Anvil (11 page)

As quickly
as the Russian helo appeared, it exploded into a massive ball of flame.  I
flattened myself on the ground as shrapnel from the destroyed Havoc whistled
past my ear.  A heartbeat later an Apache roared overhead, banking away
from several lines of tracers that reached out from the advancing enemy.

The pilot
dropped until he was nearly scraping the ground, juking side to side in a
desperate attempt to evade the enemy anti-aircraft fire.  Body pressed to
the ground, I looked up as he fired off a pair of hellfire missiles.  Then
the stream of tracers found the aircraft.

Most of the
tail section was shredded, the Apache beginning a sideways twist before belly
flopping into the snow.  It slid several yards before striking a rock and
flipping onto its side.  The main rotor contacted the ground and
shattered, sending chunks slashing through the air.

“You two,” I
leapt to my feet and pointed at the two Rangers who had accompanied me. 
“Grab some men and go get those pilots!”

The Apache
had come down inside the shrinking perimeter and I didn’t want the men flying
it to fall into Russian hands.  The Rangers grabbed the Corporal and two
Privates who we’d caught trying to run and dashed in the direction of the
crash.  The Lieutenant was still on the ground and I bumped him with my boot,
none too gently, telling him to get on his feet.

He didn’t
respond.  I could tell by feel the moment my foot touched him that he was
either unconscious or dead.  Kneeling, I grasped his shoulder and rolled
him over.  Vacant, dead eyes stared up at the grey clouds as his limp
corpse flopped onto its back.  A neat, almost bloodless, wound was in the
middle of his forehead.  Shrapnel from the Havoc.

Standing, I
looked around, glad to see the Soldiers I’d sent Dutch to retrieve.  They
were streaming through gaps between the hills, running as Russian mortar fire
tore up the ground behind them.  As happy as I was to see them, I was
dismayed at how few were still alive.  And healthy.  Nearly a third
of the men running towards me were supporting a buddy who had been injured, too
many more paired up and carrying a body between them.

Voices
screamed for medics as they approached, but there wasn’t much help
available.  The two men wearing armbands with muted red crosses on them
dashed about, trying to triage the overwhelming amount of injuries.  Many
of the Soldiers were mortally wounded and wouldn’t make it through the day
without immediate evac.  But there were no hospitals any more, at least
not within reach of the battlefield.  Maybe the Navy still had a hospital
ship in operation, but…

As the
remaining men of the company approached, I shouted for them to get formed up and
prepare to fall back.  I ran around the edges, meeting many of them as
they arrived, pointing and yelling orders.  Keeping my eyes moving, I was
looking for any NCOs amongst the survivors but wasn’t finding any.

All too
soon, men stopped appearing.  Dutch and the two Rangers brought up the
rear.  He saw what I was doing and immediately added his voice to the
commands, helping get the Soldiers rallied and ready to move as a group.

“Any NCOs
survive?”  I asked him when he passed close to where I was standing.

“Not that I
could find.  This is one big clusterfuck, and the Russians are close
enough I can smell the goddamn borscht,” he answered.

“I sent two of
your men to pull the pilots out of that downed Apache and they aren’t back
yet.  Can you get them on the radio?”

We both
ducked as mortar shells began falling closer, heralding the continued approach
of the Russians.  Dutch transmitted several times, pausing to listen in
between each broadcast, but he wasn’t getting a response. 

“What freq
are you on?”  I pulled out my radio and adjusted the channel when he told
me, making a note of his call sign.

“Take point
and get these men out of here,” I said, tucking the radio back into its Velcro
pouch.  “I’ll go get our Rangers.”

I turned to
run for the column of smoke that clearly marked the site of the crash, pausing
when Dutch touched my arm.

“My job,
sir,” he said, trying to move past me.

“Negative, Top. 
I sent them, I’ll go get them.”

I didn’t
give him a chance to argue the point, though I understood what he was
doing.  In the military, officers are considered more valuable than
NCOs.  That’s probably true as there are only a fraction as many officers
as there are NCOs.  The principle is drilled into every Soldier from early
on in their military career, and for NCOs it is second nature. 

But I wasn’t
a tactician.  I wasn’t a highly skilled technician or engineer.  I
wasn’t a General that could draw up battle plans and change them on the fly as
the fighting unfolded.  I was a dog-faced grunt that was nothing more than
an NCO until the world fell apart and a well intentioned Colonel promoted me to
Major.  Sitting back and letting someone else do the fighting just didn’t
mesh with my mindset.

