Red Thunder (Winds of War Book 4) Page 6

  So, Quinn signed for what she considered to be a reasonable amount of “contingency” supplies, and managed to convince Flynn that the “extras” were a good way to cover his ass.

  By the same token Quinn wasn’t willing to accept the mission planners’ decisions regarding personnel. How well had the unit’s people been screened? Very well? Sort of well? Or not at all? Quinn knew there were hundreds, if not thousands of missions for planners to approve on any given day, and at least some of her soldiers could be iffy. Especially the Ukrainians who had been vetted by their own staff people.

  And there was another issue for Quinn to deal with. Rather than mingle with the Americans, the Ukrainians had a tendency to speak Russian with each other, even though every one of them spoke English. That was a threat to unit cohesion.

  And for their part, the Americans had made very little effort to befriend the east Europeans, leaving them to sit by themselves during meals.

  But how to correct that? Order everyone to integrate? No, that was absurd. So, Quinn racked her brain for a way to address the problem. She was lifting weights when an idea came to her. It made her smile.

  Flynn was present for a change. So once her workout was over, Quinn went to see him. First because she wanted to make sure that her commanding officer understood the nature of the problem. And second because the solution, her solution, would require more resources than she could authorize on her own.

  The door was open and Flynn was seated behind his desk—doing what he did best—bullshitting someone over the phone. The man had charisma. Quinn had to admit that. And the troops liked him. That would be important if the shit hit the fan.

  Flynn pointed to a guest chair, and Quinn sat down. The conversation continued for a minute or so, then came to an end with a “Yes, sir, I will sir. Thanks for the counsel.”

  There was a look of distaste on Flynn’s face as he put the receiver down. “That was General Matthews. He thinks we should put the troops on a strict vegetarian diet in order to purify them.”

  Quinn couldn’t help but laugh. “I’m glad you took that call, sir.”

  Flynn grinned. “So, what can I do for you Quinn? You never drop by to shoot the breeze.”

  That was true. Quinn didn’t. On the other hand, Flynn was rarely present to shoot the breeze with. “I think we have a problem, sir.”

  Flynn leaned back in his chair and put a pair of very expensive cowboy boots up on the desk. Such footwear wasn’t authorized needless to say, but rank hath privilege. “Okay, lay it on me.”

  Quinn took Flynn through it. The lack of certainty about who could do what, the schism between the Ukrainians and the Americans, and how that might come around to bite them.

  To his credit Flynn listened without interrupting. Then, once Quinn was finished, he nodded. “Yup. I agree with your assessment. And, knowing you as I do, a plan is teed up and ready to go.”

  Did Flynn know her? Quinn was inclined to dismiss the thought. Except that he was two for two at that point. Maybe he did know her. “That’s true, sir. And if you think it’s too wild and wooly at first, I hope you’ll hear me out.”

  “Go for it,” Flynn replied. Quinn explained the overall concept, followed by the logistics that would be necessary, and how the results would be measured.

  By the time Quinn finished Flynn was wearing a big smile. “That’s just whacky enough to work Major … I want the movie rights.”

  “So, it’s on?”

  “It’s on,” Flynn replied. “Make it happen.”

  Quinn was heartened by Flynn’s support. “I’ll put it on the schedule for Friday,” she said. “It will be called ‘Field Exercise,’ with no additional details. The less people know in advance, the more effective the activity will be.”

  Quinn enlisted CSM McKenzie to help. And over the next three days the two of them spent hours with the chief mechanic in charge of the motor pool, a liaison officer with the 40th Combat Aviation Brigade, and in meetings with a bus dealership.

  When Friday came, everything was in place, but just barely. And Quinn felt tired before the trip began. Buses took the 152nd east and into the hilly ravine-cut country south of San Benancio. That’s where the federally owned land known as Parcel 81 was located and, much to the annoyance of local residents, occasionally used for military training exercises.

  Each member of the company was dressed in insignia-free hiking gear, and carrying a knapsack loaded with a first aid kit, two large bottles of water, and a couple of boxed meals.

  Once off the buses the soldiers automatically sorted themselves into platoons, which Quinn and Mackenzie immediately stripped of leadership, by assigning all the officers including “Doc” Gulin to a squad led by Captain Booker.

