Dux Bellorum (Future History of America Book 3) (67 page)

Strogolev was still confused as to how that had happened. He had some conflicting reports of American soldiers running in and among the rebels. But that that didn't make any sense—he knew Stapleton was trying to wipe out the rebels just as much as he.
 

It must have been members of the Bigby insurrection—civilians joining forces trying to fight his Russian troops.

Strogolev ducked down inside his BTR and scanned the force position screens. It mattered little—his men knew exactly where to go, what to do, and what positions take. The only thing left to do was clean up the mess, make sure everyone got food and water, a bit of rest, and extra ammo. They would then settle in for the night with his advance scouts probing north for the enemy in the morning.

He sorely wanted visual confirmation Malcolm had been killed.
 
So far, his search teams had come up empty-handed. Some areas—closest to the interstate mostly—were still putting up stiff resistance.
 
All told, though, only 19 Russians had given their lives for the Motherland.

This is the most lopsided victory in modern Russian military history!
He looked at the report again: 1,723 confirmed rebel deaths. The tally continued to climb as his forces picked through the rubble of Hale’s Corners, taking no prisoners.
 

And it’s not even mid-morning yet.

Overhead, Russian Air Force jets on loan from General Doskoy streaked north, pounding the rebel army stretched out over the horizon. It would all be over in another hour.

He glanced at one of the tactical cameras mounted to a BTR on the left flank. Scores of rebels—men and women—stood around in clumps with their hands in the air, their weapons on the ground. As word spread that Malcolm had fled the field, the entire rebel force had crumbled.
 

Strogolev grinned.
 
Those that did not surrender would be exterminated.

The speaker in his helmet broke squelch. "
Comrade major,
" said Gregor breathlessly. "
We have contact with American—
”

A tremendous explosion ripped the air outside the BTR and the entire vehicle shook, throwing Strogolev into the control panel. He cursed and looked up through the open commander's hatch to see smoke in the sky.

Ignoring Gregor's screeching in his helmet, he clambered up through the hatch and watched as debris rained down around him.
 

"What was that?" he called out to a soldier just getting up off the ground next to the BTR.

"It's the Americans, comrade major! They're shooting down our planes!"

Strogolev looked up and watched another Russian fighter scream by overhead only to be met with a small pinprick of light that lanced up from the far horizon. Another explosion boomed through the air and the fighter disappeared in a ball of orange and black smoke. Strogolev stood there for a second watching the debris fall in the distance.

"Gregor! Status report!"

The static-filled reply was unintelligible. Strogolev caught the words
Americans, armor,
and
attack
.

"Gregor!"

No response.

Strogolev ducked down into the BTR and tried to rapidly filter out critical situation reports from incessant screams for reinforcements. His force allocation map blinked like a
Yolka
tree.
 

Each one of the blinking lights represented a either a soldier or unit out of contact with the tracking satellites.
 
It didn't necessarily mean they were dead, but the signal had been obstructed by either debris or mechanical failure. Some lights returned solid, others winked out after a few seconds. Known enemy positions popped up in red and began to spread out from the north—they moved fast.

Tanks. Somehow that son-of-a-whore brought an entire tank group with him.

Several thunderous
booms
clapped in the distance and echoed across the smoldering battlefield.

Screams erupted through his headset.

"
Tanks!"

"They are firing!"

"All units, take cover!"

"They—"

Strogolev closed the hatch to the BTR as the first incoming shell impacted about 30 yards away, violently rocking his heavy vehicle.

"Driver! Damn it—get us out of here!" he shouted as he turned his attention back to the force allocation screen.
 
Strogolev quickly issued emergency orders for a tactical withdrawal. He had to regroup and get out of range of those tanks.
 

His light-armored reconnaissance strike force was no match for American armored cavalry. The M1A2 Abrams' 120mm main gun could punch right through his BTRs like a bullet through a block of cheese. He had no no choice but to retreat under such overwhelming firepower.

Just like the Kremlin to issue orders for me to head north, right into the teeth of a fucking tank division! Won't Doskoy be upset…

Strogolev froze, staring at the screen. Why didn't he see it sooner?
 
Doskoy hadn't been surprised at all when Strogolev had announced his orders countermanded and overruled Doskoy's. Comrade General seemed fine with it and wished him well, even going so far as to give him extra supplies.

“Sukin syn,”
Strogolev cursed.
 
He punched the terminal.
 
That son of a bitch knew this was going to happen. He knew about it—and pulled some strings to get Moscow to send me north. He knew he couldn't do it on his own authority. He sacrificed me and will take credit for stopping the Americans when he arrives tomorrow after I've softened them up.

Struggle pounded his fist against the control panel again. He screamed obscenities at the top of his lungs and ignored the pain in his hand.

"Comrade major! American antitank helicopters on approach!" called out the driver.

"Just get us out of here!
 
Damn it!" Strogolev turned and hit the command frequency. "All units, it's a trap! Retreat—save yourselves and get to the emergency rendezvous point! I repeat, it's a—”

Strogolev's face cracked the computer screen as the BTR lifted off the ground.
 
The roar of a nearby explosion shattered his eardrums and silenced his world as he sailed through the air with the heavy armored vehicle before crashing to the ground. Only the reinforced seatbelts attached to his command chair kept him from breaking his neck on impact.

When the BTR had finally rolled to a stop, he peered through the smoke at the flickering lights and sparks from the panels in front of him. Hanging upside down, he used his field knife to slash through the webbing of his restraints and collapse to the floor in a painful heap.
 

Coughing as he ignored the fire inside his vehicle, he hit the emergency release panel and tumbled out the rear hatch.

