World War III Page 17

  “Die you bastards! Die!” he shouted, as he pumped a round into the shotgun. His first shot caught an unsuspecting Russian soldier full blast in the chest. The soldier flew backwards from the impact, his rifle landing a few feet away. He was dead before his body even hit the ground. The civilian pumped another round into the shotgun and turned it on Sasha. But before he could fire, three bullets from Yuri’s AK-47 riddled the man’s chest, knocking him backwards into his house.

  “Thanks,” said Sasha, as the realization that he’d almost died slowly sank in.

  Yuri nodded and continued walking down the street with Sasha following close behind. They were near the spot where Chinese soldiers were bayoneting a wounded American soldier, when bullets suddenly sprayed the area around them. The two Russian’s immediately dove behind an abandoned vehicle, and watched as the Chinese soldiers were gunned down only a few feet away. Yuri realized with satisfaction that he felt absolutely no regret for the fate of his fallen allies. As far as he was concerned they had it coming, and probably deserved much worse.

  “Did you see where those shots came from?” asked Sasha.

  “From the roof across the street,” answered Yuri. “They’ve got us pinned down!”

  “What are we going to do Captain?”

  “You’re going to provide me with covering fire,” instructed Yuri, “while I cross the street! Are you ready?”

  “Yes comrade!” answered Sasha.

  “Good, then commence firing!”

  Sasha popped his head up and began firing at the sniper position across the street. The Marines had the high ground, and thus the advantage. Sasha was not trying to hit anyone so much as he was trying to force them to duck for cover. He sprayed the top of the building with his AK-47 and didn’t stop firing until he’d emptied a magazine.

  At the same time, Captain Petrov sprang from behind the abandoned truck and ran full speed towards the building where the Marines were hiding. Entering the building, Yuri could still hear Sasha’s AK-47 providing cover. The sound of the AK suddenly stopped and was replaced with gunfire from several M-16 assault rifles, as the Marines opened up on Sasha below.

  Yuri carefully and quietly ascended the staircase of the apartment building, keeping an eye on his six as he did so. Some of the apartment doors were closed, while others were wide open. The building had seven floors and a flat top roof. When Yuri finally reached the top of the staircase he found a door leading to the roof. Above the door was a neon sign with the word, Exit glowing in red. He slowly opened the door, careful to make no sound, and peered out.

  About twenty feet away and hunkered down behind the wall, were five U.S. Marines. They were so fixated on Sasha below that they failed to notice Yuri, as he stepped out onto the roof. Yuri realized that if he opened up on the Marines with his AK-47, there was a good chance that he might get shot before he was able to kill all five of them. So instead, he withdrew a hand grenade from his belt. Holding the grenade in his left hand and the AK-47 in his right, he used his teeth to remove the firing pin. He counted to eight before tossing the grenade towards the Marines.

  One of the Marines noticed a flicker of movement from the corner of his eye, and he turned just in time to see Yuri throw the grenade. “Grenade!” he shouted, to his fellow soldiers while raising his rifle to fire.

  Yuri pointed his AK-47 at the Marine and fired first, but only by a fraction of a second. His bullet hit the soldier in the stomach an instant before the grenade exploded, killing all five Marines. Yuri turned to leave, when he realized that he too had been shot. The Marine’s bullet had grazed his left arm, but after a quick examination he decided it was only a minor flesh wound. When Yuri reached the bottom of the staircase and exited the building, he found Lieutenant Razin waiting for him at the entrance.

  “You’ve been hit comrade,” said Sasha, when he noticed the blood on Yuri’s arm. Sasha went inside the apartment building and found a clean shirt on the ground. He ripped a strip off the shirt and walked back out to Yuri. He tied the shirt around the wound on his arm in hopes of stopping the bleeding.

  “It’s just a flesh wound,” replied Yuri, brushing aside Sasha’s concern and hiding the pain caused by tying the shirt around his wound. “We should get moving, we’ve got a long way to go.”