The incoming
fire intensified as I ran towards the downed Apache.  Mortars were getting
closer and a couple of times machine gun fire came my way.  I ran in a
crouch, changing direction often and slowing then sprinting to the cover
offered by different terrain features.  It’s an exhausting way to cover
ground, but running a steady pace in a nice straight line is a great way to let
an enemy lock on and shoot you.

I was able
to get an occasional glimpse of the advancing Russians, and I didn’t have much
time.  Dashing to the base of a small hill, I threw myself flat and
skidded to a stop as more machine gun fire whipped over my head.  Worming
forward, I looked around the shoulder of what was really no more than just a small
mound of earth.  I could see the crash site fifty yards in front of me.

The Apache
was on its side, smoke pouring from the engine compartment.  No flames
were visible, but it was only a matter of time.  Taking shelter behind the
hull were the five men I’d sent and the pilot and gunner from the
helicopter.  They were still alive, for the moment, pinned down by a
couple of squads of Russians.

I needed to
get them out of there.  Fast.  If the enemy didn’t get them, there
was the very real concern of the fire reaching the Apache’s fuel tanks. 
Sure, they’re made tough, are ballistic resistant and self-sealing, but fire
has a way of finding fuel.  When that happened, the seven men would be
engulfed in the fireball of an explosion.

The rifle in
my hands was new to me, and I had no idea how well, if at all, the battle scope
had been sighted.  The Russians pushed forward, leap-frogging towards my
men while maintain a blistering suppressive fire.  I decided it didn’t
mater if the sight was zeroed or not.  I also needed some help.

Settling
into the rifle’s stock, I called Dutch on the radio.  He answered as I
pulled the trigger for the first time and saw a puff of dust a foot to the left
of my intended target.  The Russian soldier, who was throwing down much of
the cover fire, either didn’t notice or wasn’t phased.  I adjusted my
aiming point and pulled the trigger, drilling a round through his neck.

When I
called Dutch I had asked for the radio frequency for the artillery unit. 
He gave it to me, and even though I didn’t have a map book to provide grid
coordinates I placed the call anyway.  It took some shouting and longer
than it should have, but I finally convinced them to check with Colonel
Blanchard to verify I was legit.  While this was going on, I took out three
more Russians.

That was
good, as it slowed their advance on the men pinned behind the crashed Apache,
but it was also bad as they finally noticed me.  A large volume of fire
started coming my way and I had to roll behind the protection of the
hill.  Clicking over to the channel the Rangers were using I reached the
men below my position and told them to sit tight for another few minutes. 
The reply was sarcastic and profanity laced and, despite the circumstances,
made me smile.

Clicking
back to the artillery channel I was glad to hear that they were satisfied I
wasn’t the enemy trying to call a fire mission in on American troops.  I
didn’t have a map book, had no idea what my location was, but they had terrain
maps and I had a set of eyes.  It took some doing, but I was able to spot
and describe enough unique topographical features for them to find the general
area.

Knowing it
was a best guess, and not wanting to drop a shell on the men I was trying to
save, I requested a ranging shell, or one that would only produce smoke. 
The Red Legs were on the ball and it wasn’t long before I heard the rumble of
incoming arty.  A moment later there was a huge blossom of white smoke, a
couple of hundred yards behind and far to the right of the Russians.

I called in
adjustments for direction and drop, doing some rough math in my head and hoping
like hell I remembered how to do this.  Calling in a fire mission isn’t
complicated, but it wasn’t something I’d ever done in real life before. 
It’s rare that a SF operator finds himself in a situation where artillery is
available.  It had never happened for me and I had only ever done this in
training.

The second
round arrived quickly, closer, but not close enough.  Still too far and
slightly right.  The Russians had noticed the ranging rounds and were
pushing hard to move forward, knowing the best protection would be to get as
close as possible to the Americans.  They didn’t give me a lot of choice
even though I would have liked another round to fine tune the bombardment.

Crossing my
fingers, I called in another adjustment and ordered the battery to “fire for
effect”.  If I had fucked up I’d either just brought the shells down on
the heads of my men, or was sending them into empty terrain where they’d do
nothing other than make a lot of noise.  Hoping I was due for some luck, I
started sending as many rounds at the Russians as I could, trying to slow them.

