Vengeance

[bacpacker]

Your getting there quick. Fantastic entry to this story.

[The Stig]

Miller's observation about the lack of snow on the roof of the SUV that had been following him proved accurate. Generating enough heat in the expanse of the SUV to keep all the occupants warm meant the rapidly falling snow melted off the roof. Combining that ambient heat with body heat was a telltale sign that six adults likely inhabited the vehicle.

His fear's that they had brought reinforcements proved unfounded.

The six men had parked their SUV near the end of the large driveway into Webb's compound. That it was night, and the weather unpleasant, aided in making their approach unnoticed. That Miller and Dink's family were gone, and the animal moved further away from the house, meant there was even less chance of detection.

Clad in dark colored clothing and sporting rifles, each of them walked with purpose despite trying to minimize the noise they were generating. They all wore street clothes, but the clothes had a distinctive military flavor to them. All of them were muscular, sported close cropped hair and were clearly in shape. They would have blended into a crowd but they would have still been distinct from the average working stiffs in the crowd.

As they faced Webb's house they were presented with a large tool-shed to the left of the home, a barn structure about seventy yards to the right, and an even bigger barn structure behind that. Directly in-front of the home were as many as four vehicles, all large 4x4 trucks, parked around the gravel circular driveway.

What the hit-squad didn't realize, and could have never known, was that Webb's house was constructed unlike any other ranch home in the state. Possibly the country. Gaps between wall-studs had been reinforced with blankets of Kevlar material. While unable to stop high-powered rifle rounds, they would be slowed dramatically and their effective force greatly reduced. Pistol rounds would be rendered impotent. The windows, strategically positioned to provide better fields of fire, had been coated with shatter resistant film. They wouldn't stop bullets, but they'd prevent windows from bursting into thousands of deadly projectiles.. More importantly, unless a window had been completely compromised by repeated bullet impacts, hand thrown objects, like flash-bang grenades, would simply deflect off the surface.

Building materials were chosen for their durability under attack. The half-wall separating the kitchen and living-room had been constructed from natural rocks. Both ascetically pleasing and bullet resistant, it transformed the cooking area into a pseudo pill-box.

Even the hallways were laid out so that there were no blind spots and any attackers would be forced into disadvantageous positions that would expose them to return fire.

While it seemed like something off a movie set, each of these defenses were well thought out, practical and ultimately financed by the generosity of Webb.


****


The hit-team leader directed his men to assault the house in a straightforward fashion: two men from the rear, one man from each side and two from the front. He would cut the power to the house and use the element of surprise to the overwhelm the targets.

To keep their noise signature to a minimum all of the men carried suppressed weapons; some MP5's, some AR15s.

The plan had been going off without a hitch until one of the men knocked over a large piece of sheet-metal that had been resting against the side of a barn structure. The screech of metal sliding against metal, along with the crash as the panel landing on top of other building materials seemed like a cannon in contrast to the sound of the falling snow.

Realizing they'd compromised themselves, the team pushed forward without pausing. Their skills had been honed to the point that operational setbacks did not deter them from the mission. The assigned man quickly cut the power to the home and the team prepared to make entry.

“All teams go,” called the team leader into his radio microphone.

On the signal the men quickly launched into their assigned tasks.

Their plan quickly unraveled as the rear team prepared to crash in the rear door. Most entry doors in U.S. homes are flimsy affairs: deadbolts only extend fractions of inches into the latch and door-jams are not reinforced. Even the construction of the door leaves much to be desired.

None of those situations applied to Webb's doors. He had them specially built with reinforced door panels to resist battering rams, door jams were actually made from angle iron and the latches constructed from a special high-strength steel. While not impregnable, the doors would take significant abuse before giving away to an attacker.

But all of those precautions would prove unnecessary.

As the lead man stowed his weapon, rared back and prepared to crash through the doorway, Dink, watching from a concealed position inside the home, signaled Webb at the door. As the intruder's momentum barreled forward Webb yanked opened the door. Having nothing to stop his momentum, the attacker simply crashed through the doorway and he fell to the ground with a loud exclamation.

Inside the house Webb expertly grabbed the intruders jacket pulled him completely inside and slammed door shut and flipped the lock before the attacker could recover. Dink, quickly subdued the man in a crude but effective manner: he broke his neck with a swift jerk to the side and dropped the man to the floor like discarded trousers.

The backup man, left momentarily stunned by watching his partner fall though the doorway, recovered by pumping nearly a full magazine of 9mm rounds into the door as he backed up to put distance between him and the home. He hoped to regroup and regain the initiative on the occupants of the house who were clearly not overwhelmed by surprise.

In a normal tactical situation, putting distance between yourself and an attacker is a sound decision borne out by thousands upon thousands of engagements. That distance translates into more time to act and that time can be the difference between life and death.

In this situation, in the dark, cold and snowy Wyoming night, it was the exact wrong decision. Webb, who was smart enough to move away from the door, saw the man through his night-vision as if he was standing in a brightly lit room, naked for all to see. He calmly lined the red-dot of his electronic sight on the man's chest and pulled the trigger. His AR15 launched a quick succession of five rounds of 5.56x45 rounds, all of which crashed into the attacker's chest. Though the green-gray picture of his goggles Webb watched the man fall backwards into the thick blanket of snow.

Webb didn't stay to watch the blood stain the virginal white snowdrift.

“Dammit” exclaimed Webb.

