The Fall of America: Winter Ops Read online

  “Do we attack or keep moving?” Walsh asked.

  “We attack, and at every opportunity.” I replied, but since he was a fairly new man, I let his question slide. I then added, “This is what we'll do.”

  Twenty minutes later, with a Claymore mine positioned toward the group of Russians, I waited until the men moved to look over a map, all but two anyway. At that point I squeezed the clacker and sent them straight to hell in loud explosion. The other two stood, which was the worst thing they could have done and were shot down. I heard screams for many long minutes after the explosion, but still we waited. Damn, I finally thought, I don't need this with the weather bad and maybe choppers looking for us. I'm tired, hungry and need some sleep.

  “Move into them, but if one even twitches, put a bullet in 'em. Let's move!”

  We moved forward as a group, but we were well spread out. One man was still alive, with some injuries to his left arm and his side. The rest were dead.

  “Kelly, cover Walsh as he checks the man for weapons.”

  No sooner had the two men moved into position than Kelly yelled, “Pistol!”

  I was looking right into the Russian's eyes as Kelly pulled the trigger on his Bison and stitched the man right up the middle. The man's eyes grew huge, he bucked violently as bullets struck him, and then he fell back, dead. Blood, gore, and bone covered the ground around the dead man as his body quivered and jerked as his central nervous system shut down.

  “Damn me, that was close.” Walsh said as he looked around.

  “Too close, but that's why if it's possible, we always check the injured in pairs. Alright, look for any ammo, gear, or food we can take. Let's hurry, folks, the Russians will be on our asses twice as hard once they know we killed some of their men, too.” I glanced at the falling sleet and then the sky. It looked to me as if we were in for a spell of bad weather and I prayed it turned barnyard bitch dog ugly. The worse the weather, the more likely we'd make a clean get away.

  Ten minutes later, we were back on the trail and moving north. As we moved, the wind picked up and rain was mixed with the sleet. I noticed more rain than sleet and suspected that if the rain froze, the Russians would hunt a hole. I smiled, knowing right now they'd have to see us to find us and that made my day. We were now cutting across a large forest filled with large pine and oak trees, and some looked to be hundreds of years old. It was almost dry where we walked because the limbs on the big trees kept most of the moisture off us. I considered stopping, but knew we needed to cover some ground as long as we could move. The skies were dark, almost black, and the winds were growing stronger.

  Arwood, who was walking point, waited until I neared him and then asked, “When do you plan to hunt a hole?”

  “Not until we have to do the job. I want us to cover as much distance as we can before we stop. Right now, distance and bad weather is all that is keeping us alive. I think if we can cover 20 miles we can slow down and hunt a place to rest.”

  “We need someone to scout ahead of me, then. This sleet on the ground and the crackling noise it makes as it hits the ground confuses me and makes it hard for me to check for mines. I don't really expect any, not moving cross country, but they're always a consideration.”

  “Silverwolf, I need to talk with you.” I said and glanced down the line of partisans to see him smile. John Silverwolf was a good looking man of mixed Indian blood, his momma Lakota Sioux and his daddy Pawnee. His hair was black, his skin the color of bronze, and his teeth even and almost too white. His cheek bones were high and his eyes a deep brown, almost black. He was a no nonsense kind of man, but did have his humorous side; it just didn't come out often. Prior to the fall he'd been a cowboy and making good money with rodeos, but now he was about the best tracker we had in Mississippi.

  When he neared, I said, “John, I need to have you roaming out in front of Arwood, say three miles, and see if you can spot any potential threats to us.”

  “Sure, I can do that. Will you be maintaining this heading?”

  “For the rest of the day I will, but near dusk I'll swing due west.” I said and gave a sigh. I suddenly felt tired and worn out. Years of constant battle, no real deep rest, and absolutely no escaping the constant threat of a violent death, was hard on me emotionally. Pull it together, I thought, you can think about being tired after all of this is over, or you die, whichever comes first.

