Short Season

by DJ Scott

  As they exited the rear of the building and walked to the Admiral’s staff car, Grishkov noticed for the first time that Piotr Kulakov was carrying a sidearm. They drove quickly from the building, Kulakov at the wheel.

  “Uncle, what is happening?”

  “Nothing good Anatoly. But I believe we will have just enough time. My people called —” he looked at his watch—“about ten minutes ago. Four senior officers of the FSB landed at the airfield without warning and without a flight plan. They demanded transportation directly to my office. Fortunately, the vehicle they were provided stalled and could not be restarted.” The Admiral gave a sly smile. “I am sorry I could not give you more warning.”

  At that moment the staff car skidded to a halt in front of one of the base helicopter hangers where a Kamov-27 antisubmarine warfare helicopter sat waiting. Located about twelve kilometers from the regular airfield, the fleet’s ASW training unit was based there.

  The Admiral approached the ground crew and told them the flight crew would arrive shortly, and that they would wait in the aircraft. They climbed through the access door, and Anatoly was surprised to see Kulakov strap into the pilot’s seat while his uncle took the seat beside him. Both donned communication headsets and signaled him to do the same as he strapped into one of the crew stations behind them. He was even more surprised to see Kulakov begin to work with the various cockpit switches which was quickly followed by the whine of the turbines.

  The radio crackled. “Why are you starting the engines without the flight crew?” asked the ground controller.

  The Admiral activated his radio. “I’m afraid we are in a hurry. Captain Kulakov has received basic flight instruction and is simply warming up the engines.”

  When Kulakov increased power, pulled back on the cyclic, and lifted the helicopter into the air, the radio crackled again. “Admiral, you must know this is very much against regulations.”

  “Yes, I do.” His uncle then switched off the radio. Over the intercom he told his nephew, “Do not be alarmed. Piotr has completed basic helicopter training and has about one hundred hours in the Kamov. I authorized it. Fortunately, this helicopter practically flies itself.”

  “But won’t the FSB send the Air Force after us?”

  “Eventually. Remember, the control tower at that helicopter field is not about to report a Vice Admiral for taking a little ride. Only after those FSB thugs arrive at my office and begin to make inquiries will they ultimately discover what we have done. At that point they will have to call Moscow to find someone with enough authority to get our friends in the Air Force off their asses and into the cockpits. After that, aircraft will have to be fueled and armed. By then we will be in Finland.”

  Indeed, after an hour and a half of low level flight over the lakes and pine forests of Arctic Russia, Kulakov and the Admiral consulted the small handheld GPS unit the Admiral had taken from his duffel, and both men pointed at a clearing in the dense trees.

  They descended, and less than a minute after shutting down the engines their aircraft was approached by a dilapidated van. Three men wearing colorful outdoor clothing piled out to meet them. The three Russians were handed similar waterproof windbreakers and odd-looking hats which they donned in the back of the small van.

  One of the men, a muscular young man with a British accent said to his uncle, “Good to meet you Agent Stella. The Americans passed along your signal, and we headed here straightaway. Don’t worry about your helicopter. In a few minutes several of our Finnish friends will fly it up to a deserted bay on Lake Inari where it will disappear into the depths.”

  “Uncle,” said Anatoly. “You’re an American agent?”

  “Of course not. I’m a British agent. The Americans supplied a piece of vital equipment, so they have become like the camel with its nose under the tent.” One of the men, apparently an American, scowled at the comparison. “Think about it Anatoly, just where is our president leading us? He is trying to bring back the cold war, to impoverish the nation by rebuilding a military machine we cannot afford, to alienate our European neighbors and for what? To regain part of the Ukraine? Okay we have it—now what the hell are we going to do with it? A few years ago I decided I had to do something. This was it.”

  Anatoly Grishkov listened in silence as his uncle spouted what was both treason and . . . he had to admit, truth. In any event, he had known the day he discovered the fake warhead that his life would be changed. He just hadn’t imagined he would end up fleeing Russia in a stolen helicopter with his treasonous uncle one step ahead of the FSB. What could he do? He was a wanted man in his own country. All he could do was trust his uncle, and put himself in the hands of these western agents, men who up until today had been his sworn enemies.