“You hit?” asked Dink, obvious concern in his voice. His eyes quickly scanned up and down Webb's body looking for any sign of wounds.

“No,” said Webb looking at the 5 neat holes in the glass window looking out towards the backyard. “I just cleaned those yesterday.”

[The Stig]

The situation was going equally poorly for the team at the front of the home.

“Go, go, go” the team-leader called out to his partner as he patted his shoulder as a signal to move forward. They had been crouched behind the truck closest to the front door of the home. Quickly they moved forward in tandem, negotiated the decorative flower pots and other assorted yard debris and prepared to make an entry of their own.

Using another standard entry tactic, the team-leader prepared to hurl an M84 flash-bang grenade though the front picture window. The flash-bang, designed to stun people into submission used 170 decibels of noise and intense bright light to achieve it's goals. When thrown into a room, even a larger one like Webb's living-room, occupants would be blinded, disoriented and generally rendered unable to repel attackers.

Stepping back, pulling the pin and raring back, the team-leader threw the grenade as hard as he could at the picture window and prepared to follow his man though the front entrance to the home.

He watched, in slow motion, as the grenade harmlessly bounced off the window and landed squarely at his feet. Before he could react both men were bombarded by the noise and light of the device and thrown into complete disarray. Bludgeoned by the tidal-wave of disorientation the men promptly reverted from hunters to hunted.

Miller, who watched the scene unfold from inside the safety of the home, averted his eyes in time to avoid the bright flash of light. Gritting his teeth against the overwhelming noise, he threw the front door open and unleashed three shells of twelve-gauge buckshot into the two men in rapid succession. The men, shredded by the point-blank shotgun blasts, fell to the ground in piles of bone, blood and torn flesh.

They were dead before the sound of the flash-bang faded away.

****

As the brief gunfight erupted amongst the serene landscape the clash of men and sounds of death were jarring against the never-ending silent cascade of snow. Large flakes, in trillions of patterns fell to the earth at such a pace that the body of the man Webb shot had already started to disappear under the fluffy blanket.

Making the calculation that one man each was approaching the side of the home, Webb and Dink carefully eased out the backdoor and prepared to fend off what they hoped would be the last of the attacking men.

Ensuring no other intruders lurked outside the door, Dink eased out and to the right while Webb broke left. Glancing quickly at each other in a signal of “good luck” both men pushed forward on their hunt to eradicate the last of the hit-team.

****

The man who had been approaching from the right side of the home moved forward well after the teams at the front and rear of the home began their assaults. After knocking over the sheet-metal panel that had given away the element of surprise, he then became entangled in a strand of barbed wire that Dink had casually left in preparation for a project. Covered by the snow the man hand not seen the danger until it was too late and his leg was hopelessly entangled in the wire.
A lack of luck had conspired against the man to turn his day into a complete mess.

After freeing himself, he moved towards the house at such an angle that he witnessed the debacle at the front door. He even reflexively dove to the ground as Miller unleashed twenty-seven pellets from his shotgun. He was wise to do so as a number of the projectiles had whizzed by at an unnervingly close distance.

Quickly jumping up, and regaining his balance over the situation, the assassin paused to weigh his options. Hearing the shots at the back of the home, followed by silence, and seeing the team massacred at the font, he did the battlefield calculus and determined that a hasty retreat was probably the better of the options.

Using the darkness of the compound to his advantage, he quickly side-stepped back towards the barn. Snow, caked to the front of his body sloughed off like dead skin cells as he tried to move quickly through the deep snow. His luck, already abysmal, continued to conspire against him. Reasoning that the threat of the man with the shotgun outweighed the unknown threat at the rear of the house, he positioned his back towards the later and focused on the former.

He almost made it to the relative cover of the barn where all his problems had started. Just before he did, however, Dink emerged from the corner of the house. Seeing the man clearly though his night-vision goggles, he calmly and accurately shot the man.

The life of the contract killer came to a violent end in a snowdrift in Wyoming.

[The Stig]

“Holt shit” thought the last remaining hit-team member as he scampered back to the relative safety of the tool shed. He had just cleared the structure as Webb quickly dropped out around the corner of the house.

It was only his quick thinking and situational awareness that had saved him. His side of the house had several windows but no doors. He had quickly covered the distance to the house and taken a position directly next to it as the assault had begun. However having no doors to easily access, he had planned to either force his way though a window, or preferably wait for one of the other teams to gain access and then follow in behind them.

It was one of the few times that being lazy paid off.

Experienced enough to know that events were spiraling out of control by the sounds of the conflict, he chose discretion over valor and retreated to behind the small shed.

****

Webb scanned the expanse of yard and seeing the foot-tracks in the snow it didn't take much to calculate that one of the hit-team was behind the shed. He also quickly realized his options were somewhat limited. Rushing the shed placed himself in grave danger as he'd be exposed for a long period of time before reaching the shed. Even if he made it, and the other man chose not to shoot him, Webb still had to round the corner of the shed. The other man would see him long before Webb could get into a position to shoot.

He could chose to move straight away from the house and deeper into the backyard. In doing so he would be able to use the angle between himself and the shed to minimize his exposure. The drawback would be that if the man chose to pop-out from his position Webb would again be exposed.

It would then boil down to which man was faster on the trigger.

Since his remaining option was to do nothing, he began walking nearly sideways, moving four or five feet straight out from the back of the house for every one foot he moved forward towards the shed. His feet crunching in the snow, he watched though the grainy green-gray goggles, straining to see any sign of movement or indication of his opponent's position.

