Lou Dobbs: Putin's Gambit

All the military officers and NATO personnel who quietly helped with this book.

Tony Martindale for his excellent military insights and phenomenal photography skills.

Major Ronald Jackson had spent months on deployment in both Iraq and Afghanistan, as well as a brief peacekeeping stint in Kuwait after an invasion of Islamic State fighters. It was that time in combat and the fact that he was one of the few officers from his original unit still in the Marine Corps that made him feel like he had earned his right to a cushy embassy detail here in Germany. In point of fact, which was the only thing the marines dealt in, he was responsible for several diplomatic buildings, from the missions in Frankfurt and Bonn to the U.S. embassy here in Berlin.

He’d dropped in on the new lieutenant in charge of the security and the twenty-six marines at 0 dark thirty. At thirty-one, Major Jackson no longer partied all night and found rising before the sun and driving from the base outside Stuttgart a simple task. He smiled as he recalled how much he hated a CO who did shit like that to him when he was new to a post. Security for the embassy building off Pariser Platz looked pretty sharp, and the marines were alert.

He took his time walking alone after he’d gotten the lieutenant out from under foot. It was a brilliant, sunny day with the temperature in the midfifties. He liked wearing his overcoat because it hid the shrapnel scar on his right arm he’d received his last tour in Afghanistan. A lucky grenade pitch by a dark-haired youth had left him in the hospital for three weeks. Now he noticed the cooler weather in his elbow. He’d always thought that kind of thing was just bullshit the old vets talked about. Old war wounds really did change with the weather.

Major Jackson wondered what his best friends from the unit were doing now. One of them, Derek Walsh, worked on Wall Street but didn’t seem all that happy when they talked. Another, Mike Rosenberg, was settling into his new job with the CIA. He’d been the G-2 in their unit and done an exceptional job. The fourth member of their clique was still, like Jackson, in the Corps. Bill Shepherd was in a combat brigade at the same base as Jackson in Böblingen near Stuttgart.

Their relationship was like being in a family with four brothers who were all competitive. They each made the others better. He liked it. They were the four horsemen, and each had skills that complemented the others’.

A young corporal snapped to attention near the front gate. Jackson returned a salute as he glanced over his shoulder to ensure there was a rifleman on the roof as required when the threat alert was raised like this. Someone had picked up some extra chatter, and the goddamned Islamic State was beheading people all over the place now. YouTube had videos from as far away as Perth and Chicago showing the masked executioners at work. The videos had all gone viral, with the media replaying them endlessly.

Major Jackson wished the cowards would face real military men head-on. No marine worth his salt would consider terrorists anything but cowards. It didn’t matter what loudmouth TV hosts said about their abilities. No one could stand against a well-trained marine unit. He wished the marines would be unleashed on them one day soon. That would end this shit quickly. Those limp dicks in Washington never acted, they only reacted, and the assholes from the so-called Islamic State had them reacting all over the place. It felt like the United States had stripped NATO of soldiers in an effort to refocus on the Middle East.

The rapid deployment force they’d been setting up to respond if the Baltics or other NATO members were attacked by Russia was a year behind schedule. Jackson wondered if the current administration was just pushing it off until a new administration took office. That would be the easiest thing to do, but maybe not the smartest. He had hoped the Russian annexation of Crimea would’ve woken people up to the real threats in the world.

He stood and took in the activity on the street in front of him. Typical tourist and light vehicle traffic moved casually down the street, reminding him of his hometown of Sacramento. The Germans had proven to be a friendly people who seemed to appreciate the U.S. military presence, at least where Major Jackson had been.

He noticed a Mercedes step van ease toward the main gate, the driver obviously listening to someone sitting behind him. The major wasn’t one for profiling—he’d seen it by the California Highway Patrol back home and been a victim of it—but the young man with dark hair driving the van caught his attention. He turned and stepped toward the gate, calling out to the corporal on duty and the PFC sitting inside the monitoring booth directly behind the gate.

Then it happened. Just like he’d seen in training. He’d even witnessed it live once in Afghanistan. The driver popped out of the van with an AK-47 in his hand. Major Jackson did not hesitate. He sprang forward as the corporal brought up his M-4 carbine. The major was reaching under his coat to grip his M-9 pistol.

The passenger door opened, and men started pouring out as if they were a SWAT team.

Major Jackson screamed at the corporal, “Fire that weapon, marine,” as he brought his pistol’s sights on target. He noted that the first man had a small machine pistol that looked like a TEC-9, and another carried a German assault rifle. They also moved like men who knew their objective and had trained for it.

Major Jackson heard a shot and saw the corporal stumble back and collapse onto the ground, his neck spurting bright red blood. He squeezed off two quick shots and dropped the man who had fired the assault rifle. He acquired the next target and fired twice more. The man flopped onto the wide sidewalk.

Now the four remaining men rushed the gate. Gunfire came from the booth as the PFC joined the fight.

A huge flash came from the rear of the van, and the major immediately recognized it as a rocket-propelled grenade. He’d seen enough of them in the mountains of Afghanistan. He dove away from the security booth and rolled toward a heavy potted plant designed to keep a vehicle from coming through the gate toward the building.

He felt the bone-rattling explosion an instant before the rubble of the booth filled the air around him. Shards of glass struck his exposed leg. He ignored the pain and popped up over the metal reinforced planter and fired at the man closest to the gate. The short man had slapped a plastic explosive on the lock. The explosive detonated early, causing the man to disintegrate into a red mist as the gate was blown off its tracks, allowing the last three terrorists inside the compound.

Major Jackson rolled and took aim, killing another attacker and then scanning the area to see if the PFC from the booth was dead. The bloody uniform twenty feet away indicated that he was.

The rifleman on the roof was now firing, but without much effect.

Another group of three men piled out of the back of the van and charged the gate. It was lost, but Major Jackson knew it was his job to hold as long as possible. He reloaded with his extra magazine of 9 mm because he had lost count of his shots.

He raised the pistol from a prone position and managed to hit the two men inside the gate, then turned his attention to the next group.