  John nodded and said, “I'll be out there someplace. If I don't come back at some point before dark, it's not likely I'll ever be back.”

  Our eyes met and I said, “I hear you. Now go.” Then turning to my people I said, “Saddle up and let's move. Arwood, you drop from point for a while and let Kerr take it for the rest of the day.”

  “I'll be up front, so hold all my calls.” Kerr said, grinned, and then moved forward.

  Kerr was a tall black man from Jackson, Mississippi, about six feet and six inches; I have no idea what he did before the fall and have never asked him. He's usually a quiet man, causes no trouble, and all our talk has been about how he lost his parents after the pharmacies closed. Seems they were unable to get their medication and eventually died, like so many others, of complications. I feel, each time I speak with him, a deep anger and I think it's related to the death of his parents. If so, he was a loving and caring son, which was rare in the days prior to the fall. Nonetheless, he's a damned good point man, alert, quiet, and with good eyes. More than once he's saved our collective asses by pointing out trip wires made of thin, almost invisible, monofilament fishing line. He had the eyes we needed.

  An hour later, just as we were crossing a large field I'd not wanted to cross, but we needed to cover some distance, I heard the high pitch scream of a jet fighter.

  “Down, and don't move!” Sandra yelled as we all went to ground.

  I heard what sounded like the worlds largest zipper being yanked down and then the area right in front of me erupted into a ten foot high wall of dirt, rocks, and debris as a Gatling gun tore the place to hell and back. I watched the bird pull up and then circle to come back around for another pass.

  I called out, “Stay still, because he'll not know, even if he sees us, if he killed us or not. If you pray, now would be a good time to ask the Lord to be merciful.”

  The jet did not line up for an attack, but flew down low, less than 300 feet, straight and level. When near us, he banked slightly to view us and then pulled his nose up and began a step climb into the dark clouds. In a matter of minutes he was out of sight and no doubt would call his home base and give some exaggerated number of partisans killed.

  “Is everyone okay?” I asked as I stood and knocked the sleet from my pants.

  “Walsh took a glancing blow from a rock and is bleeding, but he's okay. I'll bandage him up and he'll be good to go in a couple of minutes.” Sandra replied.

  At that point, Kerr returned at a run and said, “Russians coming in, they're hot on my ass. Y'all move back to the trees and I'll place a mine. Move, I mean they're really close to me.”

  “Everyone to the trees and now!” I said and took off at a hard run.

  A couple of minutes later, as we entered the trees, I said, “Spread out and watch Kerr. Cover his ass in the event the Russians see him.”

  I watched the far treeline for the enemy, but saw nothing. Then I saw Kerr stand in the tall grasses and run hard for our trees. It was then I spotted the first Russian step from the woods. The aircraft that attacked us must have radioed a squad on the ground to check our area out and get a good body count, because that's what I would have done.

  Kerr entered the trees without a shot from the other side and I suspect they didn't see him. Our man was almost to the trees before the first Russian was seen, their point man. A few minutes later, a larger group of Russians walked from the woods, following. I quickly estimated their size at a squad, almost the same as my force.

  They were good, I noticed, as they spread out wide to cross the field.

  “Hold your fire,” I whispere
d and heard my order passes around to the others.

  The main group continued on Kerr's tracks and at a little less than the half way point, there came a loud explosion, screams, and then yelling in Russian. I saw where there were five men earlier, smoke and bodies littered the ground. One man, I suspected he was the medic, ran for the downed men and when he neared, I heard a toe-popper go off and watched as he fell screaming. No one else moved. I pulled my Russian binoculars from my case and brought them to my eyes.

  The medic looked like he'd taken most of the shotgun shell blast in his thigh and he was bleeding heavily. I watched as he pulled his kit near and began to work on his injury. Of the other five that were down, only one was still moving and he was screaming almost nonstop. Adjusting the focus on my glasses, I saw long strands of gray purple intestines clutched tightly in his hands. He was dead, only he didn't realize it yet, and was moving on adrenaline. I expected him to go into shock shortly and then death. One man had his head completely missing, and of the other three, they all looked dead, but that meant little to me.