After he covered fifteen yards away from the back of the house, he increased how far towards the shed he moved, again making sure the angle between him and the corner of the shed would afford him some limited protection.

****

Fighting to maintain his composure, and control his breathing, the sole remaining team member, knew he was in trouble. Straining to hear over the wind and his own lungs, he began to faintly hear the sound of footsteps trudging through the heavy snow.

To his dismay he realized he couldn't tell exactly where the sound originated. He thought it was his right side, the side towards the back of the house, but he couldn't be sure. The fear began to play tricks on him.

As the anxiety level rose with each passing second, the man finally convinced himself that his opposition was approaching from the side of the shed facing the rear of the home. Ensuring that his rifle's safety catch wasn't engaged, he quickly weighted his options. Thinking quickly he reasoned that he could rapidly move around the other side of the shed, the side facing the front of the property, come back around the front side of the shed and catch the other man out in the open.

Within a fraction of a second he began moving towards the corner of the shed facing the front side of the yard.

****

After a quick dash around the side yard buildings to ensure there weren't any other attackers, Dink returned to the body of the man he had shot. Kneeling in the snow, and remaining vigilant for any other assailants, he retrieved the man's wallet and other contents of his pockets. Glancing down at the man's attire something caught his attention. He couldn't place it; the clothes were all common American labels but something wasn't quite right. The dead man's hair was close cropped and his stubble, while attempting to appear unruly had a certain manicured quality to it. His weapon, a suppressed MP5 sub-machine gun with an Aimpoint mounted electronic sight bore testimony to the expense someone had gone to to outfit the team.

Deciding he'd spent enough time in the open, along with feeling the effects of the cold though his thin shirt, Dink bid a hasty retreat inside the home to examine his findings.

****

“I'm going to pull this off” thought the remaining gunman as he prepared to turn the corner from the side of the shed. He'd quickly drop out from behind the corner of the shed and face the open ground between the house and the front of the shed.

It was there he'd catch his opponent off guard.

When humans are stressed hundreds of physiological changes happen, all programmed through millions of years of evolution; blood is shunted to the core of the body, breathing shallows, adrenaline is released. All of these traits, and more, are designed with one central purpose in mind: survival. In search of an edge to flee or fight an adversary these particular traits became part of our hard-wiring.

As the gunman turned the corner, it became all too clear that he'd forgotten the lessons of human physiology and overlooked a fundamental trap common to those under stress. Fighter pilots call it “target fixation”; they become so focused on one target, they fail to see or respond to any other targets outside their direct line of sight.

He looked up just in time to see Miller, pressed against the back of the shed, shotgun leveled at his chest. Miller had dashed into position after seeing the man disappear behind far side of the shed, and Webb begin his chase.

Reflexively, the man shouted out, “don't shoot”.

The response, perfectly normal given the circumstances took Miller completely by surprise.

The man had yelled out in a foreign language.

For a fraction of a second, his brain raced to identify the language the man spoke. Millions of neurons fired throughout his brain in a desperate attempt to process the sound while deciding what to do next.

Seeing Miller's momentary pause the hit-team member, staring down certain death, saw a slim opening to act. All of his years of training and skills would all boil down to being able to raise his MP5 a fraction of an inch and pull the trigger before Miller could recover and respond in kind. The wheels spun at a frantic pace trying to calculate the odds.

All the effort was a waste.

Miller pulled the trigger and nine thirty caliber buckshot pellets exploded into the gunman's chest sending him spinning to the ground in a haze of bloody mist and gun-smoke.

****

“What the hell was that” yelled out Webb as he slammed down his rifle. “Who the hell are these guys?”. Webb, not often given to bursts of emotion, was enraged that men would dare to invade his private property. His home.

“This stuff is all useless,” declared Dink after examining the contents of the men's pockets. Years of experience as a Sheriff's Deputy taught him that the collection of drivers licenses, credit cards, scraps of paper, money and even library cards were all likely fakes. Tossing it all onto the counter into one big heap, he continued, “this is all just window dressing. Probably all faker than a Hollywood starlet’s chest.”

“That doesn't do much for us. These guys were trained. Miller, you said that. Look at how they assaulted the house. Sure, we got lucky, but a few things go their way and we're dead meat.” Webb stood in the corner trying to process the events of the past few minutes.

“Something ain't right about those guys,” said Dink as he too contemplated how a full-blown hit-squad had just attacked them.

“Besides the bullet holes?” playfully asked Webb.

A momentary smile flashing across his face, Dink replied, “Besides that. Their clothes. They were pretty standard American high-fashion military chic. High laced boots, BDU pants, heavy jackets, ball caps, the works. Something was off,” Dink said trailing off.

“Well, what is it?” asked Webb as he paced about the kitchen.

“Beats me son.”

“Eastern European” called out Miller who had been studying a piece of identification retrieved from one of the men. “They were dressed like American's but with an Eastern European flair”.

“Damn boy, I think you're right. Sorta like Euro-trash meets GI Joe.”

Webb, beginning to get himself under control, asked, “how do you get that? They're riddled with bullets or buckshot and none of them are wearing something that says, “I got this shitty T-shirt in Romania”

Without looking up from the identification card, Miller said, “Ukrainian”.

