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The Monroe Doctrine Page 7
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“When I was in flight school in Texas, I was street racing a friend on an old county road,” the pilot explained with a grimace. “A cop happened to spot us and tagged me doing a hundred and thirty-six miles per hour in a sixty-five-mile-an-hour zone. I managed to save my career in the Air Force and stay in flight school, but I had to pay a hefty fine and do some community service. That’s how I got the call sign Racer.”
He paused for a minute before adding, “Frankly, I hate the name. It reminds me of the worst day of my life. I had to sell my 1969 Ford Mustang Mach 1 to pay the fine and demonstrate I’d never repeat the behavior so I could stay in flight school. I had worked so hard to save up enough money to buy that thing. It was a complete hunk of junk my grandfather and I had found at a junkyard my senior year of high school. We’d spent three years rebuilding it to what it was. Then I had to sell it if I wanted to stay in flight school. I tell you what…I came this close to saying screw the Air Force and keeping the car and letting them do whatever they wanted. But my wife told me it was just a car; I could always buy or build another one. But if I gave up flight school, I’d never get another chance to fly an F-22.”
Dawson and Currie could see the major was pretty upset, so they changed the topic. “We’re going to try and get you out of here today, Ian,” Dawson announced.
This got the major to perk up. “Really? What’s going on?”
“We got word the 101st has arrived and they expanded the perimeter of the Playa Baracoa airfield,” Currie explained. “I have no idea how they did it, but they got the airstrip operational again and they’ve managed to get some helicopters deployed to it. They’re going to organize a rescue mission to recover you.”
“What about you guys?”
“They’re pulling us out as well,” Currie replied. “It’s time. Our ODA has been out here since a few weeks before the war started. Besides, I’m sure they have bigger missions for us.”
“Well, I’m sure glad they had some of you guys around. I’d probably be dead if you hadn’t found me when you did.”
Currie saw the pilot clinging onto a family picture. Hell or high water, we’re going to get this guy home to his family.
The PRC-152A radio attached to Currie’s chest rig chirped in his earpiece, letting him know he was about to receive a message. He held up a hand to let Dawson know they were about to receive some news.
“Loki One, this is Odin. Do you copy?”
Odin was the call sign for their battalion operations center—the group coordinating and managing all the Loki units scattered across Cuba. The Loki units were the small two- and three-man teams that had been inserted nearly two weeks prior to the war starting. Their job had been simple: find the HQ-9 radar and missile sites for the Air Force and Navy to hit should the war actually start. Their secondary mission had been to recover any downed pilots. Sadly, that last mission ended up taking full priority, given the number of pilots being downed.
“Odin, Loki One. Good copy. Send it.”
“Link up with Loki Two and Four at the following coordinates.” Currie scribbled the coordinates down and handed them off to Dawson, who’d start plotting it for them. “Once you’ve linked up with the other Loki units, break. Rendezvous at the next set of coordinates. Break. Clear hilltop of trees and prepare LZ to receive a CSAR Jolly Green. How copy?”
Currie furrowed his brow at the mention of a CSAR. The new HH-60W Jolly Green IIs were great helicopters to recover downed pilots with, but they were still Blackhawks, which meant they could only carry twelve passengers at most.
“Is there enough room on that bird for all of us?” Dawson asked skeptically.
Loki Two and Four were three-man teams. Adding in their numbers plus the three of them put them at nine total pax. If they had any downed pilots with them, then it could be a rather cramped ride out of there.
Depressing the talk button, Currie replied, “That’s a good copy. ETA on pick up?”
“Six hours. How copy?”
“Is that doable, Dawson?”
His partner nodded. “For you and me, sure. It might be tough on the major.”
“Yeah, but we can carry him out if we have to. At least he isn’t a big guy,” Currie added with a wink to the major. Racer smiled weakly.
Currie depressed the talk button again. “That’s good copy. Six hours. We’ll be ready. Out.”
