SSgt. Diaz knelt down, opened the feed tray cover of her machine gun, and began wiping it down with gun oil. The barrel was still hot and made a hissing sound. Wisps of smoke rose up from it. Tyce and Gunny were still watching the last hints of the C-130 as it soared off just above the treetops and through the canyon, but SSgt. Diaz seemed uninterested and continued to wipe down her weapon.
Victoria walked over to the gathered leaders of the 150th Cavalry Regiment. She was still wearing her bloody latex gloves. “Are we sticking around here until the Russians mount a counterattack?”
Her question seemed to jolt the rest of them out of their moment of victory. They all realized their gains had been temporary. It was time to get back to the business of their own survival.
“What’s next, boss?” asked Gunny.
Tyce looked around at the mayhem, the still-burning tank hulks and the crashed Russian helicopter. For a brief moment, they owned the entire base, but Victoria was right; it was just a matter of time before they were going to have to fight again. They might not have turned the tide of the war today, but they sure as hell had shown that the Russian invader was fallible and could be beaten. For now, Tyce needed to gather Ned’s force, then find a place to hide out until it was time to thrust the spear into the Russian side again.
“Back to Parsons?” asked Blue, still a bit out of breath after climbing down from his sniper’s perch.
“No, let the indomitable Mayor Holly rebuild her fair city.” said Victoria.
“I fully expect that when next we meet, she’ll be in control of the northern half of West Virginia,” said Gunny.
“No doubt,” said Tyce. “I want to give the troops a bit of a break—they’ve earned it. Not sure how long it will last before the Russians find us again, but I’d rather set up a solid base of operations than go out on the road. I think we find a new HQ. Someplace with an abundance of chow, fuel, and maintenance parts. Plenty of space for the troops to wash up, and where we can slink off into woods. You know, someplace where we can do some classic hit-and-runs, like the insurgents used against us in Iraq and Afghanistan.”
“Kind of like insurgent Americans?” asked SSgt. Diaz.
“Nah, that has a bad ring to it.”
“Rebels.” said Wynand.
“No, that means were rebelling against the legitimate government. Last I checked, it’s the illegitimate government we don’t support.”
“Freedom fighters?” asked Blue.
“Well . . . that’s already taken. You know, ‘a Mountaineer is always free.’” said Tyce quoting the West Virginia state motto.
“What, then?” asked Victoria.
“How about just the 150th Cavalry?” said Tyce.
“Ha, giving yourself a promotion, sir?” said SFC Garrison, who was now mountless and needed to share a ride with Tyce.
“Well, I heard the position of commanding officer of that unit was at least temporarily vacant,” and he patted the day’s hero on the shoulder.
Tyce’s motley band chuckled, then locked and loaded their weapons with what little ammo they had remaining, collected their wounded and dead, and boarded their vehicles, slipping quietly back into the woods, unseen by any but some West Virginia mountaineers—who would surely never tell the tale of what they’d witnessed there that morning.
EPILOGUE
Omni Homestead Resort, Virginia
“Santo c-c-c-cielo! Holy crap!” exclaimed SSgt. Diaz, her peanut butter–coated tongue twisting her Bronx Spanish accent even more than usual. “This is the best f-f-frickin’ PB&J on the whole God-damned planet.”
Tyce laughed openly at the spectacle of the giant woman sitting cross-legged on the floor and taking enormous bites from the sandwich, her ever-present machine gun laying across her legs like a kid’s favorite toy. It was gone in four or five gulps and washed down with a swig from a can of Coors Light. She looked around to see if anyone else was going for seconds, when no one did, she grabbed another from the platter of sandwiches Victoria and her sailors had made for everyone. When no one was looking, she took a third and slipped the PB&J over to Trigger, who downed it in one bite and, licked his chops loudly and happily.
Captain Blake stepped into the luxurious lobby area of the Omni resort in Hot Springs, Virginia, looking around the room. Spotting Tyce, he walked over and pulled him aside. Ned was practically the only one still in full-camouflage uniform with his helmet and flak jacket on. The rest had augmented their uniforms with civilian clothing.