Webb and Dink exchanged glances as Miller continued, “They are from the Ukraine, not Romania. The last guy, by the shed, yelled out “don't shoot” in Ukrainian when I startled him. One of those involuntary things I guess, to speak your mother tongue when you've got a shotgun in your chest.”

Dink, quizzically looked across the room at Miller. “Well Mr. Smarty Pants, how did you know what he said was Ukrainian?”

“Oh....” said Miller as he stood up from the couch, “I spent some time there once. Sort of an exchange program for wayward youth.”

[bacpacker]

Nice Chapters Stig! Thanks

[The Stig]

“It ain't good boss,” said Saxon to his commanding officer, Captain Mike DeMetrie.

Saxon's team, all piled into DeMetrie's cramped office had successfully extricated themselves from enemy territory after the long reconnaissance mission. The four men, tired and filthy dirty, longed for sleep and a warm shower but knew that the Captain wanted to know the details of their mission right away.

They didn't mind, they all admired the Captain and regarded him the best commanding officer they'd ever had. For some he had been their only one, but for others, being the best of the bunch meant something.

Having already shared the pertinent operational details DeMetrie liked for his men to offer honest assessments of a given situation in their own words. It helped him to see the men's eyes and judge their belief in a particular course of action. He still called the shots, of that there was no doubt, but his desire to hear the soldier's opinions was part of why they respected his leadership.

“Captain,” offered up Sargent Lowry, “It ain't good. They've been pouring resources into that camp like crazy. Men, vehicles, supplies. Looks like they mean to run some serious operations out of there.”

“And the ratio of Peacekeepers to regular guys has to be four to one,” offered up Reynolds.

After hearing Dickerson and Saxon's views, which echoed the other men, the Captain said, “I agree, they intend to use that base for real. Caddy, opinions?”

Caddy, the oddball in the unit had earned the respect of all his peers. Despite his age he pulled his weight and brought an experience and different viewpoint to the rest of the team that added a new dimension. Reyonlds and Lowry had spent a long time in the field with him, and already trusted him, but Saxon and Dickerson didn't take long to warm to his charm.

Chewing on a short, unlit cigar, Caddy, after thinking for a few seconds said, “that camp is a pimple on the ass of progress. I'd say we better pop it sooner rather than later.”

Lowry, usually the class-clown exclaimed, “outstanding!”.

The Captain nodded in agreement. “Ok boys, get some chow, clean-up and shuteye. I've got other teams coming back in to debrief. Start thinking about some plans and we'll pop Caddy's ass boil tomorrow.”

****


It had been a long night. Webb, Dink and Miller had spent the rest of the evening enacting the contingency plans they had often practiced but never thought they'd actually need to carry out. Two of the men worked while the other stood guard, on lookout for more men attempting to kill them.

Originally they planned to leave as soon as possible after the attack, but as the minutes and hours crept by it was clear a second attack would not be happening that night. Also, they didn't want to leave in such a rush that a secondary team could ambush them outside their compound.

All of the trucks had been fueled, while one of them had been loaded with basic gear. Depending on what course of action they chose, they had other gear ready to load into other trucks at a moment's notice.

Tossing a backpack into a small pile of gear in the middle of the living-room, Dink commented, “Well ain’t this some shit? A Ukrainian hit-squad in the middle of this god-forsaken ice-box to come get little old us?”

“Maybe they wanted to tap into your world-renown knowledge of shitty beer and pizza?” offered up Webb.

Giving a slight over-dramatized bow, Dink fired back, “In addition to my many other talents, I am also equally revered for my ability to look good in a t-shirt and flip-flops.”

“Webb, did you make contact your brother?” asked Miller, clearly focused on their response to the attack.

Looking up from his sandwich and behind the kitchen half-wall, Webb responded. “Yes. He's going to keep the girls up there with him. The only people who know about their location are in this room so that's better than bringing them back here.”

Dink, “How in the hell did this place get compromised?”

It was a valid question. The children hadn't ever communicated with anybody outside the family, the wives were trusted beyond reproach and the men had been vigilant against security breaches.

“Were they some of your old buddies?” asked Webb. The question, clearly pointed at Miller.

Looking up from the small radio he had been fine tuning Miller replied, “Could be, I suppose, but that was a lifetime ago. Why would they show up now? Especially here? They could have dropped into Mississippi anytime they wanted.”

“So we're sticking with the main plan?” asked Dink of how two friends. Knowing they couldn't stay at the ranch, the men would head out by truck and eventually link back up with the wives in Idaho. Webb was right, they were far safer there and Miller had no connection to their location in the event his past was returning to haunt him.

“For now” was all Miller said.

The room fell silent as all three men continued their short break before finishing their final preparations to leave. Webb was particularly sullen as he took responsibility for the security breach because he and his brother had brought in his friends to this supposed place of refuge.

All three nearly jumped out of their skin when Miller's phone rang.

Dink and Webb exchanged glances when Miller's brown furrowed after looking at the number. It was a number he hadn't seen in a long time, from a lifetime ago.

But it was the location from where the call originated that concerned him the most.

[The Stig]

“Look sharp Devil Dog” came the booming voice over the phone.

Smiling Miller responded, “Roger that Papa”

Dink and Webb again exchanged glances after hearing Miller's reference to Papa. Webb simply shrugged his shoulders to indicate he'd never heard the name before.

“Sorry to bother you son, but I just got information you need to know about. Damn the dickheads in DC for taking their sweet ass time about it getting it to me. Those guys are as useful as a trapdoor in a canoe.”