  “If I may sir, where are we going?”

  “To a town named Clearview,” answered Yuri, deciding to share some of the mission objectives with the Lieutenant. “Once there, our orders are to intercept a rogue American agent, code named Condor.”

  “Why is this man so important?” asked Sasha.

  “He isn’t,” answered Yuri, not wanting to share too many of the details. “It’s the information that he’s stolen that’s important. Come on, let’s go!”

  Legion

  World War III – Day Five

  Cheyenne Mountain Complex, Colorado

  President Hamilton sat safely behind his desk inside the Cheyenne Mountain nuclear bunker near Colorado Springs, his head resting between the palms of his hands. He stared down gloomily at the half empty glass of scotch sitting on the desk between his elbows. He’d been drinking a lot more lately, but who could blame him after losing his wife, and possibly his daughter too.

  The door burst open and Secretary of Defense Benjamin Benson stormed in. “Mr. President, your needed in the command center.”

  Hamilton stood up and glanced down at the empty glass and the decanter of scotch on his desk. He was half tempted to bring the booze with him, but then decided it wouldn’t be appropriate. As he entered the command center for the first time, Hamilton glanced around. The concrete walls were covered with large plasma screens and the hum of computers filled the air. The room was in an uproar, everyone running back and forth, Hamilton didn’t understand how they could hear one another with all of the confusion and noise. He immediately regretted his decision to leave the scotch behind.

  “Mr. President,” greeted General Williams with the nod of his head. He still seemed to be enjoying their current predicament far too much. “We’ve got General Houser on the line.”

  Hamilton quickly scanned his memory for a list of senior officers, trying to remember who General Houser was, and what he was in command of. “Very well,” he said, still at a loss, “put him on the screen.”

  The largest screen in the command center, located against the far wall, showed a live satellite feed of North America. The screen flickered, went black, and then came back to life. Only this time instead of the satellite feed, a man in his late fifties, wearing a combat uniform filled the screen.

  “Mr. President,” greeted General Houser. Behind him officers could be seen running back and forth, shouting orders to the soldiers under their command. Explosions and gunfire made it hard to hear the General’s voice.

  “Hello General Houser,” said Hamilton, recognizing the General as Commander of the Eastern Coastal Defenses. “Do you have any update?”

  “Yes sir,” said the General. “Our forces have been overrun and pushed back to the Appalachian Mountains,” he began. His attention was suddenly pulled away, as he shouted an order to a passing officer. “Get those damned tanks off the front line and move them to the south to protect our right flank! Lieutenant Sheppard! I want you to relocate your platoon to that tree line. No matter what happens, you must hold the line! If the enemy gets passed you there’s nothing to stop them from circling around behind us, do you understand?”

  “Yes sir!” said Lieutenant Sheppard, before spinning around and disappearing from sight.

  “Sorry Mr. President,” said General Houser, looking directly into the monitor. “As I was saying, the enemy has taken the coast. Our forces have pulled back and set up defenses around the Appalachian Mountains, but I’m not sure how long we’ll be able to hold this position.”

  “How did you lose so much ground, so quickly?” asked General Williams.

  “The Chinese landed the majority of their forces without warning, using the guise of large cruise ships to in
filtrate our coast guard,” explained General Houser. “Port authorities in several large cities allowed the ships to dock, believing they carried humanitarian aid.”

  “How many of these cruise ships were allowed to dock?” asked President Hamilton.

  “A dozen or so have been reported,” replied the General, once again distracted. Only this time by a man dressed in civilian clothes.

  “Where do you want my men?” asked the civilian. He was wearing blue overalls and a straw hat. The lever action rifle that was cradled in his arm looked so natural, that it appeared to be an extension of his body.

  “I need you and your men to dig in behind that cluster of trees,” replied General Houser.

  “Alright,” said the man, with a southern drawl. He turned and spit a dark stream of chewing tobacco on the ground. “We’re getting kind of low on ammo general.”