With nothing more to be said, they cleaned up their little base camp a bit and prepared to leave. Since they didn’t need to take everything back with them, they decided to bury what wasn’t essential and leave the rest. It wasn’t much, but every pound made a difference, particularly when they might have to alternate carrying their wounded man out.
The trek through the jungle to the first rendezvous point was challenging. The jungle was pretty dense with hanging vines and underbrush that liked to reach out and grab them by their ankles. It was frustrating at times to say the least, especially for Major Ryan, who was struggling to keep up. He was clearly in a lot of pain.
Forty-five minutes into their hike, they made contact with the first Loki team. It felt good to link up with their fellow team members. This had been a hard mission, being separated from the men you trained with in a hostile country like this. It had to be done, though. There was simply no way the handful of ODA teams could cover as much ground as they needed to try and find these radar and missile sites without breaking themselves down into smaller elements.
Twenty minutes after meeting up with Loki Two, they linked up with Loki Four. That was when things got tough. Not only did they have four downed pilots, one of them was badly injured. The team medic had done a good job of getting him stabilized, but moving him through the dense jungle was next to impossible.
Their captain looked at the map and found a possible alternate hilltop they could try and turn into an LZ. When they investigated the location, they agreed this could work. Once they got the LZ changed with Odin, their demo guy began the process of preparing the trees to be taken down. He wrapped the bases of the trees at a slight angle with det cord. When it came time to clear the hilltop and turn it into a landing zone, he’d trigger the explosives, which would blow the trunks apart at a specific angle so the trees would fall outwards, away from the center of the hill. If it all worked out, then in the span of a few seconds, they’d have the hilltop cleared of any trees that might prevent the helicopter from landing.
With that problem solved, Currie focused on the next obvious issue. “So, what’s the plan, Captain? We getting a bigger bird or we drawing straws to see who’s staying behind?”
They had thirteen passengers for the ride and only twelve seats. Two of the pilots were also fairly injured, so they couldn’t just pile on the bird for the ride out. Those two injured airmen would need some room. It was a genuine problem.
Captain Larry Thorne snickered. “What, you think we’re leaving someone behind?” the captain asked, a mischievous grin on his face.
“I take it you already solved our problem?” Currie pressed.
Placing a hand on Currie’s shoulder, Thorne replied, “It was never a problem. When they told me we were all getting out of here, I already knew there wasn’t room for us all on one of those CSAR birds. The 160th just got set up at the Playa Airport. They’re going to send in a couple of Chinooks and some Apaches for escorts. We’re all getting out of this damn jungle.”
Currie smiled at the news. “Hell, I guess that’s why they pay you officers the big bucks. Good job, sir.”
Captain Thorne grinned. “Yeah, well, someone needs to keep you guys in line. Oh, by the way, Sergeant. Damn good job rescuing Major Ryan over there. I heard you guys had a shoot-out with a PLA platoon. You guys did good work getting him out of that situation and keeping him alive. When we get out of this, I’m putting you and Dawson in for a valor medal for that. That was some real hero stuff you guys pulled off. Now, go check the perimeter and make sure we don’t have any trouble on the way that might interrupt our dinner plans.”
Chapter Five
Screamin’ Eagles
Playa Baracoa Airport
Havana, Cuba
The C-130 pulled off the taxiway to the parking ramp and stopped. The crew chief lowered the rear ramp, shouting at the occupants. “Get the hell off my bird! We’re pulling out as soon as everyone is off.”
Major General Robert “Bob” Sink smiled as he saw the senior airman shouting at his soldiers. The airman looked up at him and was about to shout something when he saw his two stars. He just smiled and nodded.
“You’re doing a good job, Airman. Thank you for the ride,” said General Sink as he walked past the senior airman.
A major met him at the bottom of the ramp. “This way, General,” the major directed. “We’ve got the division HQ set up over here.” He pointed at something further away from the few remaining buildings around the airport.
“Lead the way, Major,” said General Sink. After he looked around, he commented, “This place is an utter mess.”