  He leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes as the van bumped along the back roads of northern Finland.

  After half an hour of driving along winding roads, they arrived at the airfield. The men running the operation hustled the Russians out of the van, and they all walked a short distance to a waiting Gulfstream G-650 which bore a UK tail number, but no other markings. They boarded quickly, and the door was closed. A man wearing a generic pilot’s uniform stepped back to greet them. “We’re cleared for takeoff. No traffic, we can go any time.”

  As they belted themselves into the Gulfstream’s luxurious leather seats, they were approached by two cabin attendants, a male and a tall, very attractive female with short, very dark hair, who asked if they wanted something to drink. All three Russians asked for vodka which brought a smile to the woman’s face—as if she had been expecting exactly that order.

  The flight attendants, both sergeants in the RAF, actually were there to provide service, but as instructors in armed and unarmed combat, they also provided security for the aircraft.

  As they taxied into position at the end of the runway, Grishkov’s uncle explained that when he began to suspect trouble from the FSB, the aircraft had been staged from Britain to a NATO airbase in Norway, and when he made the call telling him, “We have new orders,” the message was intercepted by the American NSA and passed immediately to British MI-6, who then dispatched the plane to Finland. The engines increased from a low whine to a roar, they rapidly accelerated, took off, and climbed into the Arctic sky. Vodka glasses were refilled and the three agents, none of whom had introduced themselves, began making urgent calls on encrypted satellite phones.

  Chapter 33

  September 13, 2017 0600Z (0900 AST)

  28th Marine Regiment, South of Arad

  Lieutenant Colonel Jeremiah Walsh stood at the north end of the bridge with a pair of German Leica binoculars to his eyes. The terrain around Arad was flat and sandy, with only occasional small tufts of brush near the edge of the wadi. He knew most of the buildings had been constructed in the last twenty years, but they were of classic Middle East design, tan adobe, one or two story. The town looked as if it had been there for a hundred years. Or a thousand.

  Arad was laid out in a rectangle four hundred meters wide and about six hundred long. The main road was wide enough to accommodate large trucks, but the side streets were narrower to keep out the blazing desert sun. The layout reminded Walsh of the claustrophobic streets in the towns of Anbar Province, where he had learned the basics of infantry command the hard way.

  Binoculars back in their case, Walsh put out his hand, and his driver gave him the handset for the AN/PRC-150(C) tactical radio mounted in the command HUMVEE. “Eagle six, this is Eagle actual. Confirm position.”

  In the first deviation from his original plan, Walsh had dispatched a platoon from E company and four engineers to the bridge across the Wadi Dhahwan just north of Arad. Due to some oddity of geology, the wadi on the north side was only twenty meters across, but more than ten meters deep, with near vertical sides. He wanted to secure that bridge despite the SEALS having secured a position at another bridge further north. He did not want to cha
se the weapons north to the SEALS’ location and then have to truck them back through the middle of Arad. He knew the SEALS, who were already unhappy about their participation in a Marine Reserve operation, would object to the redundancy, so he avoided the inevitable showdown by resolving the problem once the operation was underway.

  “Six in position north of the bridge. We have one squad on the south side. Everything quiet. The Saudi Aramco gas station on the north end of town has a couple of pickup trucks at the pumps, but we don’t see the drivers.”

  “Roger six. Report any changes. Eagle out.”

  His driver handed him the handset for a second radio, this one dedicated to the command net which was monitored by every commander in the 1/28 down to platoon level as well as Colonel Mark, the overall commander. It was time. “Okay people, let’s move out.”

  The plan was simple—the best plans usually are. In Phase 1, A Company would advance on the west (left) side of the road and secure the town west of the main road. E company would do the same on the east side. B Company and the command element would advance directly to the target and secure the weapons. Phase 2 would have the MP Company, now holding just south of the bridge, secure the area around the target warehouse and the egress road and handle any prisoners. The engineers would bring up their heavy equipment and load the warheads. Finally, in Phase 3, the engineers would transport the warheads back to the beach and move them to the Ashland. The Marines would then follow the engineers to the beach where the troops deployed as blocking forces would also withdraw. One company would remain south of the bridge to prevent any pursuit, and when the beach was cleared they, along with the SEALS, would be extracted by helicopter. If all went well the operation would be completed no later than 1800.

