"No time for prisoners," he agreed, with an acquired Gallic shrug. A prisoner had to be bound up, gagged and hooded. They had to be carried. There was a part of him that regretted the necessity, but then there was necessity, overwhelmingly saying he made a pragmatic choice. Of course, they got the Vermont State Trooper out, but that was different. Some East German, here to pillage the place and inflict terror on his home? Very different.

Once the building was clear, it was down to Morse and he in the room, and the Sergeant gave the orders, he nodded and set to that work; there was a fuse on that thing, and once it ran down, they needed to be well away; it was enough C-4 for the job, but not overkill. They had an entire war to fight, and no idea what supplies would be like. All the same, they wanted to make the equipment irreparable, since it was US-made, and presumably harder to replace. Hopefully, someone either had or was planning to sabotage the maker of those electronics if it was anywhere on this side of the Appalachians.

Knowing that a place was going to blow, even on a timer, added a zest to life; the adrenaline surged, even as he bolted out of the place.

He found himself near Joe outside, kneeling in the dirt and grass, keeping his head on a swivel and his carbine's stock nestled near his shoulder, to be easily brought up if needed. He could hear that gunfire not far off; maybe a couple hundred yards at best. Someone was getting the shit end of the stick. East was their rides out; it was easy to get on the Vietnam Veteran's Highway, renamed by the Soviets to reflect their sentiments about that war, since there was no guardrail. Offroad vehicles could just clamber up onto the road from the grass.

There were a lot of big box stores here, and a lot of open parking lots. They were fucked if someone had night vision goggles on. It depended on the quality of the NVG's, but he was betting against the enemy having them unless they had the shit luck to run into bonafide Soviet infantry. Still, it was something to consider; civilian attire was not NIR, it would show up real easily.

He wanted to see if there was a parachute shroud but he didn't think the A-10 pilot made it or that they'd be in any position to extract. In fact, he doubted if they'd do more than harass the enemy, and have to cut it and run. He didn't want to die behind a damned big box store, but apparently someone had a sense of humor.

"Ben, Preston, think you can set up and put eyes on the Russians and put some rounds on them?" That would be in range to engage, 600 feet, which allowed them to put lead on the Russians, but gave the Russians limited options for effective fire. He didn't think they could destroy, but they could suppress with those Mk. 14's.

The Giguere Brothers could shoot. Putting them together in a position to cover meant that they all had a better chance of spotting and getting the drop on enemies. A wolf hunter in Finland was the most famous sniper of all time, and he shot irons. The Giguere's were real Vermont mountain guys, cut from the same cloth. A check at the sky told him what he needed to know about the time, they had twenty or so minutes to get back to vehicles and get out, but there were probably Americans out there dying, somewhere between the Marshall's and the Walmart. They could do something, even if it meant risking daylight.

"Sorry about the doctor, Joe," he told the other man, remembering their agreement; if it was necessary to be left behind, shoot rather than be caught. What he saw in there with the lady doctor was bad enough to justify that even if he hadn't said it already.

He was about to get off his knees and move forward, looking for good cover, though they were pretty out of range with their carbines, when he spotted the movement and immediately trained his M4 in the direction of the figure crossing the street. He didn't say anything, he just waited for her to make her move, with a casual flick of the selector switch from "SAFE" to "FIRE" that carried surprisingly far in a quiet night.

She awoke with a startle, her heart pounding loudly in her ears as she looked around, finding nothing but darkness and the occasional eerie howling of the wind coming from the open window which she was able to make out after some time. She was still indoors, more than likely in the same cabin from the looks of it. And the space was comfortable, maybe that's why she'd been left there for now. Or maybe she had been abandoned... A terrible thought, but she was wounded, and she knew she would slow down the others. The needs of one don't compare to the needs of the team... That was the mentality from the start, one that she not only agreed with, but accepted. The mattress beneath her was somewhat stiff, making her back and as well as her legs sore and achy. Jane tried to move but the dull pain that she was ignoring suddenly intensified, and even though she stopped to catch her breath, she eventually pushed forward, rolling on her side to get to her feet. She bit her bottom lip, making small grunting noises as she struggled with her own body and used the closest wall for support.

