Red Winter: The Other Side of the Coin
Disclaimer: This story series contains graphic violence and strong language. Read at your own discretion. Also, I use a few possibly copyrighted names in here, and they belong to their respective owners and I wasn't paid to use them. Go Steelers!
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December 13, 5:49 P.M. MST
PRA Mobile Headquarters 25 Miles West of Grand Junction
Andrew Voorhees sat alone in his tent as he looked over battlefield data from the assault on Grand Junction. The news was both good and bad, although slightly more good. The assault had gone as planned, as the American forces had been caught off guard and disorganized by the air raid. The rapid troop movements had also allowed the PRA to move all the way east to the very outskirts of Grand Junction itself. The only downside was that the U.S. forces had now regrouped and were digging in, which would slow the assault down considerably.
The worst part though was the casualties suffered by Voorhees' 1st Mechanized Infantry Division. He'd lost nearly fifty of his Type 96 tanks, and over 5,000 of his light infantry. He'd also lost over half of his J-10 fighter aircraft while slugging it out with the U.S. Air Force for control of the skies. In the end the air battle became a draw, as the weather forecast predicted a strong snowstorm to arrive by 7:00 P.M. that night. Still, Voorhees' knew the American's had won the air battle, as he'd lost 105 J-10's to the sixty-four planes lost by the U.S. The U.S. had also only lost thirty M1A2 Abrams tanks, and about 3,000 infantry.
Voorhees took a deep breath and slowly exhaled. It would be alright, he knew. The Americans didn't have the manpower to survive against his relentless attack, and they would surely attempt to cut their losses by retreating during the snowstorm. While the opportunity presented itself, Voorhees decided against trying to encircle the Americans. The main objective was to take Grand Junction's airfield intact, and so he needed to push the U.S. forces away from it as quickly as possible so they wouldn't have time to sabotage it. Voorhees breathed deep again.
He knew the worst part of this mission would be when he was called back to Salt Lake City, Utah, to provide his after action report to his superiors. They would not be happy with the amount of casualties he'd suffered. The PRA's intelligence operatives estimated that the PRA forces would take only 1,500 casualties, and that the battle could be won in thirty-six hours. Voorhees looked at his watch. It was hour twenty-six right now, so the second part of the estimate was probably close. But only 1,500 casualties? Even he knew that was absurd before the battle started. Still, he was one of the PRA's few competent field commanders, which meant his superiors would most likely just give him a lecture on the value of the PRA's troops and equipment. Voorhees spat on the ground and walked out of his tent.
"Good evening sir," said Voorhees' aide as he saluted.
"Lieutenant," Voorhees said while returning the salute. "Follow me, something has come up that I need taken care of before we launch our final attack on Grand Junction."
"Yes sir," the young fox said while following his commander.
Voorhees and his aide stepped into the large central command tent. They both squinted as their eyes were hit with the colorful spectacle of dozens of computer screens and projected images along the tent's walls. Voorhees walked to the back of the tent and found a young dragon sitting at his post going through a database of his regiment's supplies. The dragon looked up and greeted Voorhees.
"Hello there, sir. What can I do for you?"
"Evan I need you to contact Captain Reas for me," Voorhees promptly answered while pulling up a chair next to the dragon's computer station.
"Certainly sir," Evan replied while putting on his radio earpiece and microphone.
Meanwhile, a middle-aged gray wolf by the name of Kirk Reas sat at his desk in his tent on the northern edge of the 1st Mechanized Infantry's base. Reas was the commander of Charlie Company, 2nd Battalion of the 10th Heavy Infantry Regiment. Unlike the expendable conscripts that made up the bulk of the PRA's casualties, Reas and his men were professional soldiers equipped with top of the line weapons. So far he and his men hadn't seen any combat, but he had a feeling that was about to change when his radio earpiece gave off a series of beeps, telling him that he was being paged.
"This is Captain Reas," he said.
"Captain, this is General Voorhees," came the reply, "What is your unit's mission ready state?"
Reas felt a pleasing chill go up his spine. Finally, some action, he thought. "I erm...we're 100% mission capable sir. Just give the word and we're on it."
"Excellent. Assemble your men and report to your unit's staging area in fifteen minutes. That is all."
The radio went silent. Reas turned off his microphone and unclipped his radio from his belt. The battery meter showed it was about 80% full; more than enough power to last him through the mission. After clipping his radio back to his belt and making sure his headset was secure, Reas donned his ACU jacket and helmet and stepped outside into the frigid night air. He looked around the base as it bustled with activity. Reas smiled as he admired the often underappreciated logistical crews as they went about moving ammunition, food, and fuel from the storage crates to a row of cargo trucks preparing to head to the front lines to re-supply the troops there.
After a short walk past several tents, Reas finally came to the ones that housed the men in his company. Stepping inside he found most of the men of 1st Platoon were lying on their cots dressed in full battle gear, their weapons propped against the head of their bunks. A young leopard noticed Reas enter the tent. The feline quickly stood up from the cot he was sitting on and saluted Reas.
"Sir, what brings you here?" asked the leopard.
"At ease Curtis," Reas replied, "Get your platoon ready for combat; we just got new orders."
"Yes sir!" Curtis replied.
"Oh, and Lieutenant, we're to head to our regiment's assembly area. So don't wait for me to come back, just take your men over there."
"Understood sir," Curtis said. "Alright guys, outta the bunks! We just got ourselves a mission, let's go!"
Reas quietly left the tent as Curtis roused his platoon and got them ready for action. There were three other platoons Reas would need to attend to, as well as heading to the weapons lockup to get himself a rifle. Reas shivered and pulled up the collar on his jacket. I hope this thing doesn't take too long, it's like hell froze over out here.