  If all went well.

  The Marines of first battalion began to advance, moving in squad-sized groups abreast. At first the town remained completely quiet. Then came the crack of rifle shots, a dozen at least, and Marines began going down. Walsh heard his company commanders ordering their automatic weapons teams to put fire onto the nearest buildings. He looked quickly at the wounded through his binoculars and saw seven men being tended to by their platoon corpsmen.

  Each appeared to have a leg wound. Odd.

  The suppressive fire discouraged, but didn’t eliminate, the sniper fire. As they approached to within a hundred meters, Walsh heard a small explosion, a sound quite different from a rifle shot. To his right, four men down. He knew immediately it had to be a mine. This particular mine bounced a foot into the air before exploding, its load of three-hundred steel balls intended to wound, not to kill.

  Walsh pick up the command radio and spoke, “Get to that first row of buildings on the double. Look out for small mounds of sand; they conceal the mine detonators. Get moving!”

  Junior officers and platoon sergeants shouted orders, and Marines attacked at the run, dividing their attention between the sand beneath their feet and the buildings ahead. In thirty seconds the first Marines reached the buildings and began to kick in doors. Only one more mine was heard.

  Chapter 34

  September 13, 2017 0630Z (0930 AST)

  Battalion Aid Station, South of Arad

  Mike McGregor decided to stay with the battalion aid station that was set up just south of the bridge. The action would be close enough to allow immediate evacuation of wounded, and he was much better equipped to handle casualties where he was. By time the 1/28 reached the town, twenty-one Marines had been wounded, twelve gunshot wounds and nine shrapnel wounds. Each casualty had a leg wound, and several of the mine casualties had been hit in an arm as well. Fortunately, none of the mine shrapnel had penetrated anyone’s body armor. Several injuries were minor enough to treat with just a dressing—they could worry about surgery later. Four, however, were very serious—major arteries hit or bones shattered. McGregor and Nicole Ellis were working hard to control bleeding and to limit nerve damage that could ultimately lead to amputation. Medevac helicopters from Essex and Iwo Jima were inbound.

  The ambulance McGregor was using as the center of his battalion aid station had two radios, one for the command net and one for the medical evacuation net. His driver, Lance Corporal Keila Jordan, was monitoring both. “Got Colonel Mark for you, sir. Wants to talk on Tac-7.”

  Tac-7 was the commander’s personal frequency.

  McGregor hopped into the passenger seat and put on a pair of headphones. Jordan had already set it to the new frequency. “Eagle one-two here.”

  “Doc, give me a quick casualty report.”

  “Twenty-one so far, Colonel. Mix of gunshot and shrapnel from the anti-personnel mines. Mostly leg wounds. I think their idea is to create a lot of casualties which will require evacuation. We had to use quite a few Marines as litter bearers.”

  “Sounds about right, Doc. Hopefully once we have the perimeter secure, their snipers will have a tougher time. In the meantime, do you need any help?”

  McGregor was not used to having someone so senior ask if he needed help. He didn’t want to admit it, but he and Lt. Ellis were getting overwhelmed. Each of their wounded required pain management, control of bleeding, IV fluids, and dressings. His corpsmen were doing a great job, but . . .

  “Sir, could you ask Commander Barnes to send Lt. Russell from the evac station at the beach up here with an additional ambulance?”

  “Will do. Falcon out.”

  He turned to Ellis, “Help on the way.”

  “Russell had a lot of surgical training before he went into emergency medicine,” she said. “We really could use him. But won’t Commander Barnes be unhappy you bypassed him and went directly to the CO?”

  “Fuck him.”

  Ellis recoiled at this.

