William Weber - Turning the Tide

John felt that familiar twitch in his belly. “I was hoping you’d have a suggestion.”

“I appreciate your confidence, Colonel. We can always employ the old pheasant-hunting tactic.”

“Enlighten me,” John said, intrigued.

“A sniper trick used by the Russians in Stalingrad. They’d identify a German command post, send in a few mortars in to loosen things up and when the German commander and his lieutenants came scrambling out, they’d drop ’em dead.”

“The rest of you get that?” John asked the team.

They replied in the affirmative.

“But watch your fire. I wanna do everything we can to avoid American casualties. Your main targets are the special ops troops in black camo and the People’s Liberation Army soldiers. Leave the Americans to me.”

And with that John called in three high explosive rounds on top of the store.

The first round fell short about ten yards to the left, destroying four rusted hulks still in the parking lot. A black puff of smoke rose up from the impact site. Since the store was in visible range for the mortar team, they immediately adjusted their fire. Seconds later the next round struck the roof. The detonation echoed off the surrounding homes. A yellow and orange gout of flame rose up from the roof. Right away, a handful of Chinese troops came swarming out of the improvised barracks.

“I got tangos all kinds,” Reese called out. “But it’s hard to tell the Americans from the Chinese.”

Two special forces soldiers emerged and John and Moss engaged them right away. Both dropped before they knew what hit them. But now the enemy could see where the rounds were coming from.

“Colonel, two more spooks just came out the back of the store,” the rear team reported.

“Take them out,” John shouted back.

The sound of gunfire erupted all around them.

Reese, positioned in the upstairs of an abandoned house, had knocked out a few panes of glass which he used as a loophole. He’d even positioned a filter screen to help mask his position. Even someone staring directly at his location would never know he was deep inside the room.

A muffled report from Reese’s Remington sounded a second later, followed by another special ops soldier dropping in the parking lot.

“Send in two more mortar rounds,” John called over the walkie. “Place these toward the back of the store. We wanna send them all out the front.”

John used his binoculars, scanning over the small clusters of Chinese troops firing back at them from behind rusted cars in the parking lot. They had the sun in their eyes, which explained why many of the shots were zipping over the heads of Alpha team. That was when John spotted a group of Americans. Ten soldiers, huddled behind a row of shopping carts. Their weapons were at the low ready, but they weren’t firing.

“I need to get closer,” John told the others. “Cover me.”

Before Moss could stop him, John high-crawled out from cover and worked his way toward the parking lot. The sound of AK rounds whizzing by pushed his head lower to the ground. He needed to get into shouting distance. By the time he reached the concrete the rate of fire coming toward them intensified. Some of the special forces were firing from their own concealed positions. The consistent thud from Reese’s suppressed rifle reassured him his men were still firing back.

“Moss, call in some mortar rounds on that clump of trees at the other end of the parking lot. There’s at least one spook back there.”

“Aye, aye.”

Just then came a loud crack as a sniper’s bullet impacted the butt stock of John’s AR. He rolled behind a clump of bushes.

“Reese, we may have a cuckoo on our hands,” John called in over his walkie.

A cuckoo was military slang for a sniper in a tree. During the Second World War many snipers were left behind in this way to cover the retreat of German troops from Russia.

“Scanning,” Reese called back.

Another shot hit the ground by John’s right arm. Pinned down with nowhere to go, it was only a matter of seconds before the next shot finished him off.

Seconds stretched into hours before John caught the silenced report from Reese’s rifle.

“Sniper down,” Reese said. “You were right about finding him in a tree. Saw a dark shape in the leaves of a maple and let him have it.”

With the enemy sniper out of action, John pushed himself up to his knees. The firefight was far from over and bullets were landing all around him. From behind him, Benson’s M249 and Moss’ M4 laid down an impressive volume of covering fire.

Cupping his hands around his mouth, John shouted, “American conscripts! The camp near Jonesboro has been liberated. There’s nothing anyone can do to your families.”

That was when the special forces commander, a red star adorning his helmet, rolled out from behind a nearby car. In that instant, John realized with horror he wasn’t going to have enough time to raise his AR to defend himself. Time slowed and the hatred and determination on the commander’s face left John with the utter conviction he was about to be killed.

Both of his arms swung down by his right side. That was where his assault rifle dangled from a two-point sling. His muzzle was halfway to the target when the commander’s chest exploded. For a moment, his eyes registered surprise and then frustration. There was no third emotion.

The remaining Chinese soldiers rose to flee and were cut down by the American conscripts.

John patted himself, searching for the wound he was sure he’d taken. Finding none, he breathed a deep sigh of relief and looked up to find a group of Americans in strange uniforms standing not ten feet away. Among them was Brandon.

By the time the enemy was cleared out of Jamestown, they’d freed close to sixty American conscripts. The roads in and out of Oneida were still guarded by Chinese roadblocks and so John ordered them to return to town on the same trails through the Scott State Forest they’d used to arrive. The downside was that it would take the men a while to march the fifteen miles home, especially since he’d ordered them to carry as many extra weapons and as much ammo as they could. The rest of the supplies were strapped to the horses.

John left Reese and the other men from Alpha to accompany Brandon and the soldiers back to Oneida while he and Moss went ahead. They were on the cusp of launching a major offensive and preparing everyone on their individual missions and responsibilities would take time.

No sooner had they arrived at the stables in Oneida than a sergeant from the 101st informed them Brooks was looking for them and he wasn’t happy. Of course, the soldier used a far more colorful metaphor involving boiling feces that created a rather vivid and disturbing image in John’s mind.

“Moss, you stay behind and make sure the rest of the Rough Riders sort through their gear. I want everyone ready to go in two hours. And bring the entrenching gear. We’ll likely be digging in the minute we arrive at Colonial Heights.”

“I’m on it.”

John rode his horse through the bustling streets of town. Around him was the ghostly squeal of M1A2 tanks and Bradleys heading through the town’s back streets as they assembled to the east. There weren’t nearly enough vehicles for the thousands who’d be joining them, so many of the infantry would need to head there on foot, a journey which would take many hours of hard marching. As it was, they would be coming up behind the Chinese position and the timing of their advance was critical. If they left before the enemy fell for the ruse and made a concerted push toward the American center line, they risked being caught out in the open and destroyed. If they waited too long, they might let the retreating Chinese escape. Of course everything would hinge on whether the enemy believed the false intel Phoenix was feeding them.