The Fall of America: Winter Ops Read online

  “There are still some sick —”

  “Do you hear that?” Kerr asked.

  CHAPTER 6

  From his bed in the hospital, the Senior Sergeant could look out the window and see men and women scurrying around like ants. He'd been questioned so much by intelligence his patience was thin and temper mean. They'd asked him a zillion questions about all sorts of things and made an attempt to make Lieutenant Smirnov look bad. Morozov had finally grown mad at the men questioning him and ran them from his room. They're a bunch of damned paper pushers and not a one of them has ever been shot at. Any combat soldier knows at times there is nothing you can do but die, he thought as he moved and then winced from pain.

  Suddenly he heard a loud voice, “Taras, you lazy bastard, what are you doing in bed?”

  “I needed a short nap.” he replied as he met the blue eyes of Master Sergeant Stas Fedorovo.

  The Master Sergeant walked to the bed, pulled a pint of vodka from his coat and slipped it under the mattress. Smiling, he asked, “Are they treating you well? And, what are the extent of your injuries? I heard you were the only survivor of your squad, but how can that be?”

  Master Sergeant Fedorovo was short, just five feet and four inches, but every inch of him was a fighter. He weighed 120 pounds, or 54.55 kilos. He'd joined the army at 17 and quickly found a home. His brown hair was cropped almost to the skin and he looked mean most of the time, but he was a compassionate man inside.

  “Ambushed us as we woke at dawn. Lieutenant Smirnov and I were in the bushes doing our morning business when it happened. The fight did not last more then two minutes and then we started walking back to base. I then —”

  The Master Sergeant patted Morozov on the shoulder and said, “I read the report, Taras, but did anyone screw up?”

  “Not that I can remember. The Americans must have watched us bed down and then moved in close during the darkness. Then, at first light, they began killing.” Suddenly, Morozov began to cry silently as his body quivered.

  Pulling the bottle out from under the mattress, Fedorovo broke the seal, unscrewed the top and handed the bottle to his Senior Sergeant. “Take a long deep drink of this; it will help you feel better. Men die in wars, my friend, and we are leaders of the men who will die. At times it will be one of us, but most often it is those who follow us. I like to think God selects who will live or die.”

  Morozov took a long pull on the bottle, handed it back to the Master Sergeant and nodded. After about a minute, he watched Fedorovo take a drink. Then he said, “All of them dead. But I know I could not have saved them if I had been with them.”

  “Well, I have come to tell you the bodies have been recovered. From what I read, the ambush was completed by a squad size unit and they were well equipped and trained, or their leader was prior military. That is the problem here that Moscow does not understand. They think we are battling a bunch of ignorant peasants and we are not. There are more guns here than in all the armies of the world combined, and most of the men here are hunters, hobby shooters, or prior military. Hell, we were insane to come here to start with.”

  Sitting up, the vodka meeting his pain pills, the Senior Sergeant said, “So, what can we do?”

  “We are soldiers and we will follow orders. Many more men will have to die before Moscow realizes the cost is too great. By that time, you and I will either be dead and buried, killed here, or retired to mother Russia. We are a hard-headed people, but this time the American eagle has a good solid bite on our arses and won't let go. Just like Afghanistan years back, we will have to learn the hard way, and how many men and women will be sent home to momma in a box?”

  “I should have been a farmer like my father wanted me to be.”

  “Perhaps, but this way you have seen much of the world, have a chest full of cheap tin and ribbon, along with a small pension. No, you are right for the job, but every professional has bad days and you, my friend, had one. Now, I am going to leave, but I will be back later to talk. Sleep now.”

  By the time the Master Sergeant mentioned sleep, Morozov was already gone. The combination of the alcohol and pills had put him out.

  Seeing his good friend sleeping, Fedorovo smiled, wiped his eyes and said, “God, protect this brave man, he is like a brother to me. Keep him safe in the coming battles.” He then left the room.

