Blood Memory (Mongol Moon), page 7
From the back of Frey’s truck, Barsamian and Lopez had been debating the best way to hunt the occasional deer-looking animal they passed.
“Look, all I’m saying is, if the major would just let me pop up there and take a shot at one, we wouldn’t have to eat MREs again,” Barsamian postulated.
“You’d probably miss, and shoot some damn person, and then the ambassador’s wife would make us stop and build a fucking hospital or some shit,” Lopez replied, his Olvera Street accent reminding Frey of home.
“They are right there! Like, dude, come on. I could shoot it, you could do whatever Mexican cooking you do, or we could let the embassy chef cook it—that dude has like one use—and we could have real dinner,” Barsamian tried one final time. “I could be the first one in my family to mount a puku head on the wall at the VFW.”
The animals, if they knew their fate was being debated at all, showed no signs of it. They stood by grazing on the African grass, their horns dipping as they ate.
“Do you want to tell him, or should I, sir?” Corporal Harris asked, looking across the vehicle at Major Frey.
“Be my guest, Corporal,” Frey replied. They had slid the vehicle’s thick armored windows back to let air flow in, and Frey was watching the countryside roll by.
“Private Barsamian,” Corporal Harris began the lecture. “How big is that deer?”
“I don’t know, Corporal, maybe a hundred thirty pounds?”
“What kind of weapon is up there in the turret, Private?”
“It is an M2 fifty-caliber machine gun, Corporal,” Barsamian replied slowly, not sure where the corporal driving the vehicle was going.
Lopez chuckled, and said something in Spanish that Frey could vaguely gauge as an insult to their country gunner. Frey made a mental note too. Either Lopez was smart enough to see where Corporal Harris was going, or he had seen what happens when a fifty-caliber bullet impacts flesh.
“What do you think will happen if an armor-piercing incendiary round from a fifty-caliber machine gun were to hit an animal that size, Private?”
“Will it kill it?” Barsamian asked hopefully.
“It will turn it into stew, Private, and I’m not driving this thing with deer guts all over the hood,” Corporal Harris told him, hoping the matter was settled and the privates could start debating a slightly less appetizing topic.
Frey stared absentmindedly at the red mud slipping by. The trees narrowed in on the road again, and then opened into a field. They passed a single man on a bike, carrying two large jugs strapped to the pedals. Silence reigned through the vehicle.
Private Barsamian broke it. “I mean, I could use a rifle, I have my M4.”
“Barsamian?” Frey took it this time. He had seen the hole in Harris’s logic right away, but he had been hoping Barsamian would miss it.
“Yes, sir,” the young private answered.
“What kind of animal are those?”
“Puku, sir,” Barsamian said confidently.
“And you are going to kill one, let Lopez and the chef cook it, and then mount it on the wall at the VFW back in Missoula, and tell everyone there how you killed a puku, right?” the major said, baiting his trap.
“Absolutely, sir,” Barsamian replied, walking right into it.
“Well, Private, then you would be lying, and I can’t let you expose yourself to that kind of ridicule, for your own health and welfare.” Major Frey smiled as he answered. “Because those are not puku, they are sitatunga. You see how the horns are smooth? Puku horns have ridges.”
Every head in the group turned towards the major, wondering how this officer had come by this information in the few weeks since he had arrived at their embassy.
“Roger, sir,” Barsamian replied, finally admitting defeat. “It is just, well, I’m from Montana, and all those National Guard fatties are from Montana, and I just, I need to defend the martial reputation of my state, so you don’t think we are all like them.”
They hit a larger pothole, causing Lopez to swear from the back as he hit his unprotected head against the ceiling. They knew the major hated seat belts for some reason, and they had never seen him wear one, so neither did they. He also never made them wear helmets inside the vehicle. They only had a handful anyway, and the major had given them to the dismounts and gunners. Riding with Major Frey might not have been as much fun as riding with John, but it was far better than riding with strict by-the-book NCOs like Gunnery Sergeant Harmon or Sergeant Major Sweeney.