“Hey, sir.”
Tyce put the beer can on the side table and looked over the notes Captain Blake handed him.
“Sir, here and here.” He pointed to the map he held up for Tyce to look over.
“Okay, Ned, those look just fine.” He clapped the special forces soldier on the shoulder. “Now, how many men can you spare to come to the party? They deserve a break along with the rest of us.”
Ned smiled back at his leader. “Sir, business first. You gave me a mission to secure this outpost, and I take that seriously.” He turned to leave, seemed to fully take in the fun going on around him, and turned back. “Just make sure you swabbies save some beer for us working dogs, sir.”
“You got it, Ned.”
“And none of that Coors Light. Don’t they have any IPAs in the root cellar here?” He looked around a bit more at the lavish appointments of the four-star resort and hotel Tyce had commandeered as the headquarters of the 150th with its leather couches, double-sided fireplaces, and chandeliers made from antlers.
For a moment, Tyce felt guilty for keeping men on duty, but he was going to have to get over that. From now on, there was no way they could ever all relax until the Russian hordes were gone.
Gunny interrupted the conversation. “Hey, Captain Blake, if your boys only drink the froufrou junk, I’ll make sure there’s some set aside. And do the special forces expect them to be served in our finest champagne crystal? Wouldn’t want your men to have to sink to the lowest level of the workingman’s beer.”
Both of the men laughed. While he was giving Ned a good ribbing, Gunny was simultaneously pouring himself what looked to be a fairly fine Scotch into the exact crystal champagne glass he was mocking.
“I think I’m finally getting used to the Marine Corps type of humor,” said Ned. Then he walked out to oversee the construction of the new observation posts.
At the tail of the conversation about alcohol, Victoria walked back in wheeling a luggage cart stacked with cases of beer, eliciting more laughter from Tyce and Gunny. Pretty much everyone was now dressed in some kind of stolen ski resort wear. Tyce had all but demanded folks try to relax for a bit, but Victoria had apparently selected the most form-hugging gear she could find. Tyce found it hard not to stare at her figure.
“So, you wanna let me in on the joke? Or is this just more navy shaming?” asked Victoria.
Tyce’s face turned red, as did Gunny’s. Victoria’s fury was now well known across the unit, and few chose to cross her path.
SSgt. Diaz, still washing the peanut butter down, now with another fresh beer, looked back and forth between the two men, then over to Victoria. “Well, ma’am, if these two are too pussy to tell you, I’m glad to fill you in. You look like a frickin’ sorority sister going to do her workout at the fashion studio. Maybe no one told you—we ain’t in Connect . . . Connecti . . . cut, whatever . . . anymore.”
Everyone laughed at SSgt. Diaz now, her attempt at a joke falling flat as she stumbled over the word. She took another enormous bite of PB&J and started petting Trigger to conceal her frustration.
Victoria twisted her lips to the side and glared at them all. “This is some bullshit. You Marines are the most sexist—”
Blue interrupted her, bringing a plate of cooked BBQ chicken wings: “And civilians.” Victoria turned to Blue, her eyes narrowing. “Uh . . . hi, ma’am,” he said with his gentle mountain man charm. He grabbed a wing and tasted it, then hurried off. They were delicious, but Blue was too wise to st
ick around and get into the crossfire of Victoria’s famous rants.
“Look, you . . . grunts. Just because we’re holed up waiting for the next boot to drop doesn’t mean we shouldn’t stay in top physical shape.” She gave a holier-than-thou look. “And as far as me and my sailors are concerned, the workout store selling top brands is open for business at a significant discount.”
SSgt. Diaz stopped munching on her PB&J and looked up thoughtfully.
“And they have a full array of weightlifting gear and exercise equipment in the resort hotel’s gym next door.”
“Hey, copy that, ma’am,” said SSgt. Diaz, dropping her sandwich and wiping her mouth on her sleeve.
