Red Metal

CHAPTER 84

It was just after three p.m. when the wheels on the military train came to a halt at the Nuremberg Hauptbahnhof. Lieutenant Colonel Tom Grant pulled back the closed curtain on the window and looked at the drab grays that hung over the city.

He turned and eyed the men around him in the car. His two acting battalion commanders; his operations officer, Captain Brad Spillane; and Major Blaz Ott of the German army were themselves all looking out the windows.

They stood as one, then grabbed their rucks.

A minute later Grant assembled with Ott and a few of their men, both officers and NCOs.

An Army lieutenant with a sidearm stepped up to the lieutenant colonel. “You Colonel Grant?”

“I am.”

“Copy. You need to sign for these.” The lieutenant handed him a sealed manila folder and a routing form, and Grant signed for the envelope. The lieutenant took it, wheeled around without a word, and left.

Kellogg and Wolfram stepped up. “What is it, boss?” Kellogg asked.

“Either an arrest warrant or some orders, judging by the envelope.”

Grant took out his bayonet, sliced the envelope open, and pulled out the single-sheet signed and dated message inside.

He scanned it quickly, then folded it and put it in the zippered top pocket of his tanker suit.

“Well, you gonna tell us, sir?” asked Master Sergeant Kellogg.

“Orders.”

“To jail?”

“Nope, back to Fort Bliss. There are planes waiting for us at the airport.”

“How about us, sir?” asked Major Ott.

“Nothing about you, Blaz. I’m sure you’ll get your own orders soon.”

“Then this is good-bye?”

“I guess it is. For now.”

“Wait a moment,” Master Sergeant Wolfram said. “Kellogg, come with me.” Both men ran off into the train station and returned in under a minute with several bottles of beer. Wolfram said, “Let’s drink a real German beer instead of any long good-byes. Ja?”

“Ja!” they all responded.

The men stood around sipping their cold beer on the frigid afternoon. There was much to say, yet no one had any words.

Soon the Americans shook hands with their German counterparts again and boarded trucks waiting for them outside the station for the drive to the airport.

Rows on rows of aluminum caskets draped with American flags filled the hangar deck of the Boxer. Colonel Caster walked slowly among them, looking them over with reverence, ensuring the flags were set in military order and reading the name tags. He said the names quietly to himself. The sergeant major waited as he finished walking the final row. Soon both men would assemble the Marines of their task force up on the flight deck for what they hoped would be a joyful ceremony: a chance to award the Marines and sailors who had survived the fighting, and to pin on a few medals for heroic acts of bravery on the battlefield.

Every one of the men in the task force deserved a medal, Caster thought as he touched each flag-draped casket. He felt the fabric of the American flags, coarse on his fingertips, each stitch made by hand back home.

These fallen men would also get medals today, he thought. A medal he’d wished in his twenty-six years he’d never had to give out to men wounded or, worse, killed, in battle. The Purple Heart. He would sign the rest of the endorsements later that evening, then forward them up the chain all the way to the president, who had sent word that he wished to sign each personally. Then, in a separate ceremony tonight, after taps was sounded, he and a group of men would attach the medals to the caskets before they were flown off the ship and onto a larger military transport plane.

Two hundred forty-two caskets.

Two hundred forty-two medals.

Two hundred forty-two letters home.

Caster knew the number by heart, although he hadn’t known every man. The number was burned into his consciousness, and he wanted to remember the names and fought to remember some of the faces.

These were my boys.

And he was sending them all home soon.

These men are going home the wrong way, he thought as he walked somberly among them. Lives cut short. Brave men, every one of them, fallen for a piece of dirt on the other side of the planet from their homes and loved ones.

It had always been thus for the United States Marine Corps.

Three decks above, the Navy band was practicing “Anchors Aweigh,” the Navy’s fight song. The morning sun filtered through the clouds and came in through the giant hydraulic elevator door. The Indian Ocean swept by at twenty knots, a clear and deep blue that sparkled in the sunshine. Two rows over from Caster, a group of three Marine sergeants sat around a casket, talking in low tones.