Fifteen minutes later Reas and his men were standing around in their designated assembly zone. In reality, it was just a large flat patch of frozen ground that had been marked off for organizational purposes. And so now Reas and his men were mulling about in their winter gear, waiting for orders to come from a high ranking officer who got to sit in a heated tent with insulated walls. However, Reas was surprised to see General Voorhees himself driving over in a jeep with his aide. Reas had his men stand at attention and saluted as Voorhees stepped out and approached him.
"At ease Captain," Voorhees cooly said while looking over the rest of Charlie Company. "Alright men, I know you've been itching for a fight, and tonight's your lucky night. Satellite surveillance finished doing a thermal sweep of the area thirty-minutes ago, and it has revealed the location of a very painful thorn that's been sticking in my side since this battle began." Voorhees paused to study his men's reactions. Most of them kept staring straight ahead, not looking at anything or anyone in particular; a sign that they were detached from everything but the mission at hand.
"Now," Voorhees continued while slowly walking past the rows of soldiers standing neatly in rank and file box formations, "We have suffered constant artillery bombardments even after we shot down a pair of American satellites that were observing this region. We knew that meant the U.S. had some men forward observing for their artillery, and now we've found then. Two platoons worth of Colorado militia are hiding in an abandoned weather research center on the side of one of the mountains overlooking the small town of Fruita, which as you know lies about five miles west of Grand Junction. These men have been responsible for the loss of hundreds of men and at least a dozen vehicles. Normally they wouldn't be a problem, as our radio jammers can nullify their signals to the point where their radios only have a one mile effective range. Unfortunately, these Americans are so far up the mountains that our jammers can't do much good, so that's where you come in. Get in there and kill every last one of them."
Voorhees stopped to look his men over again. He noticed one hand rise up in question. "Yes?"
"Sir," began Lieutenant Curtis, "Are we to take prisoners should they surrender?"
"Only if they are officers. These are militiamen, remember. They're hardly even capable of being called soldiers. Officers will probably have intel that will be of use, but that's not a priority. Just kill them and keep them from calling in mortar strikes and your job will be complete. Anymore questions? .....no? Very good then. A convoy of trucks will arrive shortly to drive you to your insertion point. The Captain will be in charge of you from that point on. Sorry we can't lend you guys some IFV transports, but we need everything we can get on the frontlines. See you all when you get back. Dismissed!"
With that, Voorhees saluted his men, who in turn saluted back. He then boarded the jeep, and drove off with his aide back to the central command tent. A minute later ten large supply trucks arrived and halted in front of Charlie Company. Reas got to work organizing the 148 men in his company and have them board the trucks.
"Alright, I want two eight man squads per truck. Also there will be some extra space in the tenth truck, and so I want to load up some extra ammo crates on that one incase this fight turns into an all out brawl." Reas' men acknowledged his commands and ninety seconds later everyman was onboard a truck. Reas rode in his truck's cab with the driver. As the convoy prepared to leave the base, Reas made sure to stop by the ammo dump and pick up several crates of 5.56x45mm ammo, as well as a couple cases of grenades, including fragmentation, flashbang, smoke, and incendiary grenades. Reas had a feeling that last type would come in handy, although he didn't know why.
50 Minutes Later- Somewhere north of Fruita.
The fifteen mile drive to the main insertion point took longer than expected. For one thing, traffic was rampant. Tanks, IFVs, and jeeps were all moving east while damaged vehicles and medical personal headed west with wounded soldiers. Reas' convoy had to pull over to the side of the road for nearly twenty minutes to let a friendly train of vehicles pass by. Fortunately, they weren't held up any more after that. Reas was especially glad, since the snow was starting to come down more heavily now. Visibility went from poor... to utter crap. The moon was blocked out by the overcast ceiling of stratus clouds, and the snow seemed pour faster every minute.
The convoy came to a halt in a flat clearing on the side of a mountain. Reas and his men piled out and started reconnoitering the area. Reas and Lieutenant Curtis stood behind one of the trucks and pulled out a handheld GPS system that contained maps marked with their objective's location, as well as other points of interest. Reas studied the map carefully, and then looked up the side of the mountain that was supposed to house the abandoned weather research post. However, the low clouds and constant snowfall made seeing more than one hundred yards away impossible.
"Alright," Reas began, "The weather station should be on that peak right there," he said while pointing to a mountain to the northeast. "The storm should have masked our approach, so we have the element of surprise on our side. Curtis, you're with me. The other two platoons will hang back and provide support when needed. Let's move out."
With that, Curtis and Reas' platoons formed up behind their respective leaders and followed them up a dirt path that wound up the side of the mountain. The wind blew at nearly thirty miles per hour, causing the soldiers to bump into one another as they tried to maintain their balance. Many of them wore balaclavas specially knitted to contour to their facial structure. Those without balaclavas put on their protective chemical masks to keep the snow from cutting their faces as the wind brutally threw tiny pieces of ice and rock through the air. Another dangerous factor was that it was pitch black outside.
None of Reas' men had night vision goggles, due to a logistical error that sent the crates carrying said goggles to PRA forces in Washington State. And so the only source of illumination Reas' men had were flashlights attached to the right side of their M-16A4 assault rifles. The thin beams were designed to be used in an urban environment, and they did little to show the path ahead. Worst of all, any nearby enemy patrols would have an easy time spotting them, as the flashlights gave away Reas' men's position. Fortunately for them, all of the U.S. militiamen were holed up inside the abandoned weather station.
"Hey Mike, have you been able to reach command to see when our evac's coming?" said a wolf sergeant to a radio operator.