  Then it was time to form a column of ones, place a Ukrainian in every third slot, with orders to introduce himself to the soldiers in front of and behind him. Rooney snapped dozens of photos as Flynn led the company up a winding trail into the hills.

  The troops knew something was up by that time, and peppered their noncoms with questions, only to discover that they were in the dark as well.

  The hike wasn’t technically difficult. But the need to summit hill after hill began to wear the company down. And that’s the way Quinn wanted them to be. Worn down. Because things rarely went south when a unit was rested.

  Fortunately, due to a high overcast and the time of year, the temperature was hovering in the low 70s. Noncoms and medics were permitted to check on hydration and treat blisters. But the platoon leaders could do no more than observe. And that, Quinn knew, was starting to piss them off.

  Finally, after two hours of marching, Flynn led the column through a narrow defile and into a depression surrounded by scree-covered slopes. The site had been home to a mine more than 50 years earlier and a rusty crane stood off to one side.

  The access road, or what had been an access road, was blocked by a landslide. “All right,” Flynn announced loudly. “Fall out and take a break in the shade.”

  Most of the soldiers went over to sit in the shade while the rest went looking for some privacy. At exactly 1100 the roar of helicopter engines was heard, and a CH-47 Chinook appeared out of the north. That was notable in and of itself. But it was the pale-yellow school bus dangling below the helicopter that captured everyone’s attention.

  Quinn knew the stats by heart. The Type C Bluebird school bus was equipped with a GM 427 gas engine. The combo weighed in at 23,500 pounds. But, because the so-called “Hooker” could lift 26,000 pounds, there was a decent safety margin.

  All eyes were on the big bird as it circled and started to descend. Rooney was using a GoPro to capture the action, and Flynn was smiling, as the Hooker lowered the bus to the ground. The cables threw dust into the air as they hit the dirt.

  Engines roared as the Chinook ascended and soon disappeared. Flynn knew better than to hurry the moment and waited for the sound to fade. Then he ordered the company to gather around him. “So,” Flynn began. “Did we get your attention?”

  The soldiers laughed, and Flynn nodded. “Good. As you know we’re going to fly into Russia, steal a ton of rhenium, and fly out. That’s the plan. In order to be successful, we’ll have to work as a team.

  “And, if the plan doesn’t work? Then it will be even more important to act as a team to survive. So, the goal of this exercise is to learn everything there is to know about your teammates and yourselves. To do that we’re going to move the bus up and over the ridge to the west. Then some of you are going to drive it back to base.”

  Quinn heard someone say “You must be shitting me,” followed by a stern “Silence in the ranks!” from Command Sergeant Major McKenzie.

  Flynn was unfazed. “Additional vehicles will meet us on the ridge. But, in order to successfully complete the mission, the bus must transport 30 members of the 152nd back to Fort Ord. How you accomplish that is entirely up to you. A variety of things, that you may or may not need, are waiting on the bus.

  “And be pre
pared. The XO and the CSM will wade into the crowd occasionally and remove a person from the mix. Because that’s the way it will be if we get into some deep shit. People will fall. Others will replace them.

  “So, make sure that everyone knows everything worth knowing, or you’ll wind up SOL. The deadline is 1700 tomorrow. That’s when the barbeque and beer will arrive at Building 12.” The mention of food and beer produce a cheer.

  “Oh, and one more thing,” Flynn added. “All of your interactions will be conducted in English both now, and during the actual mission, unless you are interacting with the enemy. Now get to work.”

  McKenzie bellowed, “Let me hear it!”

  The response was a ragged “Hooah!” Then the CSM walked away.

  The soldiers stood and looked at each other for a moment, clearly unsure of how to proceed. Master Sergeant Wilkins took the situation in hand.

  “All right people, you heard the colonel, we’re going to move that f’ing bus up over that f’ing hill. We’re going to need a plan. But that plan will depend on what we have to work with. So, unload the bus. Let’s see what we have.”

  At that point the platoon leaders were encouraged to move in and observe. “This is your chance to see how each one of your soldiers handles him or herself,” Quinn told them. “Pay attention. Who has the ideas? Who can communicate? And who works the hardest?”

