Warzone: Nemesis: A Novel of Mars Page 13

  The Soviet commander cursed and informed MAJ Cherenkov that he was now second-in-command. It was still all right, he thought. MAJ Cherenkov is a fearless and skilled pilot and the men will follow him in the charge. After all, that’s what we’re doing, attacking their post. All of the strategy has been worked out, and attacking is all that’s left. Yes, he decided, he’s a good man for this.

  SGT Monitor began moving as close as possible to the Soviet charge, moving back and forth, looking for MAJ Cherenkov’s heat signature. He was getting dangerously close. All of the spy drones had been destroyed. SGT Lookout had to fall back to the post when he got too close to the Soviet line and suffered severe damage to his ship. Finally, SGT Monitor locked in the Soviet Major’s heat signature and started toward the post, keeping track of the major and relaying his coordinates to the last American big gun.

  SGT Rolling Thunder’s crew got the coordinates for MAJ Cherenkov and started to fire using the same technique they’d used on the Soviet first officer. The Major flew as close to the minefields on each side as the big gun tried to direct his path with high explosive fire. They hoped to be able to nail him before he ever got near the post. The Major was bolder and flew in a snaking pattern, making it harder to obtain a firing solution. The hardest chargers of the Soviet tank regiment were two minutes from the minefield surrounding the American post.

  A mine blast violently ripped through MAJ Cherenkov’s tank and blew his gun turret off, sailing it twenty feet into the air. The mines continued to slow the first wave of Soviet attackers—five more Soviet officers who had followed the major lost their lives; their tanks having been savaged by the American welcoming party. American radar confirmed the Soviet tank count at twenty-eight. The death of MAJ Cherenkov was noted by the rest of the regiment and it took the fire out of the Soviet charge. COL Glaskov was informed and none too happy about it.

  Right on cue, the Americans started bringing the Soviet transponders up the cliff and into the post, mimicking the enemies’ assault to their flank. The reconditioned tanks and their new tanks, nineteen in all arrived at the line with COL Red Fangs in front of the guntowers. The Americans now stood to defend this post behind their defensive grid with twenty-one tanks to the Soviets’ twenty-eight. In COL Glaskov’s mind, he still had ten more.

  SGT Monitor was still on the job and had identified the Soviet commander’s heat signature. His laser target designator pinpointed the colonel’s tank and sent the coordinates to LTC Judgment Day. The American first officer relayed the coordinates to the artillery crew, with orders to stand-down, but stand-ready until further orders were given.

  The remainder of the Soviet regiment was within ten kilometers of the post now, soon to be within American guntower range. COL Glaskov checked his onboard radar. Something was wrong; he was reading over twenty tanks in a line. He saw no evidence of damage to the post. There was no way the Americans could have that many tanks this quickly, unless… There was no reason for his tank unit inside the American post to be on radio silence now. They should be attacking by now. COL Glaskov keyed the mike and radioed his team leader.

  “CPT Dvorkin?” There was no answer. He got no answer from any of the other tanks. But the transponders were still transmitting from all ten tanks… One thousand more meters and they would be within guntower range and in fierce fighting. He quickly did the math. Without his ten tanks attacking the American post from the inside, this was now an entirely different battle. If the Americans found a way to convert those tanks they would have a strong edge behind their defensive grid. At best, there would be a draw and what was left of his fleet would be in shreds. With any luck, a few of his ships would survive and be left to limp back to their post, leaving most of the alloy-x on the battlefield for the Americans to recover. In such a weakened condition, the Americans might well attempt a siege on their post. He cursed his misfortune under his breath as he saw his political aspirations evaporate like dew on the Russian grass.

  “This is COL Glaskov. To all boards, break off the attack and regroup where we started.” The Soviet tanks were within one hundred meters of American guntower range when the order came.

  LTC Judgment Day noticed the Soviet retreat and didn’t give the order to fire on COL Glaskov. SGT Rolling Thunder received a message that the Soviets had called off the attack, but stood ready in any case. He still had the firing solution for COL Glaskov’s tank in his computer and was keeping it updated.

  The Soviet commander opened a channel to the Americans.

  “COL Red Fangs.”

  “Yes, COL Glaskov.”