"They said they'd call us when the helicopters were coming," replied the fox as he looked out the window of the weather station and watched the snow fall.
"Well call 'em now and see how much longer we got to wait. This storm is sure to be messing with our aircraft's ability to take off and land. Plus, the damn PRA almost has us cut off. The last thing I want is to get captured on my first mission."
"Dude, we're on the side of a mountain and the closest PRA forces are ten miles south of here... 2000 feet below us. They can't even see us now with this blizzard moving in," the fox said reassuringly.
"Yeah, well what if they saw us before the storm moved in?" the wolf asked indignantly.
"Then we'd have gotten a visit from some helicopters and been blown clean off the side of the mountain. Trust me, you're worrying too much."
The wolf grunted in reply. He and the fox were the only ones standing in what was formerly a kitchen; as they had converted it into a radio room. The wolf walked over to the counter and poured himself another cup of coffee-his fourth one of the night-and then sat down at the table with their platoon's radio.
"I want you to try to raise command again and see how much longer we have to wait," the wolf ordered.
"Oh come on Greg, we'll just be wasting the batteries. I only have one spare pack you know," the fox curtly retorted.
"Mike, you forget who's in charge here. Just because we were friends before we enlisted doesn't mean you can ignore the three stripes on my arm. Now get on the fucking radio and call command, got it?" Greg growled in response.
"Fine, fine. Jeez, since when'd you get to be such a tight ass prick?" Mike said while sitting back down in front of his radio. He flipped the power switch and donned his headset, his face bearing a rather blank expression as he mechanically went through the process of radioing the American commanders at Walker Airfield in Grand Junction.
"This is Spotter 2-1 calling command, Spotter 2-1 calling command, over," Mike said over the radio. He waited. Five seconds. Ten seconds. Nothing. He tried again. "This is Spotter 2-1 calling command, do you read me, over?" Still nothing. Mike's expression went from being blank to that of slight confusion.
"What? What's wrong?" Greg asked.
"I don't know, they're not responding."
"Do you think they got overrun and we didn't hear about it?" Greg asked as a wave of fear washed over him.
"No, no, we would know if Grand Junction fell. There's barely been any PRA traffic the last three hours, and with this storm any attack plans they have are probably going to be postponed for a day or two."
"Then what could be the reason command isn't responding?"
Mike stood up and looked back out the window, staring down the side of the mountain at a group of pine trees that stood on a flat ledge about fifty feet below the weather station itself. "The only thing I can think of is those new PRA radio jammers...but they only cancel out radio signals within two miles of them."
"Meaning they shouldn't be able to reach us up here, right?"
Mike nodded. "I think we should have a look arou-" Mike was cut off as the window he was standing next to suddenly shattered and a bullet struck the ceiling behind him. "Holy shit!" he shouted as he fell on his back in surprise and scrambled as far from the window as possible.
"Damn, missed," said a PRA sniper over his radio.
"Don't worry about it," Reas said back, "You're job is to trick them into thinking we're coming from the east while my platoon hits them from the west."
"Got it, sir." The sniper looked back through the thermal imaging scope on his QBU-88 rifle-a bullpup rifle similar to the QBZ-95, but with a longer range and slightly different build. He was glad he had a thermal imaging scope, as picking out targets in the pitch black night was incredibly difficult. Throw in a snowstorm, and it was utterly impossible. However, with a thermal scope, it was like fighting in broad daylight. The sniper noticed a pair of white heat signatures to his right, and sure enough there were two American soldiers coming out the right side of the building and heading down a foot path to investigate. The sniper figured they didn't assume he had a nighttime optics thermal scope, as they were committing a form of suicide.
"Two kills confirmed," Reas heard over his radio as two more sniper shots rang out. "Roger that," Reas said back. Gesturing with his right hand, he had the squad of men following him move ahead and take positions in the tree line fifty feet from the west side door to the weather station. Studying the building, Reas saw it was two stories tall, and was also L shaped. Still, it was a fairly small building, with the main branch only about fifty feet in length, while the smaller branch on the south side that formed the bottom of the L was about thirty feet in length.
"Fire on my lead," Reas said over his radio to the men in his and Curtis' platoons. More sniper shots rang out.
Unbeknownst to Reas and the rest of the PRA, there was only one platoon of militia inside the weather station. While there had been two platoons up there, one of them had been evacuated via a CH-47 Chinook cargo helicopter, as they were needed to help secure central Grand Junction. That left only forty-two furs to defend the station, although at the time no one expected an attack to even be feasible. But now that all changed.
"Alright, I want barricades at all the ground floor entrances," Greg began shouting over the panicked chatter of the other militiamen. "Haines, Morris, get your asses on the second floor and provide sniper cover! And....GOD DAMN IT PEOPLE WILLYOU SHUT UP?!"
Everyone went quiet.
"Thank you! Now focus! First squad, get to the second floor and provide overwatch. Second and Third squads, you're to cover the north and western entrances to the building. Fourth squad will set up a fallback position at the basement entrance and be prepared to cover our retreat. I don't know how many of these bastards are out there, but we're gonna find out once we count each and every one of their bullet riddled corpses!"
"Hooah!" shouted an otter standing at the back of the group of militia.
"Alright, you know your places people, let's move!"
"I got movement on the second floor," reported the sniper.
"Roger that. Hold your fire and change position; they've probably got a fix on you now," Reas said back. He then looked behind him at the men of his platoon; faces blank of emotion and minds clear of thought. "First Squad on me. West side door, stack up!"
