Battlefield Pacific

Ohio Massacre

Spring had arrived in Ohio. The winter snows had finally melted away. With the start of April came the precipitation that lived up to the nursery rhyme of “April showers bring May flowers.” The rain drizzled down on the five-bedroom farmhouse Major Sasha Popov had rented for his team four days ago through Airbnb. Using a false identity, credit cards, and smartphone left for them at their last safe house by their GRU handlers, Sasha had found a great little homestead in the countryside, not far from their next target. The team needed a place to organize for their next mission and still have some privacy from the general American populace.

Once the team had arrived at the farmhouse, they reviewed the surveillance package provided to them by the GRU, the Russian version of the American Defense Intelligence Agency. Their primary target was the General Dynamics land systems factory in Lima, where the Americans were mass producing their main battle tanks. Major Popov had been proud to accept this mission. Destroying or severely damaging the factory would go a long way toward helping the war effort.

Adjacent to their primary target was the Husky Lima Refinery, which produced a large portion of the gasoline for the Midwest. In addition to destroying the tank manufacturing, Popov’s team intended to obliterate the refinery as well. The large fuel storage tanks there would make for a spectacular explosion once they caught fire, which would lead to additional damage to the tank factory across the street. It was going to be a campaign of shock and awe.

Deep in thought, Sasha heard the front door to the farmhouse open, letting some of the cool air enter the hallway that led to the kitchen. A second later, the door closed, and two men walked into the kitchen, looking for an empty coffee cup.

“I do love American coffee,” Major Popov thought as he poured himself a full mug of the black liquid brain juice.

“Are the weapons there?” asked Popov. He was anxious to get the mission going. While his team was not actively fighting in Europe, the work they were doing here in the US was just as important. What they had seen on the American news, albeit with a Yankee bias, did not look good. The US was massing a massive army in Europe, and it wouldn’t be long until they unleashed that destructive force on their beloved homeland.

Lieutenant Egor Vasiliev took two large gulps of the hot liquid before placing his coffee mug on the kitchen counter to answer Major Popov’s question. “Yes. They were in the storage locker, just as the handler said they would be,” he responded. He held up his hand to prevent Popov from asking further questions before he continued.

“We did a quick inventory of the weapons to make sure everything was there. All three of the 120mm mortar tubes were present, and while they are old, they appear to be in good working condition. We checked the other crates as well. There are 36 rounds for the mortars, exactly twelve mortars per tube, exactly as we had been instructed.”

Lieutenant Egor Vasiliev, like many of the other Spetsnaz members, had entered the US nearly four months ahead of the hostilities between Russia and the West. The group of twelve members had entered the US through the H-1B visa program. Their applications had listed them as computer and engineering experts for an Armenian-owned and operated computer software company, LAD Solutions.

Vasiliev, like the other members of this elite Spetsnaz team, was part of the secretive Special Operations Command or KSO within the Ministry of Defense. Prior to being designated as a direct-action sabotage team in the Americas, they’d had to rotate to America and serve a three-month stint with LAD Solutions, where they’d learned more about the specific geographic region of America their unit had been assigned to. They were instructed on the top military targets in their region and the locations of safe houses they could fall back to if discovered. Most importantly, they’d spent a great deal of time driving around their assigned location, so they could better understand the layout of the roads, the surrounding cities, and the people who lived in the region they would be operating in. This familiarization of the battlespace had aided some of their earlier teams in being able to elude capture.

Sergeant Vlad Volkov had been smiling as he thought about the damage they would be able to do with thirty-six 120mm mortars. The mortar system was American, which meant it was reliable. How the GRU had acquired the weapons was not his concern. The fact that they had was all he cared about. “I checked the weapons myself, Sir,” he added, backing Vasiliev up. “They’re in good working order and should not cause us any problems.”

Popov nodded as a slight smile spread across his face. “What about the launch site? Have we found a point that is secluded enough to set up the mortars and still allow us to get away?”

This was the trickiest part of the operation. Granted, each of them would be more than willing to die in the service of their country; however, they wanted to make their efforts matter in the larger scheme of things, which meant they needed to carry out more than just one or two missions. They needed to be able to do their damage and then escape to fight another day.

Vasiliev chimed in. “On our way back from the storage facility, we checked a couple of the locations our surveillance package had identified. Two of them are a bust. A new housing development is where one of them used to be, and the other had a school on it. The third position they identified is still viable and is probably the best position to use. It’s still somewhat remote, but it’s close enough to the highway for us to be able to put as much distance as possible between ourselves and the attack.”

“Excellent,” Popov responded. “Tonight, I’ll be purchasing the three Suburban SUVs. The vehicles should be ready in a couple of days, once we’ve the added brush guards. When I have the vehicles, I want you to take your team to the storage facility and move the weapons back here. Things need to be ready to go when the time comes.”