Once she could stand, Jane limped to the window. The air was cool, the chirping of the crickets filling the still night. But there was another sound, something very near. It didn't take very long to decipher what she was hearing, and it eventually became clear. Gunfire and explosions. She didn't move, not at first anyway. Instead, Jane weighed her options. She could stay there, and possibly be killed by the Russians whenever they discovered her, or she could move, and maybe by some miracle, find others to help her survive.

"I suppose that'd be better," she groaned, talking to herself. Jane pulled her jacket tighter around her body, her arms crossed as to provide some sense of security. She realized that all the ruckus was coming from the opposite end of the structure, and she warily made her way to the other side. Jane then watched from another window, now much closer to the action. But once she was able to listen more closely, she was able to make out some of the chatter. It was English, and not the broken type spoken with an accent. Almost instantly, Jane decided she would slowly make her way across the street. That certainly beat remaining a sitting duck.

Once she'd crossed, she could make the silhouette of a person. Jane took a few more quiet steps, and she realized they were aiming their rifle down at her. Her heart caught in her throat. If she walked off, she could very well be shot.

"I'm not armed," she said in a serious tone, putting up one trembling hand as the other shielded her wound, "I'm just injured."

Joe was in a bad mood.

These Russian/German fucks had killed one of his business associates. The doctor broad could have been a real big asset to both the Boston end of operations and what they were doing out here in Vermont. But that was a moot point now thanks to these Communist bastards and their fucking police lapdogs.

"I want to cave your goddamn head in with my gun."

Joe loomed over the tied up state trooper. He kept his eyes downcast on the ground as Joe talked to him.

"But my friends would frown upon that. They think you're innocent. But you and I know the truth. They killed that lady in there and you just stood by and let them. The only thing I hate worse than a cop is a cop without a spine. Look up at me."

The cop looked up, shaking in fright. Joe showed him his phone. On it was a picture he'd taken of the trooper's driver's license. He swiped the screen to show the cop photos Joe had taken from his own phone, photos of his children.

"If you don't forget what you saw here tonight, rest assure we will remember where you live and what your kid's look like."

"Whatever-whatever you say," the cop croaked. "Just let me live."

"You got it," Joe said, smacking the guy on the back of the head with his shotgun butt.

The trooper crumpled to the ground. Joe stepped over him and raised his shotgun when he saw Dan had a bead drawn on some nearby movement.

The sun was slowly rising in the East. Of course, the sun would not be seen in Burlington until at least 9AM, but its rays were spreading over the tops of the mountains. Ben and Preston waited in the shrubs until Joe and his guest and then the Army Sergeant and Danny emerged from the back of the State Police barracks.

"Ben, Preston, think you can set up and put eyes on the Russians and put some rounds on them?" Danny asked the brothers as he neared them.

Master Sergeant Morse added his two cents, “wonderful idea. Let’s get the fuck over to them woods before this thing blows up. I suggest you all double time. We need to get the fuck out of this AO as soon as God Damn possible.”

The southern squad ran to the power transfer station near the highway. Unbeknownst to Danny’s cell, Pete Couture’s boys rigged C4 to blow up the transformers corralled in the fenced in area.

When the Giguere brothers reached the woodline, they could not see the firefight going on near the Longhorn Steakhouse at Maple and St. George. “No Line of Sight!” They ran into the woods and found the terrain gently rising. When the reached the top of a slight hill; an elevation of only twenty meters, they could see the burning trucks and tracers flying back and forth between the militia cell and the dismounted Soviet soldiers.

“This is good, we have line of sight. Range is closer to three hundred yards,” Ben shouted to Preston and those who could hear him.

“No problem, Ben. Shimmy up these trees for a better view,” Preston announced. The two hunters slung their rifles around their necks and hustled up a pair of pine trees. After a two-minute climb they found themselves another ten meters up. They had a very fine clear line of sight, nestling their rifles in tree branches to help steady them. Using a tree branch was a trick their father taught them when they were boys. It was much better than using your own hands and arms. Nerves could wreck an easy shot.