I heard the
roar of the shells in flight over the report of my rifle.  Ceasing fire, I
watched and waited.  It didn’t take much more than a second for the shells
to start dropping and they were on target.  Well, not perfectly. 
They were still coming in long, detonating fifty yards behind the rear of the
Russian squads, but half the enemy soldiers were killed by the first three rounds
and the rest were too busy looking for cover to keep firing.

Back on the
radio, I shouted a new adjustment and watched as the fire was walked closer to
the Apache.  The Russians were devastated, and I lost sight of all of them
in the clouds of dirt, dust and smoke that were thrown up by the 155 mm shells.

“Fall back
now!”  I screamed into the radio after switching channels.

A moment
later one of the Rangers leapt to his feet, four others jumping up when he
shouted.  They scooped the Apache crew off the ground and ran.  I
stayed prone, rifle up and ready if a Russian popped up behind them.  I
didn’t think that was going to happen as the artillery was pounding the ever
loving shit out of that part of Idaho.

When they
reached my position I waved them on, getting to my feet and following as the
last one passed.  Mortars started up again when the other advancing enemy
units spotted our movement.  Machine gun fire was sprinkled in and ahead I
saw one of the Privates flop lifelessly to the ground after half his head
disintegrated.

The Ranger
in the lead pulled to a stop behind the cover of a slightly larger hill, the
rest of the men bunching tightly around him.  I started to ask what the
hell he thought he was doing, then dove for cover when I saw a Russian BTR nosing
its way towards us.

“Sir!” 

Admiral
Packard turned when a communications specialist called out from the far side of
the CIC.  He had been watching as each console operator worked to shut
down and secure their station before heading to a bunker located deep
underground.  He glanced at the countdown clock tracking the inbound
thermonuclear warhead as the woman who had called out to him stood up.

“Phone call
for you, sir.  It is Fleet Admiral Chirkov.  I’ve confirmed the call
as originating in Moscow.”

Packard was
normally not a man who could be surprised, but the news that the head of the
Russian Navy was on the phone and wanted to speak with him caught him
completely unprepared.  He knew Chirkov, having met him twice at
diplomatic functions throughout the span of his career, and had always thought the
man an arrogant simpleton.  But, regardless of the man’s intelligence, he
had shown himself to be an incredibly astute politician.

“Here,” he
pointed at the phone on the console closest to him. 

While the
comm specialist worked to reroute the call, Packard ordered the Captain to
continue clearing the room and move personnel to the bunker.  Waiting a
moment to collect his thoughts, letting the phone buzz on its cradle, he took a
deep breath and lifted the handset.

“Admiral
Packard speaking,” he barked.

“Admiral, so
good to hear your voice.  How long has it been?  Eight years, no?”

“If you’ll
excuse me Viktor, one of your warheads is about to drop into my lap.  I’m
a little busy.  What do you want?”  Packard snarled, struggling to
contain his anger.

“My old
friend, I am calling to deliver a present to you.  I assume you are
watching the track of the inbound device?”

Packard
glanced at the screen, wincing when he saw the ICBM still tracking along a
dotted line ending in Hawaii. 

“Again, what
do you want, Viktor?”

“Admiral,
please,” the Russian purred into the phone.  “Can’t two old warriors have
a civil conversation?”

“If you want
civil, you shouldn’t have attacked my country,” Packard responded, finally
getting his emotions under control and speaking calmly.

“Ahh… well,
perhaps it is time for all of this to end.  That is why I’m calling.”

Packard was
quiet for a moment, wondering what game the Russian was playing.  He
looked at the countdown clock.  Five minutes and twelve seconds remained.

“I’m
listening,” he said.  “But you’d better talk fast.”

“First,
allow me to demonstrate my goodwill,” the Russian said.  “Keep watching
the incoming nuclear warhead.”

There was
silence on the phone as Packard glared at the screen.  The clock kept
running, counting down the time to detonation.  He was aware of the
continuing evacuation of the room and decided he was hanging up and heading for
the bunker when the time reached three minutes remaining. 

“I’m going to
hang up, Viktor,” he said when the clock reached four minutes and radar still
tracked the missile.

“Keep
watching,” the Russian said with a note of supreme confidence in his Oxford
accented English.

Three
seconds later the screen blinked and the icon representing the ICBM
disappeared.  At the same time the clock stopped, displaying 03:56:59. 
Packard stared at it for a moment before stabbing the mute button on the phone
console.