With that, the nine men in First Squad followed Reas as he charged out of the tree line and to the side of the building. Pressing themselves against the wall, Reas and four of the men lined up on the left side of the door, while the other five lined up on the right side. All ten of them had their weapons raised to their shoulders.
Two of the soldiers were equipped for close quarters combat [CQC] and were armed with Benelli M3 pump action shotguns loaded with 12-Gauge 00 buckshot. Since these two were armed with what was essentially a small cannon, they stood closest to the door and would be first to enter.
Standing behind each of the shotgun equipped furs was a wolf armed with an H&K MP-5N; a compact sub-machinegun packing a thirty round clip loaded with 9x19mm NATO rounds. Although these weapons didn't hit very hard, their small size and idiot proof aperture gunsights were perfect for any CQC mission.
The remaining six soldiers, including Reas, were armed with Colt M-4A1 Carbines. These lightweight assault rifles were essentially an M-16 with a shortened barrel, making them more useful in a CQC mission. The 5.56x45mm NATO rounds they packed were far more effective at penetrating body armor than the 9x19mm rounds in the MP-5s. Still, they were a heavier rifle, and therefore it was a wiser move to have the soldiers armed with M-4s to move in behind the troops armed with the more maneuverable shotguns and sub-machineguns.
Reas raised a paw to his left ear and switched radio channels from First Squad to Third Squad, the one containing his sniper. "Alright, we're gonna breach in twenty seconds; start clearing anyone you see off the second floor."
"Affirmative," came the solemn reply. Two seconds later a single rifle shot echoed out through the mountains. "Tango down."
"Man down! Medic!"
"Get away from the windows, we got a sniper out there!"
"Where the fuck is he? I can't see him!"
Mike struggled to speak as he heard his fellow squadmates around him shout about the room. He had been struck in chest, although fortunately the bullet had struck his left shoulder plate and only punched a clean hole through his back. He could even move his left arm; a good sign that showed he didn't have any joint or tissue damage. Still, the pain was incredible, and he found the only words that he could muster were agonized groans. He rolled over onto his paws and knees and crawled over to his squadmates, who were relieved to see him alive.
"Where's that sniper?" asked a German Shepherd brandishing an M-14 with a x12 sniper scope attached to it.
"I don't know man," Mike groaned while he unbuttoned his ACU jacket so he could get to his wound and properly dress it. "He's out in the trees somewhere; you'll never see him before he sees you."
The Shepherd nodded and looked over at a pair of lions that were shoving a desk in front of the stairwell down the hall. He knew that such a measure would slow down the first wave of PRA troops, but there were bound to be more, and that second wave wouldn't make the same mistakes as the first. Mike in the meantime managed to strip off his jacket and uniform shirt, leaving just his tan t-shirt. There was a small bloodstain around the hole in his shirt, but other than that there were no signs of serious injury. Mike figured he'd just give himself a 1/10 of a morphine syringe to dull the pain without dulling his fighting capability. However, just as he unpacked his medical kit, there was a loud crash from downstairs...
"Place a charge," Reas ordered.
One of the shotgun armed soldiers placed a C-4 breaching charge against the door's latch, just to the right of the doorknob.
"On my command, blow the door, then flash and clear," Reas stated.
"Got it," said a black fox armed with a M3 as he pulled an M84 flashbang grenade off of his bandolier, while the wolf armed with the other M3 across from him readied the detonator to the breaching charge.
Reas waited five seconds, took a deep breath, and then reached forward and tapped the wolf two furs down from him. "Blow it."
A second later the charge went off with a deafening bang. The small piece of C-4 had done its job and blown a six inch hole around the door's latch. The wolf then raised the butt of his M3 and struck the door, causing it to slam open inward. The fox reacted accordingly and pulled the pin from his M84 and the chucked it around the doorframe and into the building. "Flash out!"
From inside Reas and his men caught shouts of, "Oh shit grenade!" followed by the sound of the 180 decibel blast that effectively deafened everyone inside the room, but not outside it. The grenade also emitted a one million candela flash that would blind anyone who looked at it for six full seconds; if they lived that long.
"Go go go!" shouted the wolf as he and the fox simultaneously charged shoulder to shoulder into the room. In front of them were three U.S. militiamen holding their faces as they stood crouched behind a barricade of coffee tables. Three rapid shotgun blasts quickly sent them to the floor. The wolves armed with MP-5s were the next two to enter, with one moving to the left and the other moving to the right so as to fully cover every corner of the room. The left wolf was staring down a hallway that lead to the north entrance, as well as a pair of laboratories with doors on the right side of the hallway wall. As he moved forward to secure the hallway, a pair of militiamen stepped out into the hallway to investigate the gunfire. It only took .350 seconds for the wolf's brain to identify the enemy and raise his MP-5 to firing position before he let off two three-round bursts into each of the militiamen's skulls. Both furs slumped forward, large chunks of their faces and skulls missing from the hollow-point 9mm bullets.
From behind him the wolf heard shouts of, "Room clear!" and "Hallway clear!" He waited, holding his position until he felt Reas tap him on the shoulder.
"Nice shooting corporal," Reas said while observing the two dead U.S. soldiers littering the hallway. Reas then switched his radio channel and said, "Curtis we've secured the west side entrance. Have your people breach from the north end, but watch your fire and don't hit us."
"Understood Captain," Curtis replied over the radio.
A few seconds later Reas heard a breaching charge go off down the hall, followed by the echo of a flashbang and the patter of heavy boots pounding through the door. Then came the gunfire; lots of it. "Curtis, status report."
"We're all good, sir. We just wasted a full squad of ten tangos though. They were all bunched together behind some makeshift barricades and a couple got some potshots off, but none of us got hit."