“Truck One is slowing down,” Corporal Harris said through the vehicle’s radio.
Looking up, Frey could see brake lights from the gun truck in front of him. He reached for his transmit button to inquire, when John’s voice broke through across the radio.
“All vix, we have a fuel truck or something slow-rolling in front of us. Prepare to slow down.”
Behind him in the rearview mirror, he could see the convoy that had been spread out starting to bunch up as each vehicle waited to reach the one in front to slow down, and his heart started to beat a little faster. It was a natural instinct for normal American drivers, but from a tactical perspective, it was the worst possible thing to do.
“Barsamian, get up on your gun,” he commanded, all humor gone.
“Aye, sir. Moving, sir.” The private clambered up through the hole in the ceiling, Lopez holding his friend’s headset cord so it didn’t get tangled in the gears of the turret.
It took the private a matter of seconds before he reported, “Gun’s up, sir.”
Frey pushed his radio switch to talk. “All vix, offset and space out as best you can, and get your Golfs up until we pass it.”
The hairs on the back of Frey’s neck stood up. To attack the convoy, you needed to slow it first and get it to bunch up. His eyes scanned the trash-strewn roadside like a hawk, looking for something out of place.
No, you idiot, it won’t be an IED, they wouldn’t have had time for that. Look in the tree line.
“Two, One, I’m going to get this guy out of the way,” John said from the lead, his voice as deadpan as ever.
“One, this is Two,” Frey responded, not liking the idea of leaving the method of that solution up to the man in front of him, “gently.”
John did not answer; he simply sped up, hit a pothole, and splashed a geyser of mud everywhere. He got his gun truck around the flat-nosed fuel truck in front of them, and Frey could see the gunner waving the terrified driver to the side.
As the convoy started to pass, the fuel truck came to halt. The driver had probably driven this route once a day for his entire life, but today was different. Today the Americans were driving it with him.
“That dude looked fucking terrified,” Barsamian told the group as they passed him. “I don’t think he’s trying to ambush us, sir.”
“No, I don’t either,” Frey confessed, knowing the private was right, that after the Americans passed him, this random man would go back to his life as if they had never crossed paths.
“Two, this is One,” the voice came over the radio as the lone fuel truck slipped into the rearview mirror. “We are coming up on the border and the bridge.” John’s voice was monotone from the front, and Frey wondered if having him run point the entire time was a good idea. Everyone tired eventually, even him.
“We got everyone with us?” Frey asked his gunner, who did a quick spin in his powered turret to check.
“All six behind, and the water buffalo—everyone made it past the fuel truck,” the young Marine from Montana reported, referring to the fuel trailer pulled by Gunny Harmon’s LMTV.
“Roger,” Frey said, keying his microphone to talk to the entire convoy again. “I want triple gaps in the order of march across the bridge,” he ordered, knowing that the bridge would be long and flat across the broad Luapula River, their last obstacle before reaching the relative safety of returning to Zambia. “Don’t bunch up, take it slow, and let’s get on with it.”
“Hey, sir?” Corporal Harris asked Frey into the vehicle’s intercom. “We didn’t have permission or anything to go into the Congo, right?”
“I gave us permission,” Frey answered, not sure where his driver was going with this.
“Yes sir, roger that, but, I mean, no one from like the Congo said we could, right?”
“That’s right,” Frey responded and smiled, seeing where his driver was headed as the HMMWV reached the bridge.
“So, that means we invaded the fuck out of them, right?” Harris asked.
Silence fell across the vehicle as the three enlisted men, Corporal Harris behind the wheel, Private First Class Barsamian behind the gun, and Private First Class Lopez sitting in the back, awaited the major’s response.
“That’s right, Corporal, all of those old women with the giant baskets on their heads, and the little kids running around, we invaded the fuck out of them.”