  I pulled Joyce, my sniper, in close and whispered, “Take out the furthest man first, and when you fire, so will we.” I looked around and everyone nodded.

  Joyce was a short woman with blond hair and blue eyes and about five feet and five inches tall. She loved to joke, until she picked up her sniper rifle; then she turned deadly serious. I watched her Russian sniper rifle come up and she began sighting in on her first target. She made some minor adjustments to her scope and took a deep breath. As she slowly exhaled the air trapped in her lungs, I saw her finger slowly tighten on the trigger.

  Her shot was more of a muffled pop than the blast of a high powered rifle, and I saw the man at the rear collapse into a heap. Other weapons opened fire and one by one the Russians began to fall. Seeing all the enemy were either dead or gone to ground, I called out, “Cease fire, cease fire, and now we wait. Keep your eyes open in case one makes a move. Joyce, put a killing round into each body you can see.”

  Her shots began to ring out.

  Finally, a man on the right screamed something, stood and began running back toward the trees. Joyce fired once and the man's head exploded sending blood and gore high into the air. He collapsed as if he'd hit a brick wall.

  We continued to wait.

  Finally, an hour after her last shot and ending of all cries and moans, I said, “Okay, I want most of you to remain here as Scott and I check them out.”

  I heard the twenty year old gulp and then he stood as I did. Scott was one of the few in the field that spoke fluent Russian. At a young age he'd been adopted by a Russian couple and raised as their own son. To avoid suspicion and problems, he'd not used his Russian name when he joined us and so far he was proving to be a loyal American. I liked the lad, as did Sandra, but some distrusted him because he spoke the language of our enemies. Both of his Russian parents were killed when they were hanged in retaliation of our attack on the air base at Edwards earlier this year and I feared the man was on a vengeance trail, because he was hard on any Russian taken alive. While only twenty, he had the eyes of a sixty year old man and by that I mean sad eyes, very sad.

  “If one moves,” I said as we moved forward, “put a bullet in him.”

  “Oh, trust me, I will.”

  In the main group by the exploded mine, the five were dead and the medic was fatally injured. Joyce had put a bullet in his head, a large chunk of skull was missing, and his breathing was jagged and uneven. Scott leaned over, pulled his skinning knife and cut the man's throat. We moved on.

  Of the others, all were dead, and the one who'd ran for the trees had most of his head missing from the killing shot fired by my sniper.

  “Gather up anything we can use, as I pull all the papers and maps from these men. Hurry now, because I want to be gone as soon as we can. Sooner or later the base these men came from will try to contact them by radio.”

  Twenty minutes later we were moving north and it was still sleeting with a mixture of ice, but I suspected by morning we'd be facing an ice storm. I stopped by the trail and watched my men and women walk by. They looked good, but tired, and it was then I spotted Scott. He was packing the radio from the group we'd killed in the field.

  Dropping back, I asked, “What's the idea of packing the extra weight?”

  “Colonel, I think I can speak to them enough to mess them up.”

  “What about your accent?” I asked.

  “I was told I don't have one. That was what I was told in college, where I further studied the language, according to the Russian language professor anyways. I'd hoped to get a Masters degree and become a diplomat, but we all know how that turned out, huh?”

  “I have a stack of papers in my pack. Do you read the language as well?”

  “Oh, yeah, my momma taught me to read with a Russian Bible.”

  “Good; now let's stop talking and keep moving. We'll be at the safe house by dawn.”

  Just as it grew dusk, Silverwolf appeared and said, “The woods are crawling with patrols out looking for something, but I don't think it's us. Most were moving at a fast clip east and so were most of the aircraft, but I only saw two birds.”

  “East? That would be toward Jackson, unless they have some partisans surrounded, or are planning to hit one of our groups hard. How many men total do you think you saw?”

  “A thousand, maybe a few more or less. Most all were in company sizes.”