On the opposite parking ramp across the single runway was a group of black helicopters spinning up. A line of soldiers looked to be heading out on another mission. There was also a burnt-out wreck of a C-130 on the far side of the runway along with a few damaged helicopters—evidence of the recent artillery strike on the base. It was a violent reminder that the enemy was far from beaten and they were still close enough to hit this base.
When General Sink entered the house that was acting as the division HQ for the time being, he saw half a dozen map boards posted up on the walls of what was probably a living room. A couple of makeshift tables had been set up in the center of the room, and they were covered in computers and radios.
Colonel Roy Dowdy walked up to him. “Welcome to Cuba, General. I hope the ride over wasn’t too bad.”
General Sink shook his deputy’s hand. “We survived; that’s all I asked for. This place seems a bit cramped, don’t you think?”
Dowdy shrugged his shoulders. “We work with what we have. I’ve got some feelers out to find us a larger, better place to set up, but until we find a suitable place, we’ve been making this work.”
Sink nodded with a grunt. “It’ll do. OK, bring me up to speed on things. Why haven’t we secured the Havana International Airport yet or the San Antonio de los Baños military airport? Those were priority one objectives to be captured within the first forty-eight hours. We’re three days into the invasion and they still haven’t been secured.”
Colonel Dowdy motioned with his head for them to walk over to one of the maps.
Pointing to a series of units on the north side of Havana, Dowdy explained, “As you know, the 82nd Airborne hit the Máximo Gómez Command Academy east of Havana, along the coast. Most of the division was able to land in and around the area. They essentially had a two-mile bubble they’d established. Fourteen miles to the south, the 1st Ranger Battalion seized the Managua Airport. This positioned them roughly seven miles to the east of the Havana International Airport and placed a substantial blocking force on the opposite side of the capital.”
General Sink held a hand up to stop him. “Look, Roy, I know all of this. Cut to the point.”
“The Chinese 80th Motorized Infantry Brigade, positioned inside Havana, launched a series of counterattacks with two battalions of armor from the 7th Armored Brigade against the 82nd. This prevented them from moving further on the city and securing their objectives until the Air Force was able to help them thin the enemy armor out. To complicate things, when the Rangers secured the Managua Airport, a battalion from the PLA’s 235th Mechanized Infantry Brigade encircled them and tried to force them to surrender. The Air Force lost twelve aircraft trying to provide enough CAS to keep them from being overrun. It’s been a tough go of it the last twenty-four hours, General. We’re honestly lucky we haven’t had any of our initial units overrun or wiped out.”
Sink snorted at the assessment but knew Dowdy wasn’t wrong. This entire invasion had been rushed. Capturing Mariel and the port should have been the top priority, not these airports and positions around the capital. Once they had a port, they could start to offload their heavy armor and make short work of these Chinese units.
General Sink blew some air out his lips in frustration. He was glad he’d moved his HQ here from NAS Key West. He needed to see firsthand what was going on. “All right, let’s leave the other divisions to handle their own objectives. What about ours? I think I saw the Rangers boarding the 160th to head out on some big mission. Is this something we’re going to end up supporting?”
Suddenly Dowdy had a look on his face like he’d forgotten to tell him something important.
“My apologies, General. Shortly after you left Key West, the Rangers initiated their next mission,” Colonel Dowdy explained. “They’re launching their assault on the San Antonio de los Baños military air base. It’s already been plastered by both the Air Force and a HIMARS unit, so it’s been taken out of commission. They’re moving to secure it. Once they’ve captured it, I’ve got the 1st Battalion, 502nd slated to relieve them and expand its perimeter. The Air Force has another Red Horse unit that’ll get it operational for us. Then we’ll largely have the capital surrounded.”
“OK, that sounds good. What about the port at Mariel? Are we ready to move on it? I’ve got the Army Chief of Staff, General Kilbourne, all over my ass right now to capture that port.”