“Fuck yes,” Barsamian said. Having nowhere to scan as they crossed the bridge, he reached down and fist-bumped Lopez in the back seat.
Frey loved and hated having a vehicle full of Marines, but he had done it on purpose. The leader needed to be where the problems were the worst, and he wanted the best problem-solvers in the world with him when he got there.
“How does it feel, sir, to know we are 1-0 at invasions, and GWOT guys like you and Gunny Harmon are, like, maybe 1-2 at best?” Barsamian laughed from the turret.
“Private,” Frey responded.
“Yes, sir?”
“I am going to throw you in with the gators down there,” Frey said, glad the private standing above him couldn’t see his smile.
“Hey sir, I got a question,” Barsamian continued on.
“Okay,” Frey responded, curious what could possibly come out of the private next.
“We heard that you got promoted to lieutenant colonel on the list, but… you are still wearing your major rank?” he inquired, his honest curiosity plain in his voice.
The curious young man was right. The promotion list had come out, and Frey’s name had been on it, but that had been… before. There had been no official orders, and no notification from a Pentagon and a Human Resources Command at Fort Knox that, for all Frey knew, no longer existed.
“I’m just saying, sir, I’d pin that shit on in a heartbeat,” Barsamian followed up, the volume of his voice increasing over the hollow roar of the bridge below them.
“I’m sure you would. In the Army, we wait for orders. Besides, who has time to sew new rank on all my uniforms and covers, and where would I even get it? You know, it’s the gunner’s responsibility to sew all that on for his commander,” Frey joked.
“I’d say you could wear Lieutenant Colonel Frederick’s,” the young gunner retorted, but then paused as if reconsidering the implication. “But I wouldn’t want anything from that shitbag—I mean, fine officer—on me either, sir.”
A long pause fell over the radio, before Barsamian broke it again. “Just so you know, if you did, sir, I’d back you up.”
“I appreciate that, Private,” Frey answered, smiling again. God help him, he loved moments like these.
“Two, this is Eight,” Lieutenant Betz reported from the rear of the convoy, killing the moment.
“Eight, Two, go,” Frey answered.
“Two, Eight, all vix across, and feet dry,” the young lieutenant reported. Everyone had crossed the river safely, and so far, the two hours they had spent in the Congo had been the most stressful of the entire trip.
“Roger, all vix, we are Charlie Mike. Through the border. We are on the M3 Highway again. Stay on it, keep your intervals. TCs, keep your drivers awake, gunners in your sectors, and drivers report when you are at a quarter of a tank,” Frey reminded everyone, for the thousandth time. “We are planning to get to just outside of Kasama tonight, so let’s get it done safely.”
The colonel drove on. He had left his slower vehicles the day before, but in his haste had forgotten to take the extra fuel he needed. Thus they had to make costly stops at local petrol stations for fuel. The first had wisely just given the fuel to the Russians, the second had… not. His troops had taken what little food and water the store had to offer, and had left the petrol station wrecked.
He was exhausted and he knew his men were as well but that didn’t matter. They were racing to get to the town of Mbala on the border before the Americans did. Once they made it to Tanzania, there was no telling where they could go, and the colonel would have lost his prize.
Mbala. Everything rested on his ability to beat the Americans there with enough troops to slow them down. The colonel studied the collection of men moving around his convoy which had stopped to change a tire on the side of the highway. Even if the tires were cheap Chinese knockoffs, his men were real soldiers. Recruited and trained at home in Russia and then tested throughout the world, they were a hard group of men. The Americans would no doubt have the embassy’s Marine guards, but there were likely no more than a dozen or so and the colonel had nearly a hundred soldiers with him, with heavy weapons and vehicles.
“Hurry!” the colonel shouted at his men. Seeing a lieutenant standing and watching, the colonel dashed over and grabbed the stunned man by the shirt. Staring at the man, furious, the colonel noticed the officer’s hands were trembling.
This couldn’t be fear.