Miller hadn’t forgotten about Papa's open disdain for the Washington establishment. It was rare when one of their conversations didn't include some form of verbal abuse for the carer bureaucrats.

“I see they are still driving you batty.”

The booming voice again rocketed though the cell signal, “You got that right. Here's the situation: those peckerheads in DC let your buddy Donovan escape. Something about a snafu during a prisoner transport. Sounds like a monkey fucking a football to me.”

Miller wanted to laugh but the mention of Miles Donovan, the Senator who had held the Southern District hostage and had thousands killed or jailed, had his attention. Miller had played a central role in bringing him to justice and allowing President Alan to regain control of the south.

“He's been rotting in a cell in West Virginia,” continued Papa, “but for some reason they felt the need to bring him back to DC. I'm trying to get a handle on on the details but he's been out for nearly two weeks. I just found out this morning, but as soon as I heard I figured you needed to know.

“Thank you sir,” said Miller before he briefly detailed the hit-squad's visit to the ranch.

“Sonofabitch didn't waste any time. Listen Devil Dog, I need your help with this one. Donovan's whereabouts are unknown but rumor has it he's struck a deal with Crutchfield. At least that is what the weenies in DC told me.” Miller could imagine the look of disgust on Papa's face as he shared the information.

“Papa, listen. I've been out a while do you really want me on this? I'd figure the President has all sorts of fancy black-ops groups he could send after Donovan. Hell, Mack's probably sitting around playing cards somewhere,” offered up Miller.

Mack and Miller has started working for Papa at roughly the same time. Mack, plucked from a US Marshals training class, had become fast friends with Miller. They had worked together many times and rapidly became Papa's star pupils but the two men had fostered a friendly rivalry that both seemed willing to resume at a moments notice.

After Papa stopped laughing he said, “Mack's busy but as soon as he's done I'll send him your way. The President's up to his ass in alligators right now. That cocksucker Crutchfield launched another offensive and the President's boys are all wetting their pants over that. No resources are going to be diverted for an escapee of limited value. No, if you want him you'll have to go get him.”

“Sir,” Miller started to protest.

“Listen son, I don't ask for favors much, but I need one. All my other boys are spoken for and I need a team I can trust right now. Besides, as long as this Donovan shitstain is running around, your family isn't safe. You'll be back in and I'll get whatever resources you need.”

Dink and Webb watched Miller as they pretended to be ignoring him. They could see his wheels spinning as he contemplated Papa's offer.

“What can you tell me about these Peacekeepers sir?” asked Miller.

The President had opted to keep the news channels and internet as open as was practically possible. While there was a censor board created, to much hue and cry, they only exercised their power to protect operational details to protect the soldiers. Through these reports Miller heard about the Peacekeepers, working under the auspices of the United Nations, that had interjected themselves into Americans internal problem.

Papa, realizing that this was Miller's way of saying he'd agree to help, replied, “almost entirely Russian but some other tin-horn countries mixed in. The Russian's are mostly out in the West, in Ohio and Indiana. After the double ass-kicking Crutchfield took in Kentucky he's letting the more non-traditional forces fight the battles out there while he fights back east. The Peacekeepers are helping augment their force.”

“Which Russian states?” asked Miller.

“The usual suspects,” replied the expansive voice from the other end of the call. “Including a lot of your old friends might I add.”

Laughing, “swell,” was all Miller said. “You say most of them are in Ohio?”

“Yea. Mostly in and around Cincinnati. Word on the street is they are going to start doing some cross-boarder shit into Kentucky.” After a slight pause the older man continued, “Listen, I gotta fly Devil Dog. What do you need from me?”

Thinking quickly Miler replied with his shopping list. “Need to know how to contact you and starter kit. I've got gear and sidekicks”

“Good. Done. Use your last access code. I'll reactivate it for you to get what you need and then burn it. New ones will be in the cache.” Using the same set of information a second time was a huge departure from normal procedure but Papa was right; the chances that a counter-security team would be sitting on that location, and that time and on that frequency were a billion to one.

“Oh, and one more thing Papa,” said Miller. “Call the local Sheriff and smooth things over with him?”

“Why am I always cleaning up your mess?” said Papa after a booming fit of laughter. “Listen Miller. Be careful, this prick has a hard-on for you and if you get jammed up it's like the old days.”

“I know sir. My chestnuts get in the fire, you're going to let them burn,” said Miller with a smile. It's was Papa's odd way of showing affection for his men before sending them on a mission. All of his boys, as he liked to call them, were fairly certain Papa would move heaven and earth to retrieve them if something went wrong on a mission.

Another fit of laughter boomed through the phone. “Good to have you back Devil Dog.”

****

Miller sat in silence for nearly a full minute after ending the call with Papa.

Dink, curiosity getting the best of him, finally broke the silence. “Damn son, that might have been the weirdest phone call I've heard since the time I caught young Webb here on 1-900-EAT-DICK.”

Webb, without looking up, gave Dink the middle-finger.

“I know how they found us. Donovan's escaped.”

The news hit Webb and Dink like a thunderclap.

Thinking to himself Miller replayed his final meeting with a friend that had been helping his fight against the Senator's tyranny several years ago. This friend, a former minister, turned on Miller and ultimately betrayed him to Donovan's security people.

Between the death of the minister, at Miller's hands, the death of the security people at a climatic battle at a grain mill, and the capture of Donovan, the threat to their safety had been eliminated. Donovan's escape changed all that.