"Very good. Sweep the first floor and make sure it's all clear; I'm gonna have a look around the east wing before heading upstairs," Reas replied back.
With that, Reas tapped the wolf on the shoulder and pointed for him to lead the way down the right hallway. The wolf nodded and lead the way, Reas and a tiger armed with an M-4 following him closely. Reas then gave another radio order to First Squad.
"Fire team Alpha, guard the stairwell and make sure no one comes downstairs. Fire team Bravo, follow me and assist in clearing the east wing."
With that, the fox armed with an M3 and a wolf with an M-4 moved up behind them and took their proper positions. The fox took point, keeping his M3 raised as he walked three feet ahead of his comrades down the narrow hall. On his left were two open doors, both leading to empty bedrooms. It was clear that the living conditions in the station were cramped, as several sleeping bags were rolled out on the floors of the bedrooms and even the hallway. As the group neared the end of the hall, the fox raised his left fist, signaling them to halt. Ahead he heard a voice desperately talking to someone, and as he slowly stepped forward he came to the open door of the building's kitchen. Inside a lone orange scaled dragon stood at a table as he fumbled with a radio's dials and controls, trying to call for help.
"I say again, this is Spotter 2-1 calling Overlord! We've engaged the enemy, and are taking heavy casualties! We've lost two squads and are under fire from PRA commandos. Please, if anyone can hear this respond!" The dragon bashed a fist against the table as he was greeted with nothing but silence and static. Then he looked up...and his blood froze. Standing in the doorway was a black camo clad fox wearing a gasmask with red tinted lenses (although the tinting was only on the outside, so the fox saw everything as clearly as if he were wearing no mask), pointing an M3 shotgun at him.
Both of them paused, unsure of what the other's next move would be. The dragon considered raising his hands, but from the gunfire he'd been hearing he wondered if that would do any good. As for the fox, he carefully fingered the trigger, waiting for his opponent to make the first move. However, for three agonizingly long seconds neither of them moved. It was as if this were all a movie, and someone had paused the action to go get more snacks. However, reality soon set back in as the dragon made the first move by quickly reaching for his M92 pistol on his belt. The fox reacted instantly and pulled the trigger, sending a wall of buckshot into the dragon's chest just as he pulled his sidearm from its holster. The scaled beast went flying back against the kitchen counter before slinking to the floor, his face torn to shreds and his chest blown open to expose a collapsing lung. The fox cringed as he noticed the buckshot had torn off the dragons left jaw bone, causing his left eye to hang from its socket by a single, meaty thread.
"Room clear," the fox shouted back to Reas and the others.
Soon his comrades rejoined him as he led the way into the east wing of the building. The fox paused at this point, and took the time to load three more shells into his shotgun. He had no idea how many enemies lay ahead, and he wanted to be ready. Once he was done, he continued walking down a short hallway into a large open room filled with a few large ammo and weapons crates along the edges. Then a burst of gunfire rang out and twenty bullets ricocheted off the wall two inches from his head. The fox fell on his butt and scrambled back into the hall. Reas was quick to act, however, and quickly moved alongside the left wall, then stuck his gun around the corner and emptied his clip while blind firing. The two wolves followed up by charging past Reas and circle strafed so that they were now at a forty-five degree angle with four American militiamen armed with three M-4s and an M-16A4. Two of them had already been shot by Reas, and the other two were quickly dropped by the wolves as the each emptied half a magazine into the foursome.
"Clear!" shouted the wolf with an MP-5.
Reas finished reloading his M-4 and then stepped around to admire his men's handiwork. "Nice work," he said with honest admiration as he noticed three of the dead militiamen had been put down with a clean headshot. Just then his radio headset crackled with a message from Curtis.
"Sir, we've secured the entire downstairs section of the building, as well as finished setting up a perimeter around the complex."
"Excellent," Reas replied. "Hold your position at the foot of the stairwell for now, I want to regroup and see if we can talk any of these Americans into surrender."
"Roger willco."
As Reas looked around the room he realized what these Americans had been guarding; the door to the complex's basement. Reas carefully cracked open the door and looked in to find a stairwell leading down into pitch blackness. He turned and picked a grenade off of one of the dead Americans and chucked it downstairs.
"Oh fuck, grenade!" came a shout from the darkness as the M67 hit the concrete floor and rolled against something metallic.
But the expected explosion never came, as Reas hadn't pulled the pin. He smiled to himself, as he had successfully called the Americans' bluff and ruined their chances for an ambush. Turning to the men in fireteam Alpha, he said, "Alright, wait here keep this door shut. I'm gonna have Curtis's men clear the second floor, then we'll come back here and clean out the basement."
"Understood sir," said the black fox.
Reas walked back to the stairwell where he found fireteam Bravo, as well as Curtis and a squad of men from 2nd Platoon. "Alright, Curtis do we know how many men are up there?"
"My guess is about ten to fifteen. From the looks of it our intel was faulty and there was only one platoon here, and we've wasted over twenty of 'em," Curtis replied while directing Reas's attention to various American corpses that were now being stuffed into body bags.
Reas nodded at Curtis's report. "Alright then. We've been pretty lucky so far with no casualties on our side, so let's see if we can convince these Americans to give up peacefully."
"I thought Voorhees wanted us to kill them all, sir?"
"We've neutralized the threat of their spotters. Now all that matters is clearing this place out; it doesn't matter how," Reas replied while staring up the stairwell.
"Damn, it sure got quiet fast," said Mike as he peeked through the door down the hallway.