  “Sergeant York!”

  “Yes sir!”

  “Get this man and his men some more ammo immediately!”

  “Yes sir!” The Sergeant turned and led the group of civilians toward the ammo depot a short distance away.

  “Has it gotten so bad that you’re arming the civilians?” asked Secretary of State Reese Lewis.

  “Oh it’s a hell of a lot worse than that,” replied General Houser. “The civilians are the only reason we haven’t lost the mountains!”

  “What about local authorities?” Hamilton asked.

  General Houser nodded his head towards the man in the straw hat. “That’s all that’s left of the authorities,” he said. “I need more men, more guns, more ammo, and more tanks, more everything! If I don’t get re-supplied, and I mean soon, than I can’t guarantee to be here the next time you call.”

  “I guess disarming the populace worked better than we thought,” mumbled Moore. “Only now the people can’t defend themselves from foreign governments either.”

  Hamilton’s only response was to nod his head ever so slightly. “How long can you hold out?” he asked.

  “Not long,” confessed General Houser, “not without support.”

  “Then you must fight to the very last man!” exclaimed General Williams.

  “Without reinforcements the east coast is lost,” replied General Houser.

  “General Williams,” said Hamilton, turning to face the five-star General, “how long until you can get reinforcements to General Houser’s position?”

  “Reinforcements,” repeated General Williams incredulously, “what reinforcements? Our country is surrounded by four borders, three of which are under attack. If I divert divisions from our border with Mexico the southern States will be lost within a day or two. And if I transfer units from the west coast than we might as well surrender now. We’re already spread too thin as is. I’m sorry Mr. President, but there are no reinforcements to send.”

  “Surely General Houser can hold his own against an invading army on his own home soil,” said Secretary of State Lewis. “It’s not like the enemy is being reinforced.”

  “Actually,” said General Houser, “they are. My scouts have reported that the enemy’s large warships, floating off the coast, are loading fresh units into troop transports and reinforcing their lines. The transports are making hourly trips back and forth between the warships and our docks. It’s only a matter of time before we’re completely outnumbered and overrun.”

  “Admiral Clements,” said Hamilton, turning to face a silver haired man dressed in a white navy uniform.

  “Yes Mr. President.”

  “Can your fleet do something about those ships off the east coast?”

  “What’s left of the fleet isn’t much,” admitted the Admiral. “Most of our ships are in route to join up with the fleet coming in from Hawaii, and even if we ordered them to the east coast it’d be at least a week before they could arrive. And of course that would leave our west coast waters without any defense.”

  “What about the Atlantic fleet?” Hamilton asked.

  “It’s been all but destroyed, Mr. President,” replied the Admiral, casting a quick glance towards Lewis. “I thought you knew?”

  “No I didn’t know, damn it! Who in the hell hasn’t been informing me on this matter?” asked Hamilton, looking angrily at each of his staff. “What about the Abraham Lincoln, David’s ship?”

  “That’s one of a few ships that we haven’t heard from Mr. President,” said Admiral Clements. “The last we heard they were still afloat, but that report came in three days ago.”

  “As commander of the Atlantic fleet it’s your job to know where it is!” exclaimed Hamilton.

  “Mr. President, with our communications down I don’t know how you expect me to remain in contact?”

  “Damn it man, figure out a way!”

  “I can send fighters out looking for the vessel sir, but if I do that then it pulls pilots off the front line. And I don’t think we can afford that right now.”

  President Hamilton turned back to the monitor and General Houser. “Hold out as long as you can General. Try and recruit more troops from neighboring towns and cities. I give you authority to draft every able body person into this war. Those are the only reinforcements we have right now,” he said, not knowing what else to say.

  “Yes sir,” said General Houser. An artillery shell suddenly landed behind the General causing a large explosion. Although the General didn’t even flinch, the same could not be said for the President and his staff, watching safely from the bunker over a thousand miles away.