Deputy Eric Clark had just celebrated his tenth year on Patrol 6-Delta with the Sheriff’s Department on Sunday. He had several friends and family over for a BBQ, which turned out to be a great time of reflecting on the major milestone he had just hit in his new career. It was hard to believe it had already been ten years since he had gotten out of the Marines.

Eric and his partner, Cindy Morrison, had patrolled together for three years out in Allen County. At first, Eric was not thrilled with the prospect of having a green young woman for a partner — Cindy had only been twenty-two and fresh out of college when she’d joined the Allen County Sheriff Department. Like most idealistic young people, she wanted to change the world, and she was hell-bent on changing the way police interacted with the people they served. Despite a lot of antipolice sentiment on college campuses, Cindy had pressed forward in becoming a police officer, but she clearly wanted to change the organization from within.

After her six-month probationary period ended, she had changed her tune a bit. She realized the vast majority of calls they were responding to involved having to deal with the bottom of the barrel of society, like the backwoods hicks who thought it was cool to smack their women around, or the young gangbangers who felt the world owed them something, or her least favorite, human traffickers who routinely sold women and children into the sex trade. Cindy marveled at how Eric was able to wade through all the crap and still keep a happy demeanor. She respected his willingness to give each person the benefit of the doubt, even if he was a bit old-fashioned when it came to gender roles.

Eric and Cindy worked the night shift together, patrolling from eight at night until four in the morning, a time that most people tended to be asleep. The ones who were out and about tended to be the riffraff who had nothing better to do than to cause trouble. One night, during their shift briefing, an FBI agent took a couple of minutes to speak with them.

“I’m Special Agent Rich Demarco with the FBI, and I’m here to ask for your help,” he began. “We received a report that a Russian Special Forces unit may be operating in the area with the intention of carrying out some sort of sabotage mission against the General Dynamics land systems factory in Lima. While we don’t have any further details or leads at this time, we want to make the Sheriff’s Department aware of the possibility of an attack. If you see something suspicious, please investigate it. Radio it in and verify that nothing nefarious is going on.”

One of the officers raised a hand to ask a question, and Agent Demarco nodded to him. “If we do encounter a Russian Special Forces unit while on patrol, how are we supposed to deal with that? The most firepower we pack in our cruisers is a twelve-gauge shotgun.” He knew he wasn’t the only one to think of that angle.

“That is a fair question, Deputy,” Demarco answered. “If you encounter an armed group of Russians, radio it in and wait for backup. Don’t try to be a hero. These guys are highly trained and will probably be well armed. Since we’ve received this tip, security has been increased at the factory. We also have a joint FBI-Sheriff Department SWAT team on 24-hour standby. The SWAT team can be deployed quickly, so please wait for them to arrive if you believe that you have encountered this Russian group.”

With that said, the briefing broke up, and the officers went about their normal patrols, hoping that today would be like any other day.

Four hours later, Eric paid the cashier at the 24-hour Denny’s and proceeded to head back to their patrol car.

“I love the Eggs Over my Hammy sandwich,” Cindy said to her partner. She held the door open for him as they exited the building.

Eric laughed at his partner’s addiction to the fat-laden, calorie-inundated meal Denny’s called a sandwich. “Enjoy it while you can, Cindy,” he said with a smirk. “When you get to be as old as me, your metabolism will change, and suddenly you’ll get fat just drinking water.” He patted his stomach. It felt like he had just gained a few extra pounds, even though he’d just had a salad.

Walking over to the passenger side of the patrol car, Cindy opened the door and climbed on in. “Come on, Eric, it can’t be that bad, and you’re not that old,” she said, snickering a bit. She knew her partner was self-conscious about his weight. He really wasn’t advanced in age, having just turned thirty-six, but he was packing on a little bit of a beer belly.

As they got themselves settled in for another couple more hours of patrolling, the radio came to life. “Any units in the vicinity of Amherst Road and McClain Road, please respond. There are reports of suspicious activity in the area,” came the call from dispatch.

“Wow, could they be any more vague with that description?” Cindy remarked.

“It’s probably nothing, but we should check on it. We’re only a few miles away,” Eric replied.

He picked up the radio handset. “Dispatch, this is Six Delta. We’ll check it out,” he answered, hoping it was just a wild animal or something benign.

It was nearly 0100 hours as the Russian soldiers pulled the mortar tubes out of the back of their black Suburban SUVs and got them set up. A soldier used a mallet to pound in a rod used to hold the baseplate in place, making sure it was nice and snug in the ground before they set the tube up and began to use it. Once they fired the mortars, the blast from the propellant had a way of shifting the baseplate, which would affect its aim. Seeing that they were firing these mortars from near their maximum range, they didn’t want to spend a lot of rounds having to rezero the mortars if the baseplate moved.