  “So, Lieutenant Colonel Vasiliev, if I understand you correctly, over four hundred Russian troops have died this month, while the Americans have lost less than one hundred! Explain to me how this has happened!” Colonel Ivanov screamed as usual during his staff meeting. He then continued, “How can these damned peasants murder Russian troops when they choose? You are the chief of Anti-terrorist Operations and I want answers!”

  “Sir, I hav —”

  “You stand at attention when speaking to me, Vasiliev, or I will have you shot for disrespect! Now, tell me what you are doing to stop this killing.”

  The Lieutenant Colonel shot to his feet and stood ramrod stiff as he replied, “We are using state maps and plan to eventually drop poison nerve agent on the whole state. We will do this county by county. We will then follow up with specially trained units, who will be dropped by helicopter or parachute to check suspected safe houses or areas we think have partisans.”

  “Why think or suspect? You really do not know much, do you? If not, then why not? I want answers, or I will send you packing back to Moscow in shame, for a courts-martial!”

  “Sir, these Americans are not talking. Most die before they give us information or they hold out long enough the information is no longer any good.”

  “Then, by God, use reprisals on them.”

  “We tried that, sir, and over 150 of this month's dead were killed in reprisals to our killings. On the ground at each site of the murders was a poster that claimed for every American murdered, six Russians would also die. So far, they have lived up to their promises.”

  “I want a thousand Americans dead by morning. There is no way they can kill six thousand Russians soldiers in retaliation.”

  “Sir, I would like to sug —”

  “Do not push me on this, and I want it done! By morning, I want to drive through the streets of Edwards and see body after body of dead lining the streets. Do you fully understand your orders?”

  “Yes, sir, and it will be done.”

  “Good. Now weather, tell me what to expect this week.”

  As the weather man stood, Vasiliev thought, My commander is a damned fool! He has no idea what this order will do to the American resistance. They will come for us and him, because they will be filled with such anger. Oh, I should have taken the job at Jackson, but this one offered me a promotion. I have made a terrible mistake.

  “Did you not hear me, Vasiliev?” the commander asked a second time.

  Standing, the Lieutenant Colonel snapped to attention and said, “I am sorry, sir, I was organizing your orders in my mind. I do not know if I have that many captured partisans in the camps to execute.”

  Looking at Colonel Kuznetsov, the gulag commander, Ivanov asked, “How many do you have, Colonel?”

  “At last count this morning, a little over 900 are suspected partisans.”

  “See, Vasiliev, that was not hard and make up the difference with civilians, male or female, and any age is fine. The Americans do not like to see their citizens killed and it is time they learn we Russians will kill any American we wish. Now go back to your office and see my orders are carried out. Dismissed.”

  “Yes, sir!” the Lieutenant Colonel said, saluted, did an about face, and left the conference room. As he walked to his car, he thought, things in this American War are about to heat up. We have never killed this many people at one time. I think the war is suddenly going to swing against us and we will have partisans coming out of the walls like cockroaches, all looking for Russian blood.

  Nearing his driver and car, Vasiliev yelled, “Get your arse in the car and take me back to my office.”

  His
driver, a Private, tossed his cigarette to the soil, stepped on it with his boot and pulled the keys out of his pocket. As he started the car, a glance in the mirror showed the Lieutenant Colonel drinking from a silver flask. Must have had his ass chewed hard this morning, he thought as he slipped the car into gear.

  The drive to his office was uneventful but stressful for the Commander of Anti-terrorist Operations. Once in his office he called a meeting with his junior officers and senior NCO's. When all were seated around the table, he explained his orders and waited for questions.

  “Sir, do you have any idea how long it takes to execute a hundred people?” Senior Sergeant Silin asked.

  “Not, not really, because I have never done the job. I suspect how they die determines how much time it takes. Shooting is quickest, but what do you suggest?”

  “I suggest a mixture of shooting and hanging. Take, let us say, half the group to hang and the other half to shoot. The hanging victims can be loaded on flatbed trucks, ropes thrown over telephone poles, limbs on trees, light posts, and then pushed off a truck. No need to wait and watch the victim die, just shove them from the truck and move on.