  “Sir,” screamed a soldier, running up to the general from behind. Hamilton recognized the man as Sergeant York, the same soldier who’d been ordered to re-supply the militia.

  “What is it Sergeant?”

  “It’s Lieutenant Shepperd and his men,” shouted the Sergeant. ‘They’re all dead!” The monitor began to flicker before the picture disappeared and became dark.

  “What happened?” shouted Hamilton.

  “We lost the feed, Mr. President,” said one of the technicians sitting in front of a small monitor and a panel of flashing, neon buttons.

  “Well get it back!” demanded Hamilton. Now he really wished that he’d have brought the scotch with him.

  “Yes, Mr. President. I’m trying,” replied the same technician.

  “General Williams,” said Hamilton, turning to face the general, “reinstate the draft immediately. Send out orders to all commanding officers. All able body civilians are to report for duty.”

  “Yes sir, Mr. President!” General Williams immediately began shouting out orders, as the command center became even more chaotic than before.

  “Mr. President, I need to speak with you in private,” whispered Lewis into Hamilton’s ear.

  “What is it?” demanded Hamilton.

  “In private, Mr. President,” repeated Lewis.

  “Moore.”

  “Yes Mr. President?”

  “I’ll be in my office. Keep me apprised of any new developments.”

  “Yes, Mr. President.” Moore watched as Hamilton and Lewis left the command center and turned right down one of the corridors. He wondered what Lewis had to tell the President that was so important and secretive, that he couldn’t tell him in front of everyone else.

  When Hamilton and Lewis reached the President’s office, Lewis closed the door behind him, and then locked it. Hamilton was so fixated on the decanter of scotch sitting on his desk he didn’t seem to notice. He poured himself a tall glass and dropped a couple of ice cubes into the amber liquid. After swirling the scotch and ice cubes around in the glass, he took a large drink. “Ya want one?” he said, offering Lewis a glass.

  “No thank you Mr. President.”

  “Alright then, have a seat,” he said, gesturing towards the chair across from him. Hamilton slouched down into a plush, leather chair and gazed across the desk at his Secretary of State.

  “I think I’ll stand Mr. President,” said Lewis.

  “Well,” said Hamilton, “what is it?”

  �
��Someone would like to speak with you Mr. President,” said Lewis, reaching inside his jacket.

  For a moment Hamilton expected to see a gun emerge from the inside of Lewis’s jacket. He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but something wasn’t right. Instead of a gun, Lewis withdrew a small, black satellite phone. He pressed a button and held the phone to his ear. “He’s here,” said Lewis, to the unidentified person on the other end of the line. Lewis reached across the desk and handed the phone to Hamilton.

  At first Hamilton just eyed the phone skeptically. His eyes went from Lewis to the phone and then back again. He took another gulp of scotch and placed the glass on his desk in front of him. Hamilton reached out and accepted the phone. “Who is it?” he asked, but Lewis just stood there silently.

  “Hello?” said Hamilton into the phone.

  “Hello John,” replied a deep, raspy voice on the other end of the line.

  “Who is this?” demanded Hamilton.

  “Who I am doesn’t matter,” replied the mysterious voice.

  “What do you want?” stammered Hamilton, reaching down for the glass of scotch.

  “We have your daughter.”

  Hamilton’s hand froze in midair…Evelyn!

  It took Hamilton a moment before he could force his lips to respond. His throat was dry and his tongue felt like a stick in his mouth. He looked up at Lewis and expressed all the malice he could in one glance. “Where is she?” he exhaled more than said.

  “She’s safe,” answered the raspy voice on the other end. “But how long she remains that way depends entirely upon you.”

  “What do you want?” asked Hamilton.

  “We want your unwavering loyalty,” said the voice. “There will be times in the days ahead when we will call upon you for,” he paused, as if trying to decide the best way to word it, “special favors.”

  “What kind of, special favors?” asked Hamilton, without taking his eyes off of Lewis.

  “The kind without questions,” answered the voice, his tone carried a hint of impatience.