Lifting a small encrypted radio to his lips, Major Popov whispered, “Viper Two, are you prepared for fire mission?” he asked.

Sergeant Boris Stepanov had positioned himself in a forest preserve that was directly across from both their primary and secondary targets. During his recon of the area, he had spotted a tree that he could climb, which would provide him with an excellent view of the targets. He had marked the tree with a chalk mark a couple of days before and had found his way back to it easily enough. He had waited up in his perch there for several hours before his radio had finally crackled to life.

Stepanov smiled. “This is Viper Two. Send one round, grid OH 4561 6823. Stand by for adjustments,” he directed. Depending on where it landed, he would fine-tune to make sure the next set of rounds would land amongst the factory they needed to destroy.

“Fire one round. Stand by for adjustments,” Popov responded.

Sergeant Vlad Volkov lifted the 31-pound HE round above his shoulder and dropped it down the tube. The second the round hit the base of the tube, the charge wrapped around the stem of the round ignited, ejecting the projectile high into the air at a heavy angle. The round whizzed through the air for what felt like an eternity before it traveled the nearly five kilometers to land in the parking lot of the tank plant with a thunderous explosion.

As the initial flash dissipated and the fireball swelled into the night sky, Sergeant Stepanov called in an adjustment to the next fire mission. The Spetsnaz team fired another single round, hoping this next one would hit the mark so they could drop their ordnance as quickly as possible and get out of the area before they were discovered.

A minute and a half later, a second round hit the roof of the tank manufacturing facility, causing another bright flash and a fireball.

Sergeant Stepanov smiled broadly. He lifted his radio to his lips. “Start dropping the rounds in,” he directed.

Major Popov yelled at the mortar team. “Fire right away!”

As the rounds continued to sail through the air, Popov made sure they reserved the last four rounds for the secondary target, the fuel refinery. With each thump of the mortars, he could hear the echo as the noise bounced around the forests and the few houses near them. He looked down the dirt road they had traveled down and saw Lieutenant Egor Vasiliev with three other soldiers, guarding the entrance to the field they had set up in.

Looking at his watch, Vasiliev could see that nearly five minutes had gone by since they first started firing the mortars. “We need to hurry this up,” he thought. “We’re going to have police on us anytime.” He knew that the American police, unlike those in Russia, had a pretty good response time if they were called to investigate something.

Just then, he saw a set of headlights turn down the county road toward their position. As the horizon lit up with yet another mortar round, Vasiliev realized that whoever was traveling toward them would definitely have seen the mortars launching out of the forest.

“Stand by and remain ready,” he said to the three other soldiers with him. “That could be a police car coming our way. If it is, we need to destroy it quickly before they can radio in for help,” he ordered, making sure everyone knew what was at stake.

Driving down National Road, Eric saw a red-hot projectile launch into the sky from a farm field not that far away from them. Cindy saw it too. “What the heck was that?” she asked, pointing at yet another projectile that flew into the sky in the direction of the city of Lima.

“That’s a mortar round,” he said, matter-of-factly. He grabbed his radio mic. “Dispatch, this is Six Delta,” he began. “We have confirmation on the Russian Special Forces unit near the intersection of National Road and McClain. Requesting SWAT to our location immediately!”

“Six Delta, this is Seven Delta. Did you say you found those Russians?” another patrol car asked almost as quickly as they had called it in.

“That’s affirmative,” Eric responded. “We’re less than a quarter mile away, and we’re observing them launch mortars in the direction of Lima. I’m not sure what they’re hitting, but my money says they’re going after the tank plant.”

Cindy looked terrified. “How do you know those are mortars?” she asked. “Maybe they’re fireworks or something,” she said sheepishly. She had never seen a mortar — she wasn’t sure if Eric had, either.

Eric looked at Cindy. “I spent six years in the Marines — a tour in Afghanistan and two in Iraq. Trust me, those are mortars those guys are firing,” he insisted. He picked up speed as they headed closer to their firing point.

“What are you doing, Eric? We’re just supposed to find them and call it in, not go all Dwayne Johnson on them.”

“Dwayne Johnson — God, she makes me feel old,” he thought.

“I’m getting us to the intersection, and then we’ll stop and wait,” he explained. “This way if they try to run, we’ll see what direction they head in.” He could hear the fear in her voice but knew he had to get there.

As their vehicle approached the intersection, Eric spotted a brief flicker of light, which he immediately recognized as a muzzle flash. In the fraction of a second it took his eyes to see it, he veered the car hard to the left and slammed on the brakes, causing Cindy to instinctively grab for anything she could to steady herself.

