William Weber - Turning the Tide

Overhead, it circled the battlefield, raining death upon the enemy with pinpoint precision. A company of Russian infantry that tried to take shelter under the overpass were obliterated by two shells from the Howitzer. The trail of fire flowed west along the entire Russian column. Soon the few support vehicles that were left turned and fled back north.

From there John took a deep breath and ordered his remaining troops to clear any remaining enemy troops from the suburbs.

“Major Donaldson gives you his best,” the pilot said over John’s walkie.

“Tell him when this is all over, I’m buying each one of you a beer.”

The pilot laughed. “Roger that.”

John scanned the air and saw the AC-130 head west, presumably back to base. He was about to give the order to move all the wounded into a makeshift triage area when Reese came over the walkie.

“I hope you’re sitting down, Colonel.”

“Reese, I’m glad to hear you’re still alive.”

“Not for long. I’ve got a line of Russian armor as far as the eye can see heading our way.”

John felt his entire world drop out from under him. “What?”

“Those Russkies who hit us just now, well, they musta been the forward tip of a much larger force.” Reese paused and John could tell he was fishing in his pocket for what was likely his final cigarette. “Should we order a retreat?”

“How long do we have?”

“Hard to say. Maybe ten minutes before first contact.”

He thought of Gregory and Brandon. Were they all right? His duties as a father and his duties as a commander pulled him in two competing directions.

A moment later Reese was back on the radio. “Colonel, I got a second massive formation heading in from the east.”

The game was up. The Chinese were trying to break out of the American encirclement. Now it seemed it was John and his men’s turn to be crushed between two irresistible hammer blows.

An orderly retreat was out of the question. The only hope for any of them at this point was to disperse and melt into the surrounding area. With any luck, at least some of them would make it back to Oneida. Or whatever would be left of it.

“Wait a minute,” Reese said. “You may wanna hold that order.”

“What do you see?”

“Those aren’t the Chinese coming from the east. Those are our boys.”

John found a better vantage point and scanned through his binoculars. But Reese was only partially right. What was approaching was the tip of the NATO spear. John swung to the left and saw that the Russian force was now about five miles away.

The sound of approaching aircraft filled the air. Flying low to the ground, a dozen A-10 Warthogs roared over them and John plugged his ears from the deafening noise. Close behind them was a group of Apache gunships. Thick clouds of black smoke soon appeared as the Russian column was torn to shreds. The carnage went on right up until the long line of NATO armored vehicles reached the interstate junction John and his men had been ordered to hold. He gave Moss a final check before he climbed down to greet them.

Many of the fighters who’d been defending the strip came out from cover, staggering toward the approaching troops as though part of a mirage. Many of the soldiers had bloody bandages wrapped over their heads or arms. Others had improvised, using pieces torn from their uniforms to stem a bleeding wound.

To the north, loud detonations continued as the Russian vehicles were devastated by American airpower.

John turned to the lieutenant. “Find out if my sons are all right, will you?” He didn’t want to stumble onto what was left of them if the unthinkable had happened.

The lieutenant ran off just as a Humvee rolled up along the shoulder of the highway and pulled to a stop. Beside it, the long row of tanks and fighting vehicles continued to roll past, among them M1A2s, the British Challenger 2 and German Leopard 2.

The Humvee door swung open and an older officer in fatigues stepped out. John spotted five stars running down the center of his uniform and the name on his chest: Dempsey.

John and the others stiffened and saluted.

Cool and collected, Dempsey returned the gesture. “Where’s General Brooks?”

John’s eyes fell. “He didn’t make it, sir. Neither did Colonel Higgs.”

The general shook his head, scanning over John’s shoulder to the sound of exploding enemy armor. “I can’t tell you how sorry I am to hear that. I won’t lie to you, Colonel, things were touch and go for a while back there. At first the Chinese refused to fully commit to the attack. Our center line must have been pushed back thirty miles before they were all in. If any of those Russian reinforcements had shown up, it would have tipped the scale in the enemy’s favor. We owe you all a debt of gratitude.”

Just then John’s walkie came to life. “Colonel, the Russians are retreating.”

Everyone present cheered, hugging each other, some shaking their weapons above their heads.

Hearing Reese’s message must have made something click in the general’s head. “Colonel Mack?” Dempsey asked, surprised.

“Yes, sir.”

“I expected you to be taller.”

John and the others around him smiled. “If I may,” John replied, “I expected you to be younger.”

Now they both laughed.

The armored column slowed to allow Brandon, Gregory and the lieutenant who found them to cross the highway. When he saw them, John fell on his knees and hugged them both.

“Are you hurt?”

They shook their heads. Gregory’s hands were bandaged. “What happened?”

“One of the tanks near us was hit by a rocket and Gregory ran in to pull the driver out,” Brandon said.

John ruffled Gregory’s hair.

“I did what anyone else would have done,” his son said, trying to hide the surge of pride.

When they noticed General Dempsey standing before them they both stood at attention and saluted.

“At ease, soldiers. You did a fine job.” Dempsey waved his hands over the men gathered before him. “I’m awarding each and every one of you a Silver Star.”

“That’s a great honor,” John replied. “We do have quite a few wounded in need of attention.”

“Yes, of course.” Dempsey ordered his men to assemble the wounded and medics to care for them.

A squadron of F-22 Raptors roared over them as the soldiers below fanned out over the ravaged battlefield, searching for those in need of medical attention.

John was about to follow suit when General Dempsey pulled him aside.

“We intend to push them all the way back to the sea,” Dempsey said. “You do realize that?”

“I expect our boys will chase them all the way home,” John replied.

The general took John by the shoulders. “I could use someone like you, John. I know your rank was only intended to be a temporary measure, but I need someone with guts who can replace General Brooks.”

“I’m humbled by the offer, sir,” John began.

“But you’re going to turn it down.”

His hands fell to his sides. “I’ve served my country whenever she’s asked me to.”

“No need to explain, John. I understand. I’m only sorry you won’t be there with us when we march through the streets of Beijing.”

The two men saluted one last time and John was suddenly aware he was living through a historic moment, one he would tell his grandchildren about years from now.

General Liang’s headquarters at Berry Field near Nashville was in full panic mode. Officers rushed to destroy sensitive material in the face of the advancing Americans. Liang sat at his desk, smoking a Cuban cigar, a present from Fidel himself during a diplomatic trip to the island in the spring of 2007. The rich aroma and spiderwebs of white smoke filled the room.