Dink, finally recovered from the news asked, “so now what?”

“It would appear we've been deputized.”

For the third time in less than ten minutes, Webb and Dink exchanged glances as they hopelessly tried to figure out what their friend was talking about.

[bacpacker]

Nice chapter. The story is adding up quickly.

[The Stig]

“I agree, it’s not good,” said DeMetrie as he studied the map in front of him.

Saxon and his men had reassembled in DeMetrie's makeshift office to plan how best to deal with the encampment that Crutchfield’s men, supported by Peacekeepers had been building east of Cincinnati. It was an interesting group of men, all with combat experience, who came together to craft a way to deal with the growing danger.

Lowry, never one to be too serious, said, “Why don’t we just bomb the thing out of existence?

DeMetrie, who had worked with Lowry long enough knew better than to acknowledge and thus encourage the Sergeant. If given his wish, and the resources, bombing the camp would be exactly the plan DeMetrie preferred. The chances of getting attack aircraft support was slim and previous attempts to secure it for other missions had fallen on death ears at command.

Artillery was likely out of the question also as the risk of counter-battery fire was to high to risk the limited assets.

“Why don’t we just take up residence in the hills around the camp, Dien Bien Phu style and harass the hell out of them?” suggested Saxon. “If they are going to be so dumb to build the camp in the midst of a wide valley, surrounded by hills, who are we to pass on the opportunity?”

DeMetrie leaning back in his chair thought it over. It was another reasonable suggestion, but it was not without it’s pitfalls. “My main concern with extended operations is they are feeding men into the area so fast that the risk of an engagement goes up. Not that you life takers heartbreakers can’t handle the heat, but a war of attrition with five guys isn’t a great plan.”

“And if we make a bunch of little raids we won’t accomplish much anyway,” agreed Dickerson.

Nodding in agreement the Captain continued, “Right. This needs maximum effect, not harassment raids and the other teams are tied up with other operations so I can’t get you boys any more manpower right now.” DeMetrie would have given anything to get his best team more help.

“I guess that means a full-on assault is out of the question then,” Saxon commented while eating the rest of his pre-packaged MRE meal. Looking down at the paste masquerading as lasagna with a frown he reached for the small tin cup of coffee.

Continuing on he said, “We’re going to have to come up with something crafty here.” Taking a long drink from the coffee he first choked then spit the brownish liquid in the nearest trashcan. “What the hell is that?” as he glared at Lowry.

The Sergeant, known for his pranks, looked up innocently. “Why is it always me people accuse?”

“You have thirteen open packets of sugar next to you dickhead,” said Saxon.

Waving his hand, DeMetrie regained control of the meeting. “Enough clownshoes. Back on task.”

For the next hour the men put together various plans designed at eliminating the camp as a threat to their operations. Ideas were suggested, considered and evaluated one after another yet there was one inescapable fact that couldn’t be ignored.: they were only five men.

“Ok, you men saddle up,” said the Captain. “We’re moving to the next CP so get your gear squared away. I’ll get up to HQ and see if we can raise air-support.” Ultimately, the conclusion had been reached that aircraft was likely the only option available.

In mock protest Lowry said, “Hey, isn’t that what I suggested from the beginning.?”

“Shut your cockholster” was all Saxon said with a smile.

****

As Webb examined internet news stories about the Peacekeepers he still wasn’t sure why Miller had asked him to do what amounted to a research project.

Miller learned long ago that a trip to the library, or some research on-line, often yielded invaluable data. Especially in large metropolitan libraries in big European cities, the amount of data available was astounding. It wasn’t rare to find building layouts, news stories about people of interest, sometimes even information that turned useful in subsequent conversations. The use of these publicly available resources had been a treasure trove for spies for years.

Miller and Dink reorganized and checked the gear to ensure everything was in order and ready for them to depart, that is as soon they figured out where it was they were heading.

“Any luck in here boy?” asked Dink as they took a break from the chore. He cracked open a beer and took a long pull before plopping onto the large overstuffed couch.

Without looking up Webb said, “best I can tell Miller’s info is correct. The Peacekeepers are in the western parts of Crutchfield’s territory, most of them concentrated in Southern Ohio and Indiana. Looks like a counterbalance to the President's special forces types who took up residence in Kentucky after the conventional troops were pulled out.”

Taking a large bite out of a sandwich Dink asked, “And were might these fine, upstanding keepers of the peace hail from?”

“Thanks for the sandwich,” said Webb with irony. “The overwhelming majority are from the Russian Federation of States and most of them are Ukrainian.”

Taking a greatly exaggerated bite from the sandwich and holding it up to indicate it’s great taste, Dink said, “Interesting stuff. Wonder why that is?”

From the doorway Miller, eating a sandwich of his own, said, “a chance to screw with the US would not be passed up by the Russians and I'm sure Crutchfield tripped over himself in the rush to get them brought in.”

“And here I thought they were are friends,” said Webb sarcastically.

Flashing a brief smile, Miller responded. “Let me assure you, the Russian’s have never been our friends. They may have played the game when it benefited them, or been distracted by internal problems, but they’ve never been interested in what is good for the US.”

Dink, from the couch, began humming the instantly recognizable theme to the James Bond series of spy movies.

“How many names did you get from the various stories?” asked Miller ignoring Dink’s reference to his past.