In seconds, the front windshield exploded in tiny plexiglass chunks. Then Cindy’s passenger-side window shattered, peppering her with the same tiny chunks of glass. When the car came to a halt, Eric jumped out of the driver’s side door and then pulled his partner across his seat, out the door. As they hid behind the car, dozens of high-velocity rounds tore through their vehicle.

He hastily grabbed his radio. “This is Six Delta — we’re taking heavy fire! Requesting backup at once. They have the intersection of National and McClain bracketed. Approach with caution. I say again, Six Delta is under heavy fire. Requesting help!” He yelled into his mic to be heard over the increasing volume of gunfire.

Cindy lay on the ground with her hands pulled up around her head as she just screamed in fear. Their vehicle was being torn apart by the barrage of gunfire. “Cindy! I need your help!” Eric yelled. “Shoot back at them, so we can get them to stop firing and take cover!”

He reached down and shook her, trying to get her attention. When she looked up at him, he repeated his instructions. She nodded as she tried to regain her composure and unstrap her sidearm. Eric popped up from behind the hood of his car and fired several rounds in the direction of the gunfire. He saw a couple of figures stop shooting as they took cover. Then a slew of rounds tore into the hood of the car, right where his head had just been before he ducked down.

Cindy popped up near the rear of the vehicle and fired four or five rounds at the Russians before ducking back down. Eric fired a second barrage of bullets at the attackers before reloading his firearm. He heard several of them calling out to each other in Russian, and he had no idea what they were going to do next. The sound of the mortars continued to whistle in the background, but the gunfire from the enemy soldiers had stopped. Eric popped up to take a quick look and see if he could spot one of the attackers long enough to shoot him.

Seeing movement to his right, Eric turned his pistol and fired off one shot before he felt something slam into his left arm and his chest, knocking him to the ground. As Eric’s body hit the ground, he wasn’t sure how bad his injuries were. His arm felt like it had been shattered, and it was hard to breathe, but he knew he had his vest on with the plates, so chances were, the bullet hadn’t gone through. He turned to look for Cindy and saw her firing at an unseen attacker. She got off three rounds before he saw the top part of her head explode. Her body collapsed to the ground just a few feet away from him.

Lying on the ground, unable to really move, Eric knew the Russians must be moving in on them to finish them off. As he lay there waiting for the inevitable, his mind wandered to a couple of days earlier, when he was enjoying the BBQ with his wife and their two little girls.

“I wish I could be there for them,” he thought to himself as a dark figure rounded the police cruiser.

The figure lifted his rifle and fired a couple of rounds into Cindy to make sure she was dead.

“No playing possum with these guys,” Eric realized.

Summoning the last bit of strength he had, he raised his pistol and fired as many times as he could at the soldier that had just shot at Cindy.

Eric saw the soldier grab at his neck just before he felt half a dozen sledgehammers hit his body. Everything quickly went black, just like the night sky his eyes were now blankly staring at.

Major Sasha Popov yelled at his men. “Hurry up and get in the SUVs!” They needed to get out of there.

Although Vasiliev’s men had managed to kill the two police officers who had discovered them, they had lost one of their teammates in the gunfight. They would have to leave his body. As much as it pained Popov to leave a fallen comrade, they had to head out to the safe house before the authorities sent more vehicles to their location.

They were in such a hurry that they left the mortar tubes behind, along with everything else that wasn’t absolutely vital to take with them. When they arrived at the safe house, they would get their next set of orders, and there would be another way for them to obtain further weapons. The only thing that really concerned Major Popov as they rushed away from the scene was the possibility of the police recovering potential forensic evidence. The thermite grenades they’d left to destroy the equipment would do a pretty good job, but there was no way to guarantee they had destroyed everything.

As they sped down the county road, Major Popov spotted a police cruiser with his flashing lights on. The car sailed right past them at high speed, probably heading toward his comrade. In minutes, they approached Interstate 75 and headed south. The three SUVs picked up speed, but the drivers limited themselves to roughly eight miles over the speed limit so as not to draw too much scrutiny to their little convoy. They would need to drive roughly twenty miles down the road before they would get off and change vehicles. There was a small utility van that had been pre-positioned for a situation like this; it could hold the entire team in one vehicle. Driving in a three-vehicle convoy would attract attention if they did it for too long.

Thirty minutes went by before they found the black utility van they had hidden the day before. Climbing into the back of the van and piling their remaining weapons and equipment inside, they placed camouflaged netting over the three SUVs, hoping to hide them for a few more days.

“I wish we could just burn the vehicles,” Major Popov lamented. However, he knew that would create too much fire and smoke, drawing the attention of the authorities.

Once everyone was in the van, they drove another three hours until they came to the next Airbnb house Popov had rented for the group. They would hole up at this location for three days before moving on to the next safe house. Then they’d repeat the process over again.