Staggering to his feet, Strogolev felt the ground shake all around him as more explosions impacted. The over-pressure of each explosion shoved him back and forth, physically pushing him to the ground again.
 
Again and again the shells threw earth into the sky.
 
A rain of incoming shells pulverized the battlefield over and over again, mercilessly chewing up everything in sight.

He opened his eyes, scrambling in the sandy soil to pull himself up behind the dead BTR's corpse. Thick black smoke poured out of every hatch.
 
A radio lay on the ground near the driver's bloodied hand. Strogolev focused his attention on that and tried to crawl forward, shaking as the ground absorbed still more explosions.

All of it was a set up. There will be no glory for me, only death.

Movement in the sky caught his eye, and he saw a tight formation of gray warplanes streak overhead. He followed them across the clouds and saw one bank sharply and peel off, chasing down one of the few surviving Russian jets still in the air.

One word, four dark letters painted on the side of the gray aircraft told him all he needed to know about his prospects for surviving the battle.
 

NAVY.

With an attack group of Abrams tanks and air support in the form of fighters from the Naval Air Station in Jacksonville, Strogolev knew his scout division was as good as dead. He may have ended the rebellion, but the Americans would end him.

Strogolev clutched the radio in his hand and tried to repeat his desperate retreat order. At least he might save some of his men.

Exhausted, he collapsed against the steaming hull of the BTR and winced in pain as the metal put pressure on a broken rib.
 
He gathered what strength remained in his battered body and shouted the orders again.
 
He did not know if his message had gotten through—deaf as he was, he continued yelling at the top of his lungs, hoping someone heard him, hoping someone survived.

Someone needed to survive. Someone needed to tell the story.
Someone
needed to expose Doskoy's betrayal.
 
Another BTR, perhaps a hundred yards away, exploded in a spectacular display of fire, smoke, and shredded metal.
 

Someone needed to avenge Russia.

He got to his feet and looked around. If there was a way he could escape and seek shelter that someone might be him. The ground trembled slightly as he staggered away from the BTR, heading toward one of the few intact houses in sight.
 

Smoke obscured his vision briefly as the ground continued to vibrate. He turned in a circle, looking for the source of the commotion, expecting to see explosions lining the horizon. Instead, a scarred M1A2 Abrams crawled through a collapsed house only a few hundred feet away.

Strogolev was caught standing in the middle of the ruined street with his hands akimbo, still clutching the radio. He stared as the tank came to a stop and the turret slowly turned to face him.

Strogolev dropped the radio and raised his arms. If he could not escape, he would welcome captivity. It would give him a chance to heal and live to fight another day.
 

There will be troop exchanges,
he told himself.
Despite what we do on the battlefield, our governments still act civil to each other. If nothing else, the Cold War taught us that.
 

He waited for the hatch on the tank to open and the tank commander to climb down and accept his surrender. As the seconds slipped by, sweat broke out on his forehead. Or was it blood? He was afraid to move his hands and check, for fear of giving the tank any excuse to fire.

The 120mm barrel slowly lowered until it was pointed directly at him.
 
That black hole looked as big as a house.

No. No, you can't do this. This is not—

The tank rocked back as a puff of white smoke ejected a shell from the long barrel at 1,575m/s in his direction.
 
He had time to see the grass and dirt in front of the tank ripple with the shock-wave.
 
Major Aleksei Strogolev blinked and never opened his eyes again.

Chapter 72

The Prodigal Son

T
HE
SLAP
TO
HIS
face echoed like thunder in the small room.
 
Erik reflexively brought a hand up to his cheek.
 
I deserved that.

"Don't you
ever
do something so stupid again.
 
I'm
serious
," growled Brin.
 
"I will kill you myself.
 
I didn't drag you out of that Russian prison camp so some scumbag
criminal
can kill you before I have our baby," she hissed in his ear.
 
Brin threw her arms around him and squeezed his neck so hard Erik thought she might break something.

"I'm sorry," he wheezed.

"Sorry don't cut it, bub," added Ted.
 
Brin released her hold on Erik's neck and stood next to him, her hand interlaced in his.
 
"You not only went off on a foolish mission that should have been planned out beforehand, but you put yourself and the whole squad at risk."

"Since when are we a squad?" asked Erik, trying to throw a little levity into the somber room.

Maggie shook her head from the far corner.
 
"He's right—oh, I don't know about this squad business—but you can't do things like this, not when you've got a family to protect."

Erik put his arm around Brin.
 
"I knew what I was doing—besides, look at the maps I brought back.
 
And the intel—"

"Were you followed?" snapped Ted.
 
He paced in front of Erik, shaking his head as he stomped.
 
"Were you seen?"
 
He stopped in front of Erik and Brin.
 
"You don't know—"

"I wasn't—I was careful, like you taught me."

"But if I had been there watching, we could be
sure
."
 
Ted folded his arms.
 
"Even
I
wouldn't have gone off alone like
that
.
 
If you'd gotten hurt in the forest—"

"I didn't," said Erik with a little more heat in his voice than he'd wanted.
 
"Look—I appreciate you all are pissed at me.
 
I'd probably be mad too.
 
But I had to know, okay?"

"No, it is
not
okay!" yelled Ted.

"I had to know!" Erik shouted back.
 
"And," he said, raising a hand to forestall Ted's argument, "I came back with more knowledge than we had this morning.
 
Invaluable knowledge."

"Irrelevant—you put all of us at risk.
 
If we were in the Corps—"

"We're
not!
" screamed Erik.
 
"I'm not a marine, I'm not a soldier, I'm just
me
—a post-grad who wanted to be a God damn
teacher
but keeps getting dragged into shit that shouldn't even be happening!"
 
Erik felt the urge to put a lid on his emotions but something gave inside him and the volcano erupted.