“Hmm,” said Tyce. “Guess we’ll have to get used to starting our lives anew.”
“And seeing each other as neighbors, too,” said Gunny.
“More like patriots and compadres in arms,” said Tyce.
Everyone smiled, trying to imagine what the next few weeks or even months would be like. Gunny pulled out the expensive-looking Scotch he’d been keeping close to him, too afraid to set it down lest one of the troops snatch it. He poured everyone a glass. Tyce and SSgt. drank it up greedily, but Victoria sniffed it and put the glass down.
The general and Bill walked over to find Tyce. The general had a large book tucked under his arm.
“Been reviewing a few things about hit-and-run tactics during the German occupation of the western half of Russia.”
“General, I’m eager to hear your advice, as always, but couldn’t you take a break with us for a bit? I’m already feeling guilty for leaving Captain Blake’s men to do some dirty work while the rest of us take a breather.”
The general sniffed the air. “You know, they say the blind start to develop their other senses when they lose their sight, and I do believe I smell some oak barrel–aged Scotch. Let me guess . . . Gunnery Sergeant Dixon?”
“Yes, sir,” Gunny answered a little reluctantly. “How’d you know?“
“Ah, if I learned anything in my years of service, it’s that the senior enlisted man always knows where to find the good stuff. Pour us a glass.”
Gunny poured a fresh glass, then hoisted his up. “We made it. At least for a bit. Here’s to living to fight another day.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Tyce and they all hoisted their glasses and drank.
Gunny looked at the half-empty bottle, shrugged, then filled all their glasses up once more.
* * *
SiriusXM satellite radio and even some ham radio repeaters had started broadcasting a Radio Free America channel for the past few days. The main studios for XM in Rockefeller Plaza in New York City had been taken over in the first days of the invasion and were broadcasting calming music and pro-Russian propaganda. Still, one of the XM bands was broadcasting from parts unknown, and everyone with an XM receiver had been tuning into it as a source of real news about the occupied nation of America.
An announcer began the evening broadcast slowly and clearly. The massive global change brought about by the Russian invasion of the U.S. had actually changed the day-to-day tenor of most people. Everyone was a little more uncertain about the world’s order with America still an occupied nation.
“This is John Enzio broadcasting for Radio Free America. We have another full broadcast tonight from our new location. First up on the program, word from West Virginia that a group of American citizen insurgents, joined by the West Virginia National Guard and a handful of Marines, has been fighting back. And perhaps more importantly, I am joined now by a special guest for his first interview since making it safely out of the occupied states and establishing the new American government in absentia. Mr. Vice President, welcome and congratulations for maintaining the integrity of the elected government of the U.S. First of all, National Guardsmen and Marines? Am I reading that right, Mr. Vice President?”
“Yes, local citizens banded together with army National Guard and Marine reserve leadership and are fighting back. But that is just one region. We’re getting reports across the states of even more citizens rising up to stop the Russian aggressors.”
“That’s very encouraging. Should we expect more reports like this one? More reports of these . . . citizen soldiers? And, perhaps just as importantly, should we be calling you Mr. President?”
“Yes . . . and no. The Cabinet and I hope that stories like those from West Virginia will encourage citizens to do the right thing. Not everyone is a fighter, but some might want to stop the Russians in different ways. Not since the Revolutionary War have we seen an occupier seize and subjugate the American people. And to your second question: no. We still do not know the whereabouts of the president. So while I, and others, are honored to be performing his duties during these grim times, the U.S. government is off icially intact, and we believe the invaders cannot have killed the president. Beyond the invasion, the assassination of a U.S. leader would be another tally against this evil and despotic regime. We need the leaders of other nations, our allies, to see and hear what’s happened here. It is not, as the Russians have put it, an occupation meant to redemocratize our republic.”
“Another tick mark in what we all believe will be a long list of grim atrocities when the final tally is in. Right, Mr. Vice President?”
“Correct, John. We have a long way to go, but the first counterblows have been struck, and the insurgency has risen. An American insurgency against the tyrant occupiers. Speaking of which, directly following our discussion, we have a number of items we’d like to broadcast to our resistance.”