The second floor to the complex was much smaller than the first, as it consisted of only a hallway and two rooms at opposite ends. The second floor didn't branch out in an L shape either, but rather sat on top of the fifty foot long section of the first floor. The stairwell sat in the middle of the hallway, essentially dividing the two halves of the second floor.
"Yeah man, I don't hear anymore shooting, but I still hear people talking," replied the German Shepherd with the M-14.
Mike, the shepherd, and two other militiamen sat behind a pair of overturned card tables as they waited for someone to try to break down the door. Mike's shoulder wound had started bleeding again, and at the moment he was lying against a wall while holding a gauze bandage to the hole in his shoulder. His head turned to face the door as he heard footsteps coming up the stairs.
Curtis and Reas looked around the empty hallway that was dimly lit by a single ceiling lamp. Six other PRA soldiers had already moved up and cleared the desk out of the way and made sure the hallway was clear of enemies. Unlike the hallway downstairs, the second floor hallway was fairly wide, about ten feet wall to wall.
"Attention soldiers of the United States, we have you surrounded," Reas began, "There is an entire company of troops outside waiting to strike you down if you resist. However, if you surrender now you will not be harmed."
"Go to hell you communist bastard!" yelled a voice from behind a door.
Reas sighed and continued speaking, "Listen to me guys, I know you probably aren't too keen on being a POW, but that's nowhere near as bad as getting killed. It doesn't take a genius to see which is more desirable."
"If you want us, COME AND FUCKING GET US!"
Suddenly a machinegun opened fire and bullets began to rip through the door on the north side of the second floor. Reas and his men quickly hit the deck and held their helmets down as a stream of bullets passed overhead.
"Fuck it," Reas muttered to himself, "Breach and clear that door! Move!"
"Let's go Jake!" a white furred wolf armed with an MP-5 said to a fellow wolf armed with an M3. Together the two quickly scurried across the floor on their bellies until they were on either side of the door. Whoever was inside had ceased firing, and from the metallic clanging inside it sounded like he was clearing a gun jam. Jake looked at his comrade, who nodded that he was ready to breach. Jake placed a breaching charge in the center of the already perforated door and then detonated it three seconds later. The door shattered into dozens of pieces, most of them flying inward toward whoever was inside the room. Moving in shoulder to shoulder, Jake and the white wolf stepped inside to find six American militiamen, one whom was frantically trying to clear a jammed shell casing from his M-249 SAW light machinegun.
Two of the Americans tried to raise their M-16 rifles, but Jake put one of them down with a shotgun blast to the fur's chest, and the white wolf finished the other one with a three round burst to the head. Together Jake and the white wolf began putting rounds into the other four. Six 9x19mm rounds and two shotgun blasts later, all six militiamen were dead.
"Clear!" Jake and the wolf simultaneously shouted back to Reas.
However, Reas was more concerned with the matter of a pair of wounded PRA soldiers lying on the hallway floor. One had been shot clean through the thigh and was busy holding a bandage over the hole trying to stop the bleeding. The other soldier, a young gray fox had gotten hit three times in his left arm and once in his side just below his rib cage. Reas held the fox's shoulders and tried to get him to lie still while a medic ran up the stairs and started unpacking his gear.
"Oh god it hurts so much!" the fox moaned as he tried to move his left arm but found that he couldn't. He didn't realize he'd suffered serious tissue damage and his arm was just a piece of meat and bone hanging from his body now. Finally, the medic prepared a morphine syringe and carefully injected it into the fox's left wrist. Ten seconds later the morphine was effectively in his bloodstream and he went completely still as his whole body became numb.
Reas shook his head and muttered, "Alright, get him back to the trucks. Jake, you and Tomas go clear that other room and then meet me downstairs."
"You got it," Jake replied as he reloaded his M3 and then walked down to the south side door and placed his last breeching charge on the door.
Mike fell on his side as a fusillade of splitters pelted his face, and his ears rung painfully as the door to the room suddenly flew to pieces and came off its hinges. He wanted to get up, to stand up and face whatever had just entered the room; this last bastion of militiamen sent on what he now realized had been a suicide mission this whole time. He took a breath and tried to raise himself up, but he was stopped as he heard the unmistakable concussion of a shotgun blast. Then another one, this time mixed with a quieter burst from a...a handgun? No, too fast. Probably an SMG. But before Mike could contemplate further the headless corpse of the German Shepherd fell two feet in front of his face. All Mike could do was scream in shock, agony, despair, and utter horror.
"LET ME SEE YOUR HANDS!"
Mike went silent, his mouth still agape as he looked up to see a black clad soldier standing over him with a still smoking shotgun pointed right at him. Mike froze, unable to do anything but wait for the inevitable coup de grace that would be delivered in a few moments. But it didn't come.
"I SAID LET ME SEE YOUR HANDS!" the figure repeated, this time with more anger and a hint of panic.
Mike tried to move his arms, but his left on was pinned beneath him and his right one was filled with wood splinters; the pain from which was just starting to hit him. He then felt a sharp pain in his stomach as the soldier suddenly slammed his boot into Mike's stomach, knocking the wind out of him and effectively stunning him. Mike groaned loudly and rolled flat on his stomach, instinctively moving his arms and legs into a spread eagle position in hopes that the soldier would realize he had no means of resisting.
"Please...I can't move...." Mike gasped aloud as he felt the soldier put his foot on his back.
"Sir, this room is clear. Three confirmed kills, one POW taken," the soldier said as an officer stepped into the room.
Mike looked at the fur, whose shoulder tabs marked him as a captain. The captain motioned to the soldier standing over Mike, who then began to tie Mike's paws behind his back with a pair of plastic flexi cuffs. The cuffs reminded Mike of larger, stronger versions of an electrical tie that he commonly used back when we he was an electrician before he joined the Colorado militia. He groaned again as he was lifted to his feet by the collar of his shirt and marched out into the hall, feeling utterly disgraced that his friends and squadmates weren't alive with him.