  “Well done, you are a worthy adversary. We will meet again. Next time, I will not underestimate your ability to use deception. I will win next time.”

  “You’re a worthy adversary as well. I have two of your pilots to return if you wish to honor the accord.”

  Glaskov was silent for a few seconds as he considered this news. “I would like them back.”

  “In exchange, I want a favor from you.”

  “Yes?”

  “I want to send a delegation to the D’Alembert Crater under truce to place a memorial for the men of Eagle 1.”

  “Agreed. We can meet then to renew the accord. We will serve dessert this time.”

  Col Red Fangs suppressed a snicker at that remark. “Very good, until next time.”

  The Soviets sent a single craft to the American post to pick up their pilots. COL Red Fangs was relieved that he wouldn’t lose more men in the final assault. The factory kept building more tanks, just in case the Soviets changed their minds. He was sure that the Soviets wouldn’t be able to carry back more than a fraction of the alloy-x on the battlefield, which was good news for them. They had the materials to finish building a post. With the alloy-x field they found on the southern rim of the crater, they should have enough to finish a proper post here and export the materials to build a proper post on Mars.

  The Soviets returned back to their starting point, slowly and carefully this time, avoiding any mines. COL Glaskov had fifteen scavengers load up and head for home. They were only able to recover one-eighth of the alloy-x that they brought with them. The deaths of his first and second officers had been a great loss for him. His first officer had been offered a command here once he was promoted to the politburo. He’d turned it down in favor of accepting the command of the new post the Soviets were soon to establish on Mars. He knew he would lose him soon, but not like this. He was a brilliant, fine young officer and now he was dead. MAJ Cherenkov’s death was costly in another way. He inspired the men like a legendary hero of old. His death would be hard on morale.

  CPT America returned back to Luna with more equipment, food and supplies two days later. He also carried the granite memorial monument with the names of the members of Eagle 1, and a second one for the artillery crew who died in the failed assault on Eagle 2. The Soviets and Americans met at D’Alembert crater and signed an accord over tea and gozinaki, this time provided by the Soviets. The Americans were careful to eat and drink modestly. The Americans placed the first memorial stone there; the second one was placed at Eagle 2. Another memorial for Eagle 1 was erected in front of the post HQ at Eagle 2. A bronze statue of a marine facing down a Soviet tank with his sidearm served as a reminder of the steadfast courage of the men of Eagle 1.

  GEN Colson was pleased with the reports that more alloy-x metal was harvested than they needed to build a proper post on Luna. The icing on the cake was that COL Glaskov’s politburo appointment was withdrawn. There was more than enough alloy-x to build a post on Mars. The next step was to choose the personnel and commander for the new post. He poured another cup of coffee, two sugars and one cream and sat back down at his desk. He looked again through the two files of men to whom he’d considered for the post on Mars, deciding on the naval lieutenant commander. He would have full control over his team selection. It was time to take the war with the Soviets to the next world…

  VIETNAM

  July 8, 1970—Zero Three Hund
red Zulu

  LTJG Eugene J. Bordelon, Jr. US Navy HA(L)-3

  Solid Anchor Naval Base, Song Cua Lon

  Republic of Vietnam

  We’d had a busy shift. Early last night we had to give aid to a local Ruff Puff outpost which had come under attack, and rescued some South Vietnamese sailors in the Cua Lon when their boat was sinking due to mortar damage. The VC welcomed us back to the base with small arms fire from behind the triple-thick canopy of the mangrove swamps surrounding Solid Anchor. We responded appropriately to the threat, and when all the muzzle flashes had stopped, we set our bird down on the helo pad. The thick, moist air covered our base like a warm blanket; my shirt was soaked with sweat and plastered to my skin. I was glad I could grab a shower and get a beer in our air-conditioned hootch.

  Solid Anchor was home to a Navy SEAL Team One, a Seawolf detachment (det One), and a support base including its own miniature Navy, consisting of all the Brown Water Navy oddities that were born out of riverine warfare.