“Absolutely. We proudly carry the title of Mouthpiece of the Free Republic. What, may I ask, are we broadcasting? That is, if there’s nothing too classified. You know, just the basics to encourage our listeners that the fires of democracy are still burning fiercely.”
“Well, of course. The Russians may listen to every broadcast, but we’ll speak in guarded terms that won’t be of much use to them. Let’s see . . . your listeners can’t see me looking over my shoulder, but the whole cabinet is standing right behind me. Okay, nods from most: We have a few requests for specific intelligence from our secret agents working inside the country. A few promises to keep with some of our resistance fighters, organizational items for the coming days. Also, I’m honored to announce a few promotions for some of our uniformed men and women still living the harrowing life of leading our resistance.”
Yeager Airport
The morning’s sunlight reflected brilliantly off the white-crested Appalachian Mountains. Below the Russian Ka-60 Kasatka helicopter, West Virginian farmlands with their brightly painted red barns dotted the peaceful winter scenery. It was picture perfect, almost like a postcard. Inside the helicopter, however, things were anything but calm.
General Tympkin turned back from gazing out the window and faced the two colonels sitting in the helicopter bench seats across from him. Next to him sat General Kolikoff’s three majors and his Spetsnaz bodyguard, Captain Shenkov. Not one had so much as moved since their flight took off from Morgantown in the predawn darkness. They knew their destination, and they knew the ramifications of today’s trip. Or at least, they thought they did.
General Tympkin checked his watch, then pulled the helmet-mounted microphone closer to speak. His two days without shaving had left his face with a dark shadow, and as he keyed the mic, the first sound was the loud scratching of his unshaven chin as he dragged the mic toward his mouth.
“Khorosho,” said the general over the helicopter’s intercom. “Right. Open the side doors. I want everyone to get a good look at the destruction.”
He stared at Kolikoff and Nikolaevich, and they both unbuckled to slide the heavy metal doors to the side. Kolikoff was visibly sweating even after the side hatches had been opened. Nikolaevich stared outside, absently flicking at the rifle strapped across his chest. All three majors sat unmoving, their helmets’ lowered sun visors concealing their eyes. They were obviously too intimidated to even look in General Tympkin’s directi
on.
“Pilot, what is our distance to Charleston airport?” the general asked.
“General, we are over it in one minute,” came the quick response from the cockpit.
The general peered over the edge, and within a moment the destruction of the base filled everyone’s view. Three thick black columns of smoke were the first things visible, dominating the scene of destruction. The pilot yawed the aircraft to afford the men a better view, and everyone except the three majors leaned over out of morbid curiosity or to get a better vantage.
The shattered guard towers and front gates were easily identifiable. The remainder of the tower’s twisted support spans stuck out like skeletal hands grasping up from the grave. Everyone’s eyes were drawn to the closest source of one of the columns of smoke. Heavy recovery vehicles, likely used by the previous owners for towing aircraft around the tarmac, were hard at work attempting to pull the destroyed Russian T-90 tank from the ditch where it had come to a final halt. As they tugged to wrestle it loose, bright yellow sparks appeared, shooting out the open top hatches. Several pops were audible, even above the rotor blades’ downwash.
All three recovery vehicles hastily cut their lines and scampered quickly away from the tank. Ammunition, until now lying covered and undisturbed, began to cook off from the heat and movement. Everyone watched the scene closely, rooting silently for the men to hurry their scramble to safety.
A boom permeated the air as the stoked fire reached the center magazine, blowing the tank’s turret into the air and heading straight for the helicopter. Obviously, the plight of the stricken vehicle had distracted the pilot as well; the pilot yanked the controls hard left, mostly out of surprise, but it was an unnecessary reaction to a danger more than two thousand feet below.
The general rekeyed his mic with another loud scratch, then said, “This is the product of failure.”
Kolikoff and Nikolaevich swallowed hard.
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