Two minutes later everyone was back downstairs. Reas had ordered all the militiamen's weapons and ammo to be confiscated and brought back to base. Curtis's men finished bagging up the dead bodies, but that was as much as they'd be doing. There was no point in bringing their dead enemies home. Once their task was over, Curtis had rounded up his men and started the dangerous march back down the mountain to their supply trucks. Reas had all but First Squad leave, having them take down the crates of enemy weapons and ammo. He then called Voorhees to give him a status report.
"Sir, we've almost finished securing the weather station. We've got one POW, and ten hostiles still holed up in the building's basement. I think we can convince them to surrender though, as the POW says there's nothing but a bunch of containers of diesel fuel in the basement for the building's generators. No food or ammo."
"Mmhmm, and is this POW an officer?" Voorhees asked.
"No sir, he's a specialist. He was one of two radio operators. One of CQC guys took out the other one."
"Good. And you installed radio jammers before the attack so they couldn't call for help?"
"Yes sir," Reas responded, thankful that he had remembered that little detail.
"Good, good. How many causalities did you sustain?"
"Two wounded, none dead, sir."
"My my, I'm very impressed Reas. You've earned yourself a day's rest for you and your men."
"Thank you sir," Reas replied happily.
"Now, about those remaining enemies. You say they're holed up in the basement with no way to escape?"
"Yes sir, I have our POW talking to them to try to get them to come out peaceably and..."
"Enough of that," Voorhees interrupted, "The storm outside is bad enough as it is. I don't need you men being out in it when the time comes for the final assault. I don't want you to risk any more of your men either."
"I...I erm, very well sir, but how do you suggest I do that?"
"The basement is full of diesel fuel is it not?" Voorhees asked, annoyance growing in his voice.
"Yes sir but what does..."
"Burn them out and get off that mountain Reas. That's an order. See you soon, over and out."
Reas felt a pang of guilt and fear wash over him at that order. Burn them out? Oh God...oh God please forgive me for what I'm about to do...
"Greg, come on! There's over a hundred of them and only ten of you. Who do you think's gonna win?" Mike shouted down the blackened basement stairwell as a PRA soldier stood behind him with an M-4's barrel pressed against the back of his neck.
"Fuck you Mike, you cocksucking wuss!" one of the Americans in the basement shouted back.
"Jason I'm not in the mood for your shit," Mike countered, "I'm just doing as I'm asked by the guys up here. Now please, they're going to come in after and kill you if you don't give up!"
Just then Reas entered and placed his hand on Mike's shoulder. "That's enough son, you've done all you can." Reas motioned for the soldier to take Mike away from the door. Once Mike was moved over into the corner of the room, Reas made one last announcement. "Listen up! This is Captain Kirk Reas of the PRA Army's 1st Mechanized Infantry. We've given you plenty of time to surrender, and this is your final warning. Come up with your hands on your heads and your weapons holstered and I give you my word that you will not be harmed. You have five seconds to comply. After that...well...God help you."
"Eat a dick you communist stooge!" was all that Reas got in reply.
"That'd make one hell of an epitaph soldier. Too bad your family won't know to put it on your grave," Reas solemnly replied. With that, Reas stepped aside and motioned for Tomas to come forward. "Drop an WP down there."
"White Phosphorus? Sir there's over 1000 gallons of diesel down there, it could blow the whole place up!"
"That's an order."
"I...yes sir," Tomas replied as he looked at the stone cold expression of his commander.
Mike, whom this whole time had been standing in the corner started to speak up. "Hey, wait...what are you guys doing?"
Reas pulled down his balaclava and looked over at Mike and cooly replied, "Our jobs."
Mike's eyes went wide as he finally got to see Reas's face. "Oh my god...you're not Chinese...you're American!"
"An astute observation young man," Reas replied. He then turned to Tomas and said, "Do it."
With that, Tomas pulled the pin on a white phosphorus incendiary grenade and hurled it down the staircase. It's metallic clatter rattled up the stairs before it made solid contact with the concrete floor.
"Oh shit! Flash bang!" a nearby American yelled out. However, he'd mistaken the grenade's shape and was taken aback when it burst into a white hot cloud of burning phosphorus. The burst of fire instantly melted through bone and flesh alike, literally searing his hands and arms off his body as he brought them up to shield himself from the blast.
"Jesus..." Tomas gasped as the fur's screams echoed up the staircase. Just then a bright flash of light erupted up the stairs as one of the fifty-five gallon drums of diesel melted open and ignited. Burning diesel flooded over the basement floor and started to spread to the other containers.
"Oh god no! C'mon we gotta get outta here!" shouted an otter as he shed his weapons and boldly charged through the fire and up the stairs. "AAAAUUGGGHHH! MAKE IT STOP! GET IT OFF!" he screamed as his clothes started to burn and his fur was singed off his flesh. He desparelty tried to pat out the flames as he raced to get out of the raging inferno bellow him.
"Eric!" Mike shouted as he recognized his squadmate's cry for help. However, just as Eric reached the top of the stairs, Tomas raised his M-4 and mercilessly emptied the entire magazine into Eric's chest. The bullets ripped Eric apart; actually managing to sever his left arm as his corpse fell back down the stairs and knocked two more fleeing militiamen down with him.
Mike stood there, jaw agape as time seemed to slow down. His friend's screams seemed to mix with the metallic clanging of Tomas's spent shell casings as they bounced off the floor. Mike felt like a hole had been dug in his stomach, and he wanted to vomit, but all he could do was just stare as his best friends and comrades were burnt alive before his eyes.