A favorite squad member? A fallen fellow NCO?

Caster didn’t intrude and instead looked down to the casket on his left. As he’d done for all the others, he whispered the man’s name: “Gunnery Sergeant Christopher Hall.”

Caster stopped in midstride and placed his hand on the casket, as much out of respect as to steady himself. He knew some of the men by name. But this one in particular halted his advance across the metal deck. This was the son of the 2nd Marine Division’s sergeant major. He would write the sergeant major a personal note tonight, one of hundreds, but he’d add a few more lines. He knew the sergeant major would already have been informed of his son’s death. Word like that traveled fast in the digital age, even if the Corps tried to contain the news.

“Don’t worry, Sergeant Major Hall. We’ll get your brave son home to you soon,” Caster said quietly.

Colonel Caster, the 5th Marine Regimental Combat Team commander, steadied himself. Neatened his camouflage uniform. Stood up straight, pushing the terrible emotions deeper inside.

He nodded to his sergeant major and together they marched toward the ladder well that led to the flight deck. Above them the band, still practicing for the ceremony, struck up the “Marines’ Hymn.” A fresh sea breeze blew down the hatch from above and greeted them as they ascended the metal rungs to the flight deck.

Caster had honored the dead a moment. Now he would honor the living.

“Sergeant Casillas, front and center… march!” yelled Lieutenant Colonel Dan Connolly in his best battlefield voice.

The young sergeant swung forward slowly on his crutches, the cast up past his knee, concealing his wounds. There was a moment when all the assembled men let out a brief gasp as he almost fell over, misjudging the pitch of the deck of the USS Boxer as she bore forward at twenty knots through the waves of the Indian Ocean. But the Marine recovered and steadied himself against an aluminum crutch, showing his determination despite the wounds left by three Russian-made 7.62mm rounds the Navy surgeons had excised from his leg.

Once Casillas was ready, the sergeant major shouted, “Attention to orders!” He then boomed out the award citation.

“The president of the United States takes pleasure in presenting the Silver Star Medal to Victor Humberto Casillas Ortega, Sergeant, U.S. Marine Corps, for conspicuous gallantry and intrepidity in action while serving with Task Force Grizzly, 5th Marines, 1st Marine Division, during combat operations in support of Operation Minotaur Forge, on the thirty-first of December, near Mombasa, Kenya. Sergeant Casillas destroyed a Russian BTR-82A infantry fighting vehicle and several combatants through the use of hand grenades and an AT-4 rocket. Additionally he laid down a base of automatic fire, killing six more Russian soldiers, and saving the lives of the regimental commander, the regimental plans officer, multiple headquarters staff, and the four crewmen assigned to his vehicle. His actions were instrumental in securing the regiment’s objective at Mrima Hill, Kenya. By his bold leadership, courageous actions, and loyal devotion to duty, Sergeant Casillas reflected great credit upon himself and upheld the highest traditions of the Marine Corps and the United States Naval Service.”

While the sergeant major read aloud, Connolly pinned the Silver Star on the sergeant’s chest. Under his breath he said, “Minotaur Forge?” No one at Mrima Hill had heard the name of the operation until now. In fact, the Pentagon hadn’t even gotten the operation name generator to spit it out until the day before, days after the battle was over. Connolly and the men had been too distracted to even notice until now.

Connolly spoke up with his officer’s voice. “You honor us all, Devil Dog. You are a credit to our beloved Corps and to our great country.”

“Hoorah, sir!” belted out the wounded sergeant. He leaned into the crutches and saluted. The sergeant major dismissed Casillas, and Connolly marched off the flight deck as one of the battalion commanders came up next to present awards to his men.

Colonel Caster met Connolly at the edge of the flight deck, behind the formation, with a grin on his face. Connolly saluted the colonel and he saluted back, then extended a hearty handshake.

“Way to go, Dan.”

“Sir, thanks for letting me do that, even though I’m just attached to your command. He’s a hell of a fighter.”

“I wouldn’t have had it any other way,” the colonel said in his familiar drawl. “Glad to have you in the ranks of the Fighting 5th Marines.”