  A fire team consisted of two Huey gunships. The crew of each bird consisted of a pilot, co-pilot, and two mechanics, who served as the door gunners. The pilot of the lead bird was the FTL (Fire Team Leader) and the Trail AHAC (Attack Helicopter Aircraft Commander) piloted the trail bird. Each det had two crews. Each crew was on alert for twenty-four hours, and stood-down for twenty-four hours. There was no drinking while you were on your shift (on alert). Whenever we were not in our helos, we grabbed some sack time. This was our schedule year-round. There were no holidays or days off, not even Tet (Vietnamese New Year), when the VC usually agreed to a truce. During Tet cease-fires, we flew weapons-tight, not firing unless fired upon. The VC used Tet cease-fires to move troops, supplies and weapons into position. It took some creative, borderline harassment to get them to fire at us so we could fire back.

  I was the FTL on my shift, and my counterpart from the other shift LCDR “Wild Bill” Jernigan, FTL of the first shift and OIC met us at the pad. I turned my bird over to him. His crew rearmed and refueled, tied down the rotor blades and started with their preflight inspection and safety check.

  I still hadn’t gotten a letter from my fiancée Beth in the past two weeks. No matter, my mail must have been rerouted to Binh Thuy as I was about to return stateside. My DEROS (Date of Estimated Return from Overseas to Stateside) was now one more off-duty shift, and one last shift in-country. After my last shift, off to Binh Thuy—then to Saigon—then San Francisco. From there I’ll catch an Air Force flight to England Air Force Base, which was five miles from my brother’s house. Beth, my brother and his family should meet my plane at England AFB when I get home. My fiancé had gotten me an interview with the Baptist Hospital in Alexandria, LA., to fly an air rescue helicopter. I had a couple of postwar plans. First, marry Beth, and then take the job offer. We’d save our money and eventually buy a bird of my own to start a helicopter transport service. Yes, indeed, my future looked bright, even if the prospects for Vietnam didn’t. The United States had lost its heart for this war. We were engaged in withdrawals and were turning the war over to the Vietnamese government, a process called Vietnamization.

  The war in the delta was pretty much subdued and things were quiet in late 1970. However, in the mangrove swamps, in the heart of the U Minh forest, Charlie was imbedded in the last VC sanctuary. Solid Anchor was a bold move to challenge the VC in their sanctuary. The Navy’s Riverine forces, SEALs, Seawolves and Black Ponies continued to bring the war to the NVA and VC, even as the US Army regulars were pulling out. Solid Anchor was in the southernmost tip of the delta, on the Song Cua Lon (Cua Lon River). Since Charlie couldn’t move around freely in the delta anymore, he laid specific claim to the dense triple canopy cover of the U Minh’s mangrove swamps. This was no man’s land. Young men who served here found their faces age twenty years in a year. Previously in the war effort, the government didn’t care much if Charlie owned the mangrove swamps. There were only a few charcoal makers and woodcutters who even lived there. Everybody else was either Viet Cong or North Vietnamese Army Regulars (VC and NVA). The pacification part of army insurgency doctrine that promoted getting the populace to accept the government and the United States didn’t apply here. In the mangrove swamps of the U Minh, Charlie didn’t seem to want to be pacified. He owned the U Minh. Solid Anchor was here to challenge Charlie’s deed and title.

  It was time to head to the mess hall and pick up some grub. One thing the Navy could do in this God-forsaken hellhole was to feed us well. Huge steaks that covered your whole platter and lobster were common items at the mess. Showers with clean water, on the other hand, weren’t common. All clean drinking water was barged in. We bathed and washed our clothes in the river. My skivvies had taken on the color of brown river mud over time. As soon as I got home, I wanted nothing more than to get into a hot bathtub and soak the remainder of Vietnam off of my body.

  After finishing off a huge steak, I stopped by my barracks to remove my skivvies. Next stop was the SEAL barracks to share a beer and find out where they were planning their op tonight, and then hit the rack for some much needed sleep. The off-duty SEALs would be there this morning, and it didn’t pay to wear skivvies when drinking with SEALs. SEALs had their own dress code. They seemed to think that skivvies were for civilians and other lesser mortals. The real reason they didn’t wear skivvies was because it kept their crotch drier and prevented various forms of jungle rot. Without warning, they would shout, “Skivvie Check!&rdquo to make sure that everyone who was drinking with them would drop their pants to prove that they weren’t violating their underwear dress code. Anyone caught wearing skivvies while drinking with them would suffer the fate of having them ripped off. That quirk aside, it was very good to drink with SEALs when the opportunity presented itself. They were a crazy, overachieving lot of push-it-to-the-limit warriors who lived hard, and played hard. SEALs loved Seawolves. We had their back when they were in trouble, and they didn’t forget that. Any time a Seawolf was being molested by army pukes or anyone else, SEALs would defend us like body guards.