  “I didn’t go to the CO, he called me and asked if we needed help. We’re up to our eyeballs in wounded, so I told him, yes, we could use a little help. If Barnes objects then he shouldn’t be in that job.”

  With that he turned to the next casualty and forgot about Commander Kenneth Laroche Barnes.

  For the next half hour, McGregor methodically worked through a steady series of casualties, including the day’s first KIA, a Marine from the 1/28 hit in the neck with a grenade fragment. Despite truly heroic efforts, the corpsmen could not control the bleeding, and he died within minutes of arriving at the aid station. Disheartened, Mike McGregor left it to his corpsmen to evacuate the body.

  He was surprised when he saw Kelli Moore sitting in the ambulance while Nicole Ellis sutured a wound on her left arm.

  “Nicole,” he said, “what’s happened to Detective Moore?”

  He smiled and Kelli Moore, despite the pain of her wound, smiled back. For just a second, McGregor was transported off the bloody hilltop in Yemen and back to Ann Arbor.

  “Got surprised by a kid,” said the Captain. “Not even twelve by the look of him. One of my guys wanted to put him in flex-cuffs, but I said no. The he jumped at me and pulled some kind of curved knife. Got me across the arm. Nothing serious, my corpsman put a dressing on, but the CO insisted I come back here. Didn’t want one of his girls bleeding, I guess.”

  McGregor looked closely at the three-inch laceration. “Captain, this is one of those rare cases in which your commanding officer was actually right. This would have kept bleeding and probably gotten infected. Nicole will have this repaired in just a minute, and you’ll be back in the fight.”

  Kelli Moore thanked the PA and walked to where she had left her pack. She quickly changed into a clean shirt, but left on her blood stained green T-shirt. Without looking back, she jumped into her Humvee. Her driver floored the old vehicle while the Captain replaced her helmet and put a fresh magazine into her Beretta.

  As Kelli Moore disappeared into the blowing sand and dust, an M997A2 Humvee ambulance pulled into the aid station’s parking area. The rear door opened, and Lieutenant Jim Russell hopped out carrying a large medical
bag. Ellis and McGregor both knew and respected Russell, and started to walk towards the ambulance to greet him. They were surprised, however, when a second passenger appeared at the door—Commander Kenneth Laroche Barnes, carrying a large field pack, wearing full body armor with helmet and mirrored fragment resistant sunglasses.

  Nicole Ellis said under her breath, “Here’s trouble.”

  Kenneth Barnes, the Regimental Surgeon, was not happy. He was rarely happy. Son of Eddie Barnes, known in the trade as ‘The King of Scrap’, Barnes came from a family with interests in more than a dozen scrap yards, junk yards, and recycling plants in the Chicago area. Despite their wealth, young Kenny Barnes could never escape his family’s connection to the grimy blue collar scrap business.

  When his father, a tenth grade drop-out and no fan of higher education, balked at his son’s plans for medical school, the Navy came to his rescue with a full scholarship. He enjoyed military life and excelled at officer’s school where his instinct for power allowed him to become class leader.

  After discovering that he didn’t really like patient care, Barnes trained in Occupational Medicine—more a business than a medical specialty—and following his required three years on active duty bought out a small occupational practice. Understanding he was really working for the employers, Barnes Occupational Medicine grew rapidly into a string of ten offices serving Chicago’s largest employers—including Barnes Scrap and Iron.

  Barnes stayed in the Navy Reserve and succeeded in advancing to the rank of Commander without ever being sent on deployment. Assuming an entire regiment would never be deployed, he took the position as Regimental Surgeon in order to punch an important ticket on the way to his next promotion.

  The job was not much of a challenge, though he was not prepared for the pushback from his battalion surgeons. He was convinced that each of them believed him unqualified, preferring to consult each other rather than him. Gonzalez at the 3/28 was typical. A former Marine scout sniper, he made it clear that with no combat experience, Barnes lacked the moral authority his position required. Russell at 2/28, like Barnes, had no combat experience, but Russell was a nerd, and it surprised Barnes that he was even in the Navy. That and his three years of surgical training followed by emergency medicine left him with an annoying sense of superiority.