The Giguere brothers, from their lofty perches took aim on the Russian soldiers fighting with the militia cell led by Ray Gagne of Essex, VT. The brothers began slowly engaging targets as they appeared. The Mark 14 was an outstanding platform for engaging distant targets like this. They had no problem hitting the Russians armed with their AK-12s. The shots were slow and methodical, like taking down a buck at three hundred yards. Only these targets didn’t jump into the brush every time one was struck. The Soviets had no idea two snipers were picking them off at range when they had immediate targets fifty to a hundred yards in front of them. For the Giguere brothers, it was like shooting fish in a barrel.

---

The Rangers had gathered on their respective assembly areas on the tarmac and began moving out as squads and platoons towards their objectives. The rapidly moving Ranger Special Operations Vehicles, looking like well-armed dune buggies quickly took up positions at the corners of the airfield as well as the roadways leading in. Their job was to prevent anyone from reinforcing or relieving the East Germans stationed there.

A small group of sappers with prepared blocks of explosives and hand grenades ran along the rows of neatly parked MiG-31s, Su-27s and Mi-24 helicopters. While the combat engineers destroyed fighters, another platoon of rangers headed towards the buildings on the north side of the runways where the East German Stasi and air crews were located. They began systematically clearing buildings and shooting the enemy. The entire affair was organized chaos.

Captain Dean Baker, was the first Ranger to exit the C17 when they jumped. He was the A Company Commander, a 31-year old graduate of West Point Military Academy. He grew up in suburban Detroit, but somehow avoided the stereotype of living the life of an economically depressed African American. He focused on his school work and played both football and basketball for his High School. He graduated from the top of his class and had two varsity letters upon graduation. It was an easy appointment for US Senator Carl Levin (D) Michigan. He knew choosing a black candidate with an excellent academic record would help him as the senior senator from his home state. Today, the retired Senator was probably at home somewhere in Detroit or making his way towards Chicago or St. Louis to avoid being swept up by the advancing Soviets. The retired 84-year old Senator was aware of the Arleigh Burke-Class destroyer named for him and wondered what the fate of the ship was. Captain Baker also graduated near the top of his class with a degree in Engineering.

Unfortunately for Captain Baker, he neglected to hook up to the static line on the starboard side of the aircraft. He never saw the C17 take hits from the Soviet built Air Defense Artillery system. He stepped out into darkness awaiting the impact of his chute opening. He counted the obligatory four seconds, but nothing happened. Due to the thousand-meter distance, Captain Baker’s body struck the tarmac below at terminal velocity, 129 miles per hour killing him instantly.

Unaware of his commander’s fate, 1LT Armando Lopez lead the assault force through the buildings commandeered by the East German Stasi. Obviously, he did not jump with the Rangers, but made his way onto the base with his security squad to mark the Drop Zone, taking precaution not to be detected.

“Darby zero six, this is Darby zero five,” Lieutenant Lopez spoke into the radio.

“Darby zero five, this is Darby zero six Lima. Be advised Zero six actual is dead, over.” Private First Class Wayne Pipps of Germantown, TN responded to the Company Executive Officer.

The report from the company commander’s RTO was deadpan, without emotion. The reality of it struck him hard. Dean is dead! No! That can’t be. He was such an intelligent man. He had such a promising future. The thoughts infuriated the Mexican American Infantry officer. Dean Baker was one of his closest friends. He wondered how many people they lost when the Globemaster burned in or from this raid. As the shooting dwindled down, he then put it together, he was the company commander and needed a situation report from his platoon leaders. He got on the radio tuned to the company’s frequency. “All stations this net, all stations this net. This is Darby zero five. Zero six is KIA and I am assuming command. I am now Darby zero six. All stations acknowledge, over.” The company first sergeant, communications NCO, each of the platoon leaders and the light weight company mortars as well as the attached personnel, the sapper squad all responded with a roger that acknowledging that First Lieutenant Lopez was now the A Company Commander, Third Ranger Battalion at Burlington International Airport in Vermont, a state currently occupied by the Union of Soviet Socialists Republic.