  On the way to the SEAL barracks, I found my trail AHAC, LTJG William “Prophet” Forrest, walking toward one of the two spare helo pads. A SEALORD was making its descent. Rumor had it he was bringing in my replacement. Prophet motioned me to join him. My Trail AHAC and I liked to haze the newbies a bit. There wasn’t much entertainment here, so we made do. It was too far for any radio station or TV, and there were no American women here. Finally, the chopper rotors stopped the whomp, whomp, whomp sound and the occupants climbed out. That would be him, I thought. He bore the marks of a newbie: new clean uniform, a seabag in his hand and a look of relief that he hadn’t already been shot down on the descent or killed by a sniper. Prophet immediately greeted him.

  “Are you the new Seawolf pilot?”

  “Yes sir, LTJG Donald James, Cherry Hill, NY.”

  “Welcome to Solid Anchor. Your shift isn’t on alert. Relax, Charlie doesn’t start trying to kill us until after dark. I’ll show you your bunk, and we’ll go over to the SEAL barracks and get a beer and introduce you. By the way, we don’t drink when on alert,” finished Prophet. We took the new pilot to the barracks, got him settled in his new bunk and advised him to see the quartermaster later to get squared away with the personal flight gear he needed. Prophet would have a ball hazing this young Yankee. I kept silent and let him take the ball and run with it.

  We introduced our newbie to the SEALs and accepted a cold beer. Prophet put his crosshairs on the newbie, who started relaxing a bit, happy he wasn’t already shot dead, bitten by a snake, or blown up.

  “Newbie, what’s your DEROS?!” Prophet demanded loudly.

  “Sir, 360 and a sunrise, sir!”

  Prophet looked at him as an object to be pitied and removed his Colt forty-five auto from his shoulder holster. He chambered a round and checked it to make sure it was loaded, then put the safety on and laid it on the card table.

  “Son, if you shot yourself in the head right now, no one will t
hink the less of you. But do not, I repeat, do not throw yourself out of my helicopter. You’ll irritate the hell out of me if I have to fill out an incident report on you falling out of my bird,” he growled. Prophet hated unnecessary paperwork worse than the VC and had no use for a newbie inconveniencing him.

  The newbie swallowed hard and shook his head. “No, sir. I’m here to be a Seawolf and to grease commies.”

  “You sure?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “All right, then, I guess I’ll put this back up.” He retrieved his pistol and removed the round from the chamber, placing it back in his holster. The newbie had endured phase one of our hazing ritual. There were some amused looks from the SEALs, but by and large, no one gets very attached to anyone new until they’d proved that they weren’t going to get killed right way.

  My tour of duty afforded me a couple of medals, thankfully none of which was a purple heart. A point of pride for me was that none of the men in my bird got one. Staying alive for a Seawolf pilot was an accomplishment indeed. The NVA had a five thousand dollar reward and a month’s leave back home for anyone shooting down one of our birds. Our crews were especially hated. We expected to be tortured and killed if captured. It seemed that every VC took risks to bring us down. We were hated and feared almost as much as the green faces (SEALs). We flew close air support for the RPB, the Riverine Patrol Boats that made the backbone of the Mekong Delta’s Brown Water Navy. We also worked very closely with Navy SEALs, offering air support, and sometimes insertions and extractions if it was dangerous and needed a gunship to do the transport. The SEALs were quite loyal to us, and we were loyal to them. They liked to see us show up in a timely manner when they were in trouble.

  I settled down to the card table with a beer and my thoughts while the SEALs introduced themselves to our newest arrival. Prophet grabbed a beer and began his usual endless drone of the causes for us being here. Prophet, my trail AHAC, always tried to vocalize some rational cause and effect for why we’re here.