  I knew of none of our people out that way, but often I wasn't told things. Our security was designed so that you couldn't tell the Russians what you didn't know if taken prisoner. This meant we needed to move quickly to the safe house and pass the word on of what Silverwolf had found.

  “Okay folks, listen up. From the information Silverwolf brought us, we need to get to the safe house as soon as we can. This means we'll not stop until we get there. The Russians are moving a lot of men to the east and it must be for a reason. Maybe, just maybe, the maps and other papers taken from our last ambush site will provide some information. If you have to pee, do it now, or take your chances later as you walk. I'll stop for a few minutes every hour, but get ready for a long night.”

  CHAPTER 2

  Lieutenant Sasha Smirnov walked around the blood-stained killing grounds of the open field and grew angry at the slaughter of his fellow soldiers. About half had been shot in the head with a high caliber rifle, from a far distance he suspected, because there were no powder burns to any of the heads. Others had been killed by a mine and one had his throat cut. The long distance shots, likely from the distant treeline, would have been made by a well qualified sniper.

  “Lieutenant!” Senior Sergeant Morozov called out, “Our partisans were in the tree line and I've found the empty brass from their weapons. It looks as if the mine was a pressure detonating one with some shotgun shells resting on nails scattered around to confuse, injure or kill any survivors.”

  “How can a shotgun shell rest on a nail?”

  “It's easy, sir. Take a block of wood, drill a hole the diameter of the shell, then drive a nail up into the hole from the bottom. To use, you bury the block and place a shell in the hole. When a man steps on the block the shell is pushed down, the primer resting on the nail goes off and the shell explodes. It almost always causes a serious injury to the thighs or lower stomach. The shot can also take a man's pecker and balls off, too—and I mean in a second.”

  Smirnov waved him away and ended the conversation. The Lieutenant had been told in Moscow the resistance was a bunch of unorganized farmers and prior military. What he saw here was a well executed ambush and it worried him. He realized he was not facing a ragtag group of peasants, but men who knew well how to kill, and that worried him. His Senior Sergeant had told him the Russian patrol had chased the Americans into the trees, started crossing the field, and then the ambush had been sprung. The enemy hadn't panicked and even had the presence of mind to plant a mine and some shotgun shells before moving to the shelter offered by the t
rees. That told him this group of resistance fighters worked well under pressure and that meant experience.

  “Egorov!” the Lieutenant yelled, “Contact base and let them know we have ten killed and no American bodies found. Also, inform them the Americans have moved away from our direction of travel, moving north, and then ask if we are to pursue them or continue East.”

  “Yes sir.” Junior Sergeant Abram Egorov replied, and then picked up the headset and began talking. Egorov wasn't sure what to think of the Lieutenant, the army, or America. He knew he didn't like America or the Army, because both tried to kill him, and the Lieutenant hadn't been with the unit but a couple of days, so he was unsure of him. Egorov had been in the field for a little over six months and during that time he'd seen Lieutenants come and go, most killed, some wounded, and only one promoted up and out of the field.

  “Senior Sergeant! Get these bodies ready to be picked up by helicopter. I am sure headquarters will want them removed.” Lieutenant Smirnov said as he walked toward the trees inattentively. The Lieutenant had taken about a dozen steps when he heard someone yell, “Grenade!” Before Smirnov could turn there was an explosion, followed by shrieks of pain and loud cursing.

  “Medic!” someone yelled.

  Completing his turn, the young officer saw five men down and knew by looking three would never get up again. One was almost blown in half, one had half his face missing, and the last was attempting to hold his intestines in place. It was the man with the stomach wound that was screaming.

  The medic, Sergeant Borya Volkov, moved quickly to the injured man's side and started working. He had one of the Privates hold a plasma bag up as he found a vein in the man's arm. After about five minutes, he yelled, “Sir, I need a helicopter for this man or he will die. I have got his bleeding almost under control, but he is torn up inside.”

  “Egorov, what did base say about us? And get me an evacuation helicopter now!”