  For the shooting, place the victims in an open field and position tanks at the corners. Bullets from our machine-gun crews will bounce off the armor of the tank, but kill anyone in the field. Any that the machine-gun crews miss, the tank machine-gunner can take out in seconds. Send them out to the field a hundred at a time.”

  Captain Pasha Blinov said, “That is nothing but murder.”

  “This is war, sir,” Senior Sergeant Silin said and then added, “and reprisals are part of the game.”

  “Game?” the Captain almost yelled, “Damn it, Sergeant, it is cold-blooded murder in my book.”

  A Private stuck his head in the smoke-filled room and said, “A patrol just discovered the remains of six of our troops, all burned to death with petrol. They found the empty petrol containers.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Vasiliev smiled and said, “Captain, I want you and Senior Sergeant Silin to go and recover the bodies. Private, radio the patrol leader that we are coming to recover the remains. I think, Pasha, you will see shortly why we 'murder' Americans. Now, Silin, gather your men and tell the motor pool to give you the number of vehicles you think are needed. If you have any problems, let me know. Pasha, you go with him and watch a true professional in this man's army, and learn, my dear Captain.”

  The recovery convoy left Edwards two hours later, just as the Lieutenant Colonel had the first 100 of the soon to be murdered people pulled from the gulag. There were five vehicles in the group, plus two motorcycles, who rode in the front and rear of the trucks. The ride was short, less than five miles, and from the road they could see the bodies tied to the posts.

  Jumping from the cargo truck, Senior Sergeant Silin yelled, “Watch for trip wires and mines. It is very likely they have mines planted near the bodies.”

  A Sergeant neared, the squad leader of the unit that found the dead, and said, “We have not gone near the bodies, because our mine detector is not working properly.” He then noticed Captain Blinov and saluted.

  “How do you know they are our men then?” the Captain asked, his hands on his hips.

  “With my binoculars, I spotted bits and pieces of Russian clothing on the ground. I spotted a forage cap, a helmet, and even a shirt. I know partisans could have left the gear, but that is not likely, so I assumed the men are ours.”

  “Maybe they are traitors and were executed.” the Captain said.

  “Sir, with all due respect, but partisans usually hang or shoot traitors. Also there looks to be a poster or something nailed to a tree near the bodies. No, those poor dead bastards are Russians, sir.”

  “Senior Sergeant, take charge of the men and recover the bodies. I am sure the graves registration unit will identify them.”

  Silin snapped to attention, saluted and then yelled, “Men, form on me and step where I step. Look for tripwires and any discoloration in the grasses or soil.” He then started for the hill, with a squad of ten men behind him.

  Near the top of the hill, the Senior Sergeant said, “Wait for me as I check for mines or booby-traps.” He then moved forward, found nothing and ten minutes later, waved his men forward.

  The stench was horrible and even in the cold weather it was overpowering up close to the bodies. Each man's head was back, mouth open, and all of their fingers were crooked, like claws. A new man, Sergeant Avilov, took one look, inhaled the foul odor and stepped to the side to puke.

  “Sergeant, get back here becau—” Senior Sergeant Silin warned.

  There sounded a loud noise, like a shotgun blast and Avilov, was knocked to the ground as blood spurted from his groin and thigh. He screamed, grabbed at his injury and thrashed madly in the grasses.

  The medic ran for the downed man, even as Silin shouted a warning, and a few seconds later a wall of flame shot up as a pressure detonating mine exploded. The medic all but disappeared with his legs and arms, as well as his head, gone. A maimed torso was all that remained, and it was smoking.

  “No one move!” the Senior Sergeant yelled. Avilov was still screaming as blood spurted from between his fingers and pooled on the ground under him. His back was arched and he was shrieking continuously.

