Susanna’s face lig
ht up in a crafty smile while he stared at the men by the window. Her ploy was now complete. Tyce was left speechless.

  The vice president, a tallish man, greying at the temples, could see Tyce’s distress. He walked over casually and shook his hand. “Major, we’ve heard quite a lot about you.” He beamed.

  Apparently, Susanna couldn’t resist one more punch and added, “And now you get to meet him . . . in the flesh.” The typical charismatic luster returned to her smile, and she stood up from her desk. Tyce noticed most of her fingers were still wrapped and splinted.

  The governor gave Susanna a disapproving look and said, “Major Asher, we’ve caught you at a disadvantage. Why don’t you finish changing and come back in? What the vice president and I have to say to you is of the utmost importance.”

  Tyce nodded, grabbed his uniform and pistol belt off the back of the chair, and headed back into Susanna’s bathroom.

  * * *

  In a few minutes, Tyce was back, and they all gathered at the big, round table in Susanna’s outer office.

  The governor spoke first. “Major Asher, we have a mission for you. A mission of national importance. You have done some hard work in the hills of West Virginia, and now we have a mission that is above and beyond the call of duty.”

  Tyce, now recovered from the earlier shock of being buck naked in front of the vice president, was still reluctant to speak. It was more than a bit of an ambush, and he figured this was what Susanna had been grooming him for all this time. Possibly seeing if he was made of strong enough stuff to even do the job. Testing him to see where his loyalties lay. So, he thought, old Susanna is actually quite a patriot at heart. Enough so that some kind of civilian underground had sought her out and entrusted her with the lives of the last remaining members of the U.S. government.

  The VP spoke up. “Major Asher, as you probably already know, the president has been missing. There is little we can do to find him, if he’s even alive. D.C. is the new center of Russia’s power over our country. I suspect it will take more than your unit to dislodge their forces, and they are bringing new troops in on a daily basis through the seaports, through BWI and Dulles airports, among others in the occupied territories. The situation in the East is grim, and getting worse.”