  Thanks to pushing and prodding from Wilkins, the tools and supplies were removed from the bus and laid out on the ground. The bounty included an extensive collection of hand tools, a welding outfit complete with tanks, steel cables, coils of rope, heavy duty blocks, and much, much more.

  That was when Quinn tapped Wilkins on the arm. “Good work Master Sergeant … Your leadership role is over. You’re an observer now. Learn everything you can.”

  The process stalled. No one knew what to do, and at least ten minutes came off the clock as some people offered silly suggestions, and others waited for orders.

  Then, much to Quinn’s surprise, Corporal “Smoker” Jones stepped forward. Jones was the unelected leader of the group of mechanics generally referred to as “the Motorheads.”

  Jones had slicked back hair, green eyes, and radiated the kind of bad boy charisma that certain men and women were drawn to, but for different reasons. Quinn wasn’t one of them.

  She could feel the pull though, and watched with interest as the noncom took control. “Cut the crap. Use your heads. They gave us a torch. Why? So, we could cut the bus into pieces that’s why. Then we’ll hoist ’em up over the ridge, put everything back together, and drive home. It’s simple.”

  A Ukrainian entered the conversation at that point. His name was Vaschenko, and he spoke perfect English. “That makes sense. But, in order to hoist the pieces up to the ridge, we will need a winch, and I see that they gave us one. But the winch won’t work without being connected to an engine. Does the bus engine work? Let’s find out.”

  Consistent with Quinn’s orders, there was no key. But that didn’t matter. Smoker’s sidekick, Private Cray-Cray Cranston, hotwired the bus in less than a minute. The engine roared to life, blue smoke jetted out of the exhaust pipe, and Quinn grinned. Game on.

  ***

  One-hundred and sixty miles east of Kyshtym, Russia

  Occasional snowflakes twirled down out of a dark and foreboding sky. The defroster whirred, and windshield wipers squeaked, as the shabby UAZ 3132 Police Utility Vehicle turned onto a farm road that snaked across the mostly treeless land. A chunky six-wheeled Ural Typhoon carrying eight guardsmen followed behind.

  Police Sergeant Gorelov was driving the UAZ, and National Guard Major Viktor Yeltsin was seated next to him. The passenger seat was pushed all the way back so Yeltsin could extend his right leg. An American bullet had broken his fibula at the Battle of Prague, and Yeltsin had been sent home to command a guard unit until he recovered.

  Except that was medical bullshit. Deep down Yeltsin knew that his leg would never heal completely. Which was a fucking shame because he wanted to kill some fucking pindos (a pejorative term for Americans). No, he needed to kill some fucking pindos, because that would even the score.

  So Yeltsin was left to rub his leg, stare out the window, and consider his mission. It was police work really, or would have been, except that the perps were military renegades. Deserters who, after finding each other somehow, headed east looking for easy pickings.

  And thanks to their military vehicles and uniforms, the outlaws were part of the wartime scenery. Just three days earlier the outlaws had attacked the local police station and killed everyone inside, including civilian workers and lawmen. To steal weapons and ammo? Yes. But to send a message to the surrounding population as well. “The police can’t protect you. Don’t oppose us unless you want to die.”

  And now, if a local informer was correct, the gang had struck again. Not a police station this time, but a prosperous dairy farm, where the deserters could get food.

  Gorelov turned off the farm road onto a driveway. A house with a green metal roof sat atop a rise. The policeman shifted down, and was about to proceed, when Yeltsin ordered him to stop. Gorelov obeyed. “Why?”

  “Because you’re an idiot, that’s why,” Yeltsin replied. “What if the fuckers are fucking waiting for us? Or, what if they aren’t, and we erase their tire tracks?”

  “Oh,” Gorelov said. “I didn’t think of that.”

  Yeltsin felt the cold air push its way into the SUV as he opened the door. It was necessary to grip his leg with both hands in order to swing it out. With teeth gritted Yeltsin slipped to the ground. Pain lanced up through his knee. Then it was over. And would be so long as he walked stiff-legged.