It must have been alcohol. He knew that the men had smuggled some with them, but the supply was running low. Maybe even gone now. He needed his men sober enough to fight, but this sign of withdrawal meant the situation was worse than he imagined.
The colonel’s men worked quickly, tightening the last nuts on the tire, knowing if they showed anything less than maximum effort they would draw down the legendary wrath of the colonel.
The colonel studied his map then barked at his troops, “We are about a kilometer from the M3 Highway. Once we reach it, we turn left, and reach the town of Kasama. From there it is another half a day to the main highway the Americans are on, and we can cut them off.”
It was the highway he thought the Americans would be on. His scout had called him earlier in the day and told him that he had been unable to make contact with the Americans again on the main highway through northern Zambia.
The colonel considered the options. They either stayed on that highway or they went north through the Congo. He chuckled. The Americans are silly, but they aren’t that silly, he thought as he climbed in his vehicle and his column started to roll down the highway towards the town of Kasama. He had at least a day or so at the earliest until he ran into the Americans. Plenty of time to get ready.
He glanced in his rearview mirror as his Tiger Multi-Purpose All-Terrain Vehicle, the first in line, slowed to approach the intersection. Behind his armored truck was a six-wheeled Ural truck, with almost twenty men on the benches in the back. Some soldiers sat with their feet dangling over the sides, while others lay on the vehicle’s floor. He could see a scattering of weapons too. Rifles and the occasional RPG, but they would break the heavier machine guns and mortars out of the crates when they got closer.
One of the men was wearing the blue-striped telnyashka of the Russian Airborne Forces, the VDV. The same VDV in which the colonel had begun his career. Good, the colonel thought. At least one of them is a proper soldier.
He had never really fit in in the regular Russian Army. Being from Grozny, despite the loyalty of his family, he had always been an outsider in the ranks of the officer corps. He had found a more accepting home on the outside. The private militaries that had sprung up throughout Africa had not cared where he was from. They only cared that he could fight. That his employer was a Russian oligarch and not the Russian state made no difference to him.
“What the….” came a voice from the driver’s seat of the Tiger.
The colonel’s eyes rose from the map and quickly saw what appeared to be an American truck drive past on the M3. They were at a T-shaped intersection, and the truck was crossing in front of them from his right to left. The colonel was heading south, and the mysterious truck was heading from west to east.
He processed that. There were American vehicles all over Africa; this was likely just… Then an HMMWV followed, and in quick succession, two more canvas-covered trucks, one pulling a fuel trailer behind it.
One is a coincidence, the colonel thought, but four, with a machine gun on the HMMWV? That couldn’t... be…
The colonel’s thoughts stopped in their tracks as one more American HMMWV with a machine gun mounted on it rolled down the M3. Except this one had finally noticed the parked Russians. The colonel could tell, because the last vehicle in the American convoy had spun its turret, and its fifty-caliber machine gun, around to face in his direction.
They were close enough to see the face of the man—“man,” he was little more than a boy—behind the fearsome gun. Whatever his age, the kid reached out and pulled the charging handle back.
“No. It can’t be,” the colonel muttered, as the American machine gun began to pour flames at him.
The first round ricocheted off the hood and slammed through the Tiger’s glass. The glass, which had been billed as bullet proof, might as well have not even been there.
The giant American bullet punched a perfect hole through the center and exited through the vehicle’s roof.
As the American vehicle continued to drive by, the colonel noticed the young American behind the gun had moved on to a better target.
The bed of the unprotected Ural truck which just moments before had been filled with smiling men was now a horror show filled with blood, sinew, and pieces of those same men as they took the full force of the American gun.
The giant bullets were merciless, and traveling nearly 900 meters per second, and tore the men in the back of the truck apart, ripping off whatever piece of flesh and bone they touched. The American machine gun had been designed to be used at long range against lightly armored vehicles and aircraft, and at this close of a distance against unarmored men, the slaughter was horrifying and complete.