“A bunch. Boychenko, Kotovskiy, Maslovskiy, Baranovskiy, Javorіvskiy, Gladkovskiy, Stahovskiy, Trublayevski, Kirilenko ”

“Say that last one again,” interrupted Miller nearly choking on the salami he’d just eaten.

Double checking the screen to make sure it had it right, Webb said, “Georgy Kirilinko?”

Miller, clearly recognizing the name, asked, “any pictures?”

Crossing the room to the computer in two long strides Miller peered over Webb’s shoulder as the younger man pecked away at the computer keyboard.

“Um….here,” said Webb, turning the monitor so Miller had a better view.

Dink, taking a bite of an apple, “friend of yours?”

Miller reading the story slowly answered, “yes….well. Something like that.”

“What a small world it is.”

The Reuters news story detailed Kirilenko’s entry into the country. He had been described as a “special adviser” to some of the Peacekeeping forces and included some complementary comments by the Russian President and none other than Crutchfield himself.

“Well, what’s the story?” asked the now curious Webb.

Taking a long drink from his water Miller explained his past dealings. “Kirilenko runs a special department of GRU, the Russian military intelligence. His people are responsible for all sorts of black-ops stuff; assassinations, counter-terrorism, keeping tabs on dissidents, the lot. His people are sort of a grab-bag of different skills.”

“Sounds like a swell guy,” said Dink sardonically.

Miller nodded, continuing to give the history lesson as he read the news story on the computer screen. “He rose to prominence in the early 1990's supporting Yeltsin during the attempted coup. Rumor has it he personally led Yeltsin to safety after a group from the Russian Parliament cornered him and began hurling threats. Needless to say this caused his star to rise and from there's it's been full speed ahead.”

Continuing on Miller said, “He spent a lot of time fighting against the Chechen's rebels in the mid and late nineties and from there consolidated his power. He was personally given the task of retribution against them for the terrorist attacks at the Nord-Ost movie theater and Beslan school. His bloody rampage is said to have broken the back of the terrorist cells responsible.”

Webb asked, “so what's this guy been up to lately?”

Miller took a long sip of his drink before replying, “about 2002 or 2003 he went a little rogue and began sourcing out his men on assignments overseas or to those with the money to pay him. Sort of a military contractor firm inside the military. The powers-that-be didn't care for this, of course, but he'd accumulated so much power there was little they could do.”

Dink, feet propped up on the couch asked, “that's a great story boss, but what's he doing over here and what the hell does this have to do with our little party last night?”

Miller, shrugging his shoulders said, “beats me, but I know some friends who can help point us in a direction. How do you boys feel about a quick trip to Texas?”

“Hot damn, Texas. No snow? I'm in,” exclaimed Dink. “Besides, whoever sent our last group of well-wishers is bound to figure out something went wrong and send a followup up team.”

Webb, standing from the computer said, “if they have some lunch I'm game.”

[The Stig]

So far the mission had gone well. Saxon and his men had slipped across the river unobserved and traveled the fifteen miles over the course of two days. As they slowly crawled into position on the hills overlooking the camp the men were rewarded with an impressive view of all their opponents had accomplished.

The wide sweeping valley, formed by a lesser river as it meandered between the hills on it's way to the mighty Ohio, was as much as three or four miles wide in places. Running roughly north to south, the valley floor was sweeping compared to the rolling hills that surrounded it. The position Crutchfield's men chose was near the junction of the beltway around Cincinnati and several major state highways providing them easy access to move troops in and out as well as staging cross-border raids into Kentucky.

Building around the existing large consumer stores and restaurants, the camp had sprung up formed a large blob shape near the center of the valley. With a large box-store anchoring it on the south, and the entrance to the highway on the north the camp had suddenly become a major threat to DeMetrie and his operations. Lined with barbwire fences, sandbags and guard-towers the facility was more than a simple rest-stop. The men had watched for the past few hours as their enemy built new structures, moved supplies into position and maintained a constant vigilance for attackers. Vehicles, like Humvee's and Vodnik's moved about and reinforced various positions, like entrance gates. The camp even had several large areas, clearly kept open for landing helicopters.

This was especially concerning as it allowed the camp to be rapidly reinforced if needed. As if to punctuate the point, they watched a Blackhawk helicopter circle in and land on the field, disgorging it's troops before zooming off again.

As they peered down through their binoculars it was clear that the camp, while not able to withstand armored vehicles, was quite impregnable to lightly armed foot-soldiers like themselves.

Dickerson's voice cracked through the radio headsets, “Time on target in one zero minutes.”

Somehow the Captain had obtained the impossible. The men didn't know how he pulled it off, but four South Carolina Air National guard F-16C fighter bombers had been allocated for the mission. None of them quite believed it, even as they lay facing into the valley from the relative safety of the hills.

Given the luxury of four aircraft, the men had split into two teams, to illuminate two different areas of the camp. Saxon, Reynolds and Caddy were on a hill east of the camp and were responsible to illuminate the large box-store and associated smaller buildings. Lowry and Dickerson were on a hill slightly further north, also on the east side, and planned on illuminating the fuel tanks and other supporting equipment near the middle of the camp.

The four aircraft, split into two, two plane elements were armed with either laser guided munitions or large canisters of cluster bomb units. The aircraft with the laser guided bombs were tasked with striking the pinpoint targets indicated by the laser designators. The subsequent aircraft would streak in to sow a carpet of destruction with cluster bombs. Each canister, designed to separate in flight and release hundreds of tiny bomblets, would decimate an area nearly a football field wide and four fields long. Any soft target like humans, light vehicles, buildings or unarmored equipment would be wrecked beyond use.