  The soldiers, led by National Guard Sergeant Sacha Ivkin, were fanning out. Yeltsin held his R-187-P1E AZART tactical radio up to his cheek. Given the nature of the situation he saw no need for formal radio procedures. “Pay attention. The men we’re looking for have fully automatic weapons and grenade launchers. You know what to do. Over.”

  Thanks to the guile of Yeltsin’s predecessor, the guardsmen did, for the most part, know what to do. Prior to the war, the National Guard had been organized and equipped in a manner that was in many ways the mirror image of the regular army.

  Except that the Guard had a separate command structure which reported to the president. That made the Guard a hedge against the possibility of an army coup, and a way to keep the country’s increasingly powerful security services in check.

  But once the war was underway the government had no choice but to raid the National Guard and shift its men and resources to a common command. Entire units were sent to the western front. And the brigades that stayed behind were systematically picked over, as greedy officers reviewed records, and reclassified the best soldiers as being “Skill critical,” in order to snatch them up.

  But thanks to a scam conceived by Colonel Boris Vagin (retired) the 2nd Battalion of the Ural National Guard District still had some excellent soldiers. By writing carefully crafted fitness reports for each man, Vagin had been able to retain some of his best men.

  The soldiers Vagin thought highly of received negative fitness reports. Those he hoped to get rid of were praised to the heavens. And once the war got underway the soldiers in the second category too soon found themselves in battle. That was why Yeltsin had some men he could count on.

  Yeltsin’s soldiers advanced and so did he. There were tracks in the mud. Some, those on top, had been left by knobby tires. The kind military vehicles use. Yeltsin was no expert, but it appeared that one set of military tracks went to the farm house while another to the left. If so, the renegades were long gone. “Major,” Ivkin said. “On your right.”

  Yeltsin brought his eyes up and turned. A cow lay dead beyond the wire fence. Judging from the number of wounds suffered, and the amount of blood that stained the grass, the animal had been machinegunned.

  Yeltsin felt a sudden emptiness in the pit of his stomach. Something terrible was waiting at the top
of the slope. He could feel it. And, as the officer drew closer, that feeling became a certainty. A dead man lay sprawled across the walkway. His skin was gray, his mouth gaped open, and patches of blood marked three gunshot wounds.

  A Russian German shepherd lay dead beyond. There was blood on the dog’s muzzle, suggesting that it had been able to savage at least one invader, who might or might not require medical attention.

  Yeltsin drew his pistol as he climbed the stairs leading to the porch. The front door stood ajar and more horror was waiting beyond. A little girl lay in a pool of blood. And there, tied to the blood slicked dining room table, was a woman who had by all appearances been gang raped and repeatedly stabbed with a knife. Yeltsin heard a guardsman start to retch, and felt nauseous himself. “Check upstairs. Watch for booby traps.”

  Police Sergeant Gorelov had entered the house by then. Lights strobed as his men snapped photos. “It’s like the police station,” he said. “They killed everyone.”

  “You are a master of the obvious,” Yeltsin said. “The question is, where are they?”

  Everyone was silent for a moment. “How about GPS, sir?” Ivkin inquired. “I wonder if one, or all, of their vehicles have it? And, if so, is the GPS still on?”

  Yeltsin turned to stare at the noncom. “You are a fucking genius. And, should it turn out that one or more vehicles has GPS, you will be staff sergeant by next week.

  “Go back to the Typhoon … Use the long-range radio. Find out if it’s possible to track the military vehicles in this area. And, if possible, can the botaniks (geeks) sort out which ones are supposed to be here? Go.” Ivkin dashed outside.

  Yeltsin turned to Gorelov. “We all know who did this. But a full report must be written. Share it with me before you submit it.”

  Gorelov nodded. “Yes, Comrade Major.”

  Yeltsin didn’t want to tour the house, but forced himself to do so. The upstairs had been cleared by then. Each step hurt his leg. The second floor was similar to the first. An old lady sat slumped in her rocking chair. A blue tinged hole marked the center of her wrinkled forehead. Empty vodka bottles were scattered about. A porno magazine had been left on the sink in the bathroom. A cat hissed at him from under a bed. Stray pieces of clothing lay here and there. The sickly-sweet odor of death hung in the air.