“Confirm
that, Master Chief,” he shouted at the console operator.

“Already on
it, sir,” the man answered, typing furiously.

After what
seemed an eternity, but was actually less than thirty seconds, the Master Chief
heaved a deep sigh and turned to face Packard.

“Confirmed,
sir.  The missile was destroyed in flight, above the atmosphere.” 

The man
couldn’t contain the smile that spread across his face.  Cheers broke out
around the room, Packard barking them to silence as he turned back to the phone
and took it off mute.

“Am I
supposed to thank you, Viktor?”  He asked.

“To be
honest, Admiral, you should thank President Barinov.  It is on his orders
that the missile was aborted.  He is ready to end hostilities with the
United States if certain conditions are met.”

“What are
the conditions?”  Packard growled.

“See, I knew
you were a reasonable man.  There is no need for further bloodshed.  If
you agree to these conditions, Russia will leave all surviving Americans
unmolested.  If you do not, the next missiles will not be aborted.  And
there will be more of them.  Many more.  Shall I read the President’s
conditions to you now?”

Packard
gripped the handset so tight his hand throbbed.  Anger boiled in his gut,
but as he looked around the room he realized he had no option other than to
listen to the Russian.  Muting the phone again he turned to the comm
specialist.

“Is this
being recorded?”

“Yes, sir,”
she replied after confirming the conversation was being saved to disc.

“Proceed,
Viktor,” he said in a tight voice after un-muting the call.

“Very
well.  I assume you are recording and do not need to take notes.

“First, the
full and immediate cessation of all military actions by the United States
against any Russian military or civilians.  Anywhere on the globe.

“The
complete decommissioning of all American military forces and assets. 
Immediately, all American submarines must come to the surface and remain there
until we direct them to a port of our choosing.  All operational naval
surface vessels shall be handed over to Russia within one week.  All
aircraft other than un-armed commercial craft shall also be handed over, and
inspections shall be performed in Hawaii to inventory and remove all military
munitions.

“The
complete evacuation of North America, including Alaska, by all surviving
Americans.  Russia now claims the entire continent as sovereign territory.

“Americans
are limited to the Hawaiian Islands and their immediate waters.  The
survivors in the Bahamas shall be evacuated to Hawaii within one week. 
Travel to, and trade with, Australia shall be permitted if approved in advance.

“Finally, we
want Major John Chase.  Deliver him to any Russian commander, but he must
be in our custody within twenty-four hours.

“None of
these conditions are negotiable.  If you do not agree, or if you violate
any of the terms, all remaining Americans shall be destroyed by Russian nuclear
rocket forces.  Do you understand, Admiral?”

Packard
stood very still, only the bunched muscles in his jaw betraying his mood. 
His mind was racing, but as he considered his options it became painfully aware
that without America’s nuclear deterrent, it was suicide to stand against the
Russians.

“I don’t
know where Major Chase is,” he finally spoke, trying to buy time.  “I
don’t even know if he’s still alive.”

“I think you
are being less than honest with me, Admiral,” Chirkov chuckled into the
phone.  “You are as aware as I am that he is in Idaho.  Perhaps you
do not know his precise location at this moment, but he is with your
forces.  President Barinov has a personal score to settle with this man
and delays or obfuscation on your part will be considered a violation of the
terms I’ve laid out.  I need your answer.  Now.  Do you agree?”

“Agreed,”
Packard growled through his teeth as he seethed internally.

“You are a
wise man,” Chirkov laughed again.  “I’m sure you can imagine how many
warheads are targeted on Hawaii at the moment, awaiting the President’s
order.  My aides will contact you to arrange the details of the turnover
of your fleet.  And, I will be coming to Hawaii to personally accept your
surrender.  Isn’t it a shame that the USS Missouri has been
decommissioned?  What a marvelous setting that would be for a surrender
signing.”

The Russian
was laughing when he broke the connection, leaving Packard listening to a dead
circuit.  The Admiral stood perfectly still for several moments, the CIC
completely silent as every remaining person watched him.  Finally, with a
shout of anger he snatched the phone off the console and threw it against the
wall, shattering the device into dozens of pieces.

“Get me
Colonel Blanchard in Idaho,” he snapped at the comm specialist.  “I’ll
take it in my office.”

Packard
turned and stormed out of the room, motioning the intel Captain to follow.