"Let's go," Reas said as he shut the door and then hurried his men out just as the floor shook.
"God, it sounds like the rest the tanks are going off," Tomas said while shaking his head as he tried not to envision what it was like down there.
"YOU MOTHERFUCKERS!" Mike suddenly screamed as he was marched outside. "You didn't have to do that! I could've gotten 'em to come up!"
"Shut up kid, you know as well as I do that that's not true," Reas replied as he walked alongside Mike.
"Fuck you! You cocksucking traitor! You're an American like me! Why are you fighting for those murdering bastards in Los Angeles?!?"
"I fight, because if I don't they'll kill my family," Reas replied, "That's why all of us fight. We don't have a choice. So get over yourself and realize that war isn't just Reds Vs. Blues. It's about survival. That's why we've killed each other the last ten thousand years we've been on this planet, and why we're never going to stop."
Mike just glared back at Reas, furry and hatred burning in his eyes as he looked over his shoulder and saw that the weather station, now 100 yards behind them, was completely engulfed in flames. "You'd better just kill me now, because if you don't, I SWEAR TO ALMIGHTY GOD I'M GONNA MURDER EVERY LAST ONE OF YOU!"
"I told you to shut up kip," Reas growled back.
"GO TO HELL!" With that, Mike suddenly twisted to his right and swung his left foot into the air, landing a solid kick into the underside of Reas's chin.
Reas fell flat on his back as he felt his teeth bite down on his left cheek muscles. Fresh blood flowed into his mouth as he fought the urge to puke as he tried to recover from the sudden spell of dizziness that befell him.
"You sonuva bitch!" Tomas shouted as he slammed the butt of his M-4 into Mike's face, causing his teeth to smash together and blood to fill his now bruised cheek and jaw. Mike fell to the ground and rolled for a few feet before coming to rest against a rock at the edge of the foot path. He felt something hard and rocky rattle around in his mouth. After spitting a thin mixture of blood and saliva, Mike noticed a piece of a tooth lying in the puddle before him. He also couldn't open his right eye either, as his cheek had begun to swell to the point where the muscles kept his eyelids constricted. He lied there, waiting for them to finish him off. However, that final blow never came. He felt himself get lifted by his shirt collar and get, and soon he was back on his feet marching down the mountain. Why won't they just let me die?
Mike looked around for Reas, certain that he'd want revenge for the stunt he'd just pulled. But Reas was nowhere to be found. What Mike didn't know, was that Reas was trailing behind his men by about twenty feet, as he wanted to be alone for his next act. Opening a jacket pocket, Reas withdrew a satellite phone and turned it on. He had three bars of reception. Good enough, he thought. With that, he dialed a number and held the phone close to his ear while using his other paw to shield the phone from the wind.
"Hello?" came a female voice on the other end.
"Hi Michelle, it's me."
"Kirk? Oh god honey, is everything alright? You didn't call at 6:00 like you normally do," she asked in a concerned voice.
"I'm fine, I just had a mission come up at the last second," Reas replied.
"But it's over now right?"
"Yeah honey, it's over. I'm heading back to my truck now and will be back at base in about thirty minutes."
Michelle gave a long sigh of relief. "That's good. Will you see anymore action soon, though?
"Can't say. General Voorhees said me and my men get the next 24 hours off though since we pulled this mission off so fast."
"That's great! Maybe the fighting will be over by then," Michelle happily mused.
"I hope so. And..."
Reas was interrupted by a familiar voice in the background on Michelle's end. "Is that daddy?"
"Yes Sally," Michelle said, "but he can't talk right now 'cause he's still at work."
"Hold on Michelle," Reas said, "I can talk to her for a sec."
"Oh okay. I love you Kirk."
"I love you too honey," he said, trying to not tear up as his wife handed the phone over to his four year old daughter Sally.
"Daddy?" came the familiar happy voice of his first born pup.
"Hi sweetie," he said back, a pang of joy swelling in his heart as he pictured her safely tucked away back at their home in Seattle. "You've been a good girl for when Santa comes by?"
"Uh-huh, I have! When's he coming again?" Sally asked.
"In ten days honey; he comes on the 24th," Reas replied while secretly worrying on if he'd be home in time to even put his daughter's presents under the tree.
"Will you be home by then?" Sally said.
"I don't know Sally, it depends on how well my work goes."
"Work meaning you getting the bad guys?"
"Haha, right honey; getting the bad guys. Listen, I hate to say this but I have to go back to work now."
"Awww," Sally whined.
"I know, I don't wanna go either. But look at it this way; the faster I get my work done, the sooner I get to see you, mommy and your little brother. Okay?"
"I understand daddy, I am four after all," she said with mock dignity.
Reas chuckled and said, "That's my girl. God, you're growing up so fast. Well, I got to go now honey. I love you."
"I love you too daddy. Good luck catching those bad guys!"
"Haha, thanks Sally. See you soon." With that, Reas hung up the phone, turned it back off and replaced it in his pocket. The rest of the hike down the mountain was boring and tedious for his squad, but for Reas it gave him a chance to reflect on his daughter's words.
Good luck catching those bad guys!
Reas looked ahead at Mike, whose head lazily sagged forward as he submissively marched down the mountain. Do I really take care of the bad guys, or do I just work for them... He paused to look off to the side, down at Grand Junction. The wind had stopped and the clouds had lifted slightly, and he was able to see a few lights and several bonfires glowing in the streets as tall pillars of black smoke rose above the ruins of yet another American city.
....who knows anymore?