While it wouldn't erase the camp from the face of the earth, it would be damaged it beyond the point of being effective. That would buy DeMetrie the time to plan for it's ultimate destruction.

As Saxon peered though the viewfinder of the laser designator, he heard Dickerson's voice again, “Time on target five minutes.”

Hearing this, the men preformed last minute checks to ensure no equipment glitches would interfere with mission.

Dickerson, serving as the forward air controller, worked his radios to communicate with the strike aircraft and his fellow team members. He and Saxon had done this many times before and he soon fell into the odd rhythm that seemed to develop as the airstrike unfolded.

“Time on target zero two minutes. Confirm OPSTAT.”

Soon the voices of Saxon and Lowry came back, “systems online. Green and green.” They confirmed the presence of two green lights, indicating their illumination devices were working properly, and were ready to paint the targets.

Reynolds tried to look up, through the trees covering their position. The last time he'd done this he was in the middleast where it was much flatter and easier to pick up the aircraft in the bright sky. Even then, however, he was never able to spot the aircraft until they streaked past him.

Dickerson's voice again transmitted from the radio, “Time on target zero one minute, illuminate.”

The invisible beams of light sliced through the air like pencils as they pinpointed the exact location where the bombs would fall. Like a magic sign pointing “this way” the bombs would track towards the laser beam and hit within feet of it. Unless someone in the camp was wearing special goggles they would never be able to see the beams or the imminent danger.

As the first group of two aircraft rocketed over the treetops, they traveled from west to east and had the harder part of the mission. They would only be over the target for a fraction of a second and the release of the bombs at the correct point would be crucial for success. The second group of F16's would scream down the valley from north to south and cross over the target a fraction of a second after the lead element dropped their bombs.

The timing was meant to keep the second element of aircraft from flying into the bomb blasts of the first.

In the next few seconds, the camp would be dealt a crippling blow.

****

“I'm parched,” said Dink as the car pulled into a dusty gas station outside of Leander, Texas. They had been driving for two days and the rhythm of the road was slowly taking a toll on all three men.

Yet, the mystery of their journey helped keep Dink and Webb motivated as mile after mile passed behind them.

Miller hadn't said much about why they had to travel southward other than he wanted to meet with someone to get more information on the illusive Kirilenko. He'd been quiet for most of the trip, apparently lost in thought, but Dink and Webb knew enough not to press Miller too hard for information. Much of the trip consisted of joking, idle chit-chat and napping as the men took turns driving.

“It has been fifteen minutes since your last beer” said Webb.

Looking down at his watch in mock disgust, “Son, that is a lifetime.”

****

Holding the laser designator as steady as possible, Saxon peered intently at the intended target. He placed it directly on the center of the roof of an old Wall-Mart store figuring the blast of the bombs would crumple the building and render it useless.

Any second now the jets would dramatically screech overhead, the sound of their engines being blotted out by the explosions a mile further down the hill.

Before this happened, a ear-shattering roar of an anti-aircraft missile launch erupted from the treeline about one thousand yards along the hillside to their left. Saxon nearly jumped and even Caddy, normally the calmest one of the bunch, exclaimed “what the hell?” after being startled. They had no idea they were in such close proximity to an air defense site.

Nearly simultaneously, a low roar, not unlike the sound of a massive zipper being undone, burst from the hill across from them on the opposite side of the valley. A long finger of light, that masked thousands of lead projectiles, traced up through the air and erased the trailing aircraft from the sky in a bright white flash of light.

The lead aircraft banked hard to the left in a desperate attempt to dodge the missile that covered the distance in a fraction of a second. Had the pilot continued straight forward, while releasing counter measures, he stood a good chance of avoiding destruction. The missile had been launched from close to five degrees off straight ahead meaning the chances of a successful hit were the lowest.

The inexperienced anti-aircraft missile crew of the 9K35 Strela-10 got lucky, however, when the pilot pulled his aircraft in a high G turn in a desperate attempt to escape. This exposed the largest portion of the aircraft to the shotgun like missile blast as it detonated a fraction of a second before the first counter-measure decoy flare shot off the back of the aircraft. The aircraft simply disintegrated in a fiery ball of aircraft parts and jet fuel.

Before Saxon, or his men, could fully grasp what was happening they watched the same scene unfold a second time. Instead of the aircraft racing in directly towards them, the aircraft were traveling down the valley from their right to left.

Just as the aircraft shot into sight at the mouth of the valley, two different anti-aircraft guns, a electrically powered and modernized version of the venerable Gatling guns of old, erupted with long fingers of death that reached up to destroy the attacking aircraft.

The lead plane, that was just off to Dickerson and Lowry's right, was shattered into millions of pieces as the large rounds tore it to shreds. They watched in silent horror as the wings first separated from the fuselage before it too broke in half. In a nanosecond the entire wreckage of the millions of dollars of tax payer investment was engulfed in flames as the scattered bits of aircraft crashed back to earth.

The trailing plane banked hard to his left, almost directly over Lowry and Dickerson as he desperately pealed off and attempted to escape the ambush. Simultaneous to crossing over them, a bright flash of light jumped into the sky from across the valley and chased after the evading aircraft. He had already passed from view but all of DeMetrie's men listened to the loud thud and subsequent silence.

They could only be left to assume the worst.