  Ten minutes passed as everyone stood in place and then the Sergeant said, “I am going to check the pole around each body for booby-traps, recover Avilov, and then we will carry the bodies to the trucks. I want none of you to move until I give the word.” The Sergeant then moved to the first pole and it was clean. He was near the third before he saw shotgun shell buried in the soil. He knew the primer of the shell was resting on a nail, and as Avilov had discovered, the detonation often caused serious injury and blood loss. Using his bayonet, he dug the shell up and tossed it aside. At the fourth and fifth poles he found more shotgun shells and dug each up. The smell of the bodies was getting to him, so he stepped back.

  There was a split second, just a small flash of time, when he realized he'd just made a terrible blunder. He felt the light fishing line on his boot grow tight, knew it was a booby-trap, and also knew he was a dead man. Oh, I just made a very stupid mistake, was the last thing Senior Sergeant Silin thought before the Russian MON-50 mine blew him apart.

  When the red dust and smoke cleared, very little remained of the six burned bodies, or the ten men who were sent to retrieve them. Arms, legs, and heads were scattered over the knoll and Sergeant Avilov was no longer screaming, because the blast had caught him in the face. An eerie silence filled the air.

  Down by the road, Captain Blinov was in shock, until the patrol leader said, “Sir, I have called the explosion in to headquarters and they have ordered all of us to look for survivors.”

  “Yes, uh, of course, Sergeant, so lead the way. Once near the explosion, secure the area.”

  “Yes, sir. Let us move, men. The sooner we recover what we can, the sooner we will return to base. I need three men to stay here and help the truck drivers provide security for the vehicles. Private, bring the radio and stay by my side.”

  “I will be within an arms reach.” the tall lanky Private said.

  At the top, there was nothing really to recover. Body parts were gathered and placed in body bags, except it was impossible to tell which arm went with which leg, so they filled three body bags and then moved back to the trucks. Once at the vehicles, the Captain walked from the men and puked a few times. He was looking pale when the squad leader said, “Sir, Headquarters wants us on the road as soon as possible. It seems we suffered a number of terrorist attacks on small patrols last night and we have another forty to fifty dead. The exact words from Lieutenant Colonel Vasiliev are, 'return here and now.'”

  “Let us leave immediately then.”

  Walking to the motorcycle in front, the squad leader gave the order, and within just a few minutes the convoy was returning to Edwards. The Captain was a changed man, only he didn't realize it yet. He would no longer question the
executions of Americans and a small seed of hate had actually been planted in his mind. As the big truck bounced and shook as it moved over the highway, his mouth grew tight and his eyes narrowed, as he remembered the bloody Russian bodies. Captain Blinov was learning to hate Americans.

  As the trucks entered the small town of Edwards, machine-gun fire was heard and the convoy contacted Headquarters by radio. Captain Blinov grew anxious at the sound and slowed the vehicles down to about half their normal speed.

  “Sir!” the radioman, a Private, said.

  “What do they want us to do?”

  “Lieutenant Colonel Vasiliev has ordered the trucks be returned immediately to assist in transporting more prisoners from the gulag. He wants the remains taken by one truck, dropped off at the hospital, and then it needs to join us at the gulag.”

  “What did he say of the gunfire we hear?”

  “It is the reprisals he has ordered.”

  “Tell him I will obey his orders and will be with the trucks at the gulag.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  As they rolled down the streets in town, the Captain noticed ropes hanging from telephone poles, light poles, and tree limbs, on both sides of the street. Near the center of town, he had his driver stop as two long trucks with flat beds had Russian soldiers placing nooses around the necks of the prisoners. He expected the Americans to be screaming or crying, but most were not. Each male prisoner fought hard to avoid the noose, except it did them little good. Once all were ready, the condemned were given a minute to pray. One man, a tall lanky man on the end of the first truck began to yell, “I pledge allegiance to the Flag, of the United States of Amer—”

  “Driver, go now!” a Senior Sergeant on the vehicle yelled and banged on the side of the truck. The vehicle shot forward and the victims were left dancing madly on their ropes.