Connolly smiled and turned to go down below to grab his seabag. He only had twenty minutes before the flight off the Boxer that would begin his long journey back home.

Apollo Arc-Blanchette hoisted his father’s coffin onto his shoulder and, along with the seven other pallbearers, carried him through a light snow to the hearse that would lead him to his final resting place at Paris’s Saint-Vincent Cemetery.

The big captain wore his full dress uniform along with the new Legion of Merit medallion around his neck, given to him by the president of France the day before.

The French president was here today as well, and he and his wife had spoken briefly with Apollo and his sister to express their condolences and the thanks of their nation.

Apollo and Claudette both wished their father could have seen them.

As he and the others slid the shiny maple coffin into the back of the hearse, Apollo fought tears. He was sad — and angry. While he hoped the anger would subside in time, he was certain the sadness would stay with him.

He knew the way to get through the anger was by seeing that justice be done for his father’s killing, as well as the deaths of nineteen of Apollo’s sixty-four Dragoons.

And that was why he was pleased to see in the news this same day as his father’s funeral that the president of the Russian Federation, Anatoly Rivkin, had been forced from power by the Duma. The utter military, political, and economic failure of Krasnyi Metal came more and more to light with each passing day, and Rivkin was catching virtually all the blame.

A leak out of the Russian Ministry of Defense revealed the Russians had brought nuclear devices with them to Africa on order of Rivkin himself, but the commander of the forces attacking the mine refused to employ them.

And in Europe, General Eduard Sabaneyev had already made his first appearance in The Hague at the International Criminal Court while Russian diplomats worked diligently to get him back and sweep the war crimes committed under the rug.

So far, at least, they’d been unsuccessful.

Apollo would love to watch the Russian general swing from a noose, but he knew that would never happen. Still, the invasion and the criminal acts were at the forefront of newscasts around the world, and the French special forces captain knew he needed to appreciate the focus on this while it lasted, because something else would take over the world’s attention soon enough, and this whole awful escapade would fade from view.

He held the door for his sister and they both climbed into the back of the limousine; then they followed the hearse away from the church and toward the cemetery.

Two hours later Apollo drove through a snowy afternoon. The Oüi FM radio station played “Je te le donne,” a duet by two popular Parisian singers.

Sergent-Chef Dariel, sitting next to his captain, turned down the radio. “What do you think Caporal Konstantine’s family will be like, sir?”

“I don’t know,” said Apollo absently, flicking the turn signal as he compared the printed instructions from the Ministry of Defense with the GPS embedded in the Citroën’s dashboard.

“You think they’ll scream at us like Private Paquet’s family did?”

Apollo felt the bandage on his neck where Paquet’s mother had scratched him bloody. He hadn’t minded it. If it helped her at all, he would willingly take ten more gashes just like it.

He said, “As long as nobody else pulls a shotgun like Fournier’s dad did.”

Sergent-Chef Dariel fell silent, remembering the incident from the previous day. “We’ll need to visit them again in a few months. Once they calm down a bit, sir.” There were good visits and there were bad visits. The bad ones stood out as they did their final duty to the men and bore the brunt of the families’ anger. The good ones — really the sad ones — would be remembered much, much longer and only deepen the heartache.

“Agreed,” said Apollo, turning the music up a few notches on the steering wheel, hoping to signal to his sergent-chef that he didn’t wish to speak about it further.

The men drove in silence the last five kilometers. The GPS pinged their arrival at a small country farmhouse, the name “Konstantine” painted on the fence. Apollo parked the car on the opposite side of the dirt road. It was a sad precaution, but in the event they were attacked again, it would make it easier to get away. The two men climbed out and paused at an old, rusted iron gate overgrown with vines.

Instinctively the men looked over each other’s dress uniforms, straightening each other’s ribbons, and donning their white gloves.

Apollo nodded to Dariel. “Ready?”

“Is it possible to be ready for this?”

“Non, pas du tout,” said Apollo, and the two marched toward the heavy oak crossbeam door.