“We’re on it, sir,” Dowdy replied. “The 2nd Battalion, 327th just reached the outskirts of Mariel. They’re engaging elements of the PLA 235th Mechanized Brigade right now. To help us bust through this, two hours ago, the Air Force airlifted in a single tank platoon from the 3rd Infantry Division, 1st Battalion, 64th Armor Regiment, along with a company’s worth of Stryker vehicles. They literally drove right off the planes and headed for Mariel. They’re engaging the PLA armored vehicles and units as we speak.”
General Sink chuckled and slapped his deputy on the shoulder. “Outstanding, Roy. We’re going to make a division commander out of you yet. You’ve done a hell of a job out here. Now, I know you’ve got a team out looking for a new building for us to set up our HQ in—I want you to find that building for us in the next four hours. This”—he waved his hand around—“is not going to work now that the rest of the headquarters unit is arriving. The rest of the division should be here by nightfall. It’s time to go kick the crap out of these ChiCom bastards and make them wish they’d never declared war on the US of A.”
*******
2nd Battalion, 327th Infantry Regiment
Outskirts of Mariel, Cuba
Specialist Leslie Sabo Jr. traversed the turret-mounted Ma Deuce of the JLTV to the right as they drove past another small cluster of houses along the side of the A4 highway. They hadn’t run across any ChiCom or Cuban forces yet, but that didn’t mean they wouldn’t soon.
Boom!
Four hundred meters in front of them, the lead JLTV exploded into a fireball. The turret gunner’s upper torso was flung several hundred feet into the sky as chunks of the vehicle were blown in all directions.
Bang, bang, bang. Ratatat, ratatat, ratatat.
Red tracer fire zipped across the highway. Another JLTV near the first one that blew up was shredded by a heavy-caliber machine gun. It rolled to a halt on the side of the road, the occupants dead.
“It’s coming from the right, maybe five hundred meters in that cluster of buildings!” Specialist Sabo yelled down to the driver and vehicle commander below him.
Sighting in on where the enemy fire was coming from, Sabo depressed the butterfly trigger on the Ma Deuce, sending a controlled burst of three to five rounds into one of the structures. He saw his rounds cut huge holes through the f
limsily built house. A single round ricocheted into the sky, letting him know he’d hit something metal on the opposite side.
Private Hancock, the driver of their vehicle, veered them off the road, down a slight dip and up on the other side. They were now in a field next to the highway. Most of the vehicles in their convoy had done the same thing, splitting either to the right or left of the highway and looking for targets to shoot.
Sabo couldn’t tell what was going on below him in the vehicle. All he heard was shouting on the radio. The driver asked where to go, and their sergeant shouted to someone on the radio for instructions.
Sabo dropped down from the turret. “Sergeant, just have us head towards that farm. I’ll lay into whatever vehicle is shooting at us.”
Sergeant Smith nodded. “Good call, Sabo. Stay on that fifty. Things are going to get hairy.”
Swoosh…BOOM.
The JLTV behind them exploded.
“Get on that fifty and take them out!” shouted Smith in a panic.
Sabo saw an infantry fighting vehicle duck out from behind a completely torn-apart house as it raced to a cluster of trees not far away. The vehicle crew had done a pretty decent job attaching a bunch of tree limbs and other underbrush to it. The damn thing looked like a pile of brush with a wicked-looking turret on it.
Aiming at the vehicle, Sabo held the butterfly trigger down a little longer, drilling the side of the vehicle with at least a dozen rounds. Some of the AP rounds bounced and ricocheted off, but a handful punched through some sections of the armor.
The driver did his best to dodge the bullets being fired at them. Sabo let up on the trigger for just a second before he unloaded another couple dozen rounds into the side of the vehicle.
Boom…BANG!
A small explosion rocked the enemy vehicle, causing it to stop moving. As Sabo continued to pump rounds into it, something inside caught fire and exploded. The back hatch blew open and flames shot out. A couple of figures stumbled out the back, engulfed in fire like walking Roman candles.