Once the acknowledgements were over, the company commander asked for a SITREP from each platoon and section. After receiving the message traffic from everyone, he wrote down notes on what he heard and realized the status of his company. First platoon, employing the RSOVs numbered 42 soldiers, taking no losses during the insertion at Jaycee Park. Second platoon was the main effort to clear the buildings on the north side of the airfield took eight casualties during the raid with two WIA. Their effective strength now numbered 32 soldiers. The third platoon, responsible for clearing the buildings on the south side of the airfield sustained seventeen KIAs and three WIA also numbering 22 survivors to complete additional operations. Their losses included soldiers that could not get out of the transport aircraft. The sapper squad reported eight personnel with zero losses. The LWCM section reported six personnel with no losses. The Anti-Tank section reported ten personnel with no losses and the headquarters personnel lost the company commander and the Operations NCO, SFC Gilberto Alverez. The company first sergeant, Robert Marsh sprained his right ankle on the jump, but was otherwise fine. The company, which numbered 160 prior to the operation had 125 soldiers ready to continue, six wounded and 29 KIA. Ammunition was still in decent shape with cross loading and the soldiers were able to top off their canteens from a local source.

Lieutenant Lopez called up his two RTOs, PFC Pipps and Specialist Philip Gaither of Palo Alto, California. “Specialist Gaither, I want to talk to Battalion headquarters, at Concord, NH.” The 20-year-old pulled out the Satellite Communications equipment which was a hardened cellular telephone. He dialed up the Tactical Operations Center and handed it to his new Company Commander.

The conversation with the battalion commander was encoded not requiring seven second transmissions or any other communications security measures. “Colonel Eddings, this is Lieutenant Lopez at Burlington. I have a SITREP for you, sir.”

“Go ahead, Lieutenant,” the battalion commander, Lieutenant Colonel David Eddings responded to the Alpha Company Commander.

“We have secured Objective ALLEN and consolidated our personnel. Captain Baker is KIA and we have lost a total of 29 Rangers during this operation. We have 125 soldiers fit for duty. We destroyed all OPFOR combat aircraft on this objective, a total of 42 fighter aircraft and eight attack helicopters. We have crippled the enemy’s combat effectiveness in this region. We will initiate Operation Wolverine on your command, sir.”

“I am very sorry to hear about Dean. I know you were close to him, Armando. HE was a good man. He should have outlived all of us. Take care of your dead and begin Operation Wolverine as soon as possible. I’ll see you when I see you, Lieutenant.”

“Roger that, sir. Good luck to you as well.” Lieutenant Lopez handed the SATCOM phone back to the specialist and ordered his company to begin Operation Wolverine. For the 125 Rangers of the Third Battalion, they would split up into squad formations and melt into the Vermont countryside. They would seek out The Green Mountain Boys, the local militia and become members of their unit working with the 10th Special Forces soldiers leading them. The largest item several soldiers had a difficult time parting with were the Ranger Special Operations Vehicles which mounted both a .50 caliber machine gun and an M240 machine gun. Before the sun would rise above the Green Mountains and shine down on Burlington, VT, the 125 Rangers would be in civilian clothing blending in with the locals of Northern Vermont.



The radio transmission went over the net to the 10th Special Forces soldiers working in the Burlington, VT area.

"Good. Keep your hands where they are can see them." The woman spoke colloquial English, Canuck accent, but that didn't mean that they didn't have an infiltrator on their hands. At the same time, they were going easy on civilians until they showed themselves to be hostile. Dan let Joe cover the lady as he moved out of her field of vision, still covering her, and moved in closer, to check the story. He also did a fast check for anything that could be construed as an explosive, such as a grenade. It was most certainly an intimate, but cold, callous check, far more professional than Soviet shakedowns of women, which tended to be lecherous. Dan had no time for the niceties, but he also was seeing all threat. He gave the gentlest of presses along the abdomen to get her reaction and came away with the wetness of blood.

He knew the potential for someone faking a wound to be dangerous, but realized that this was a very guerrilla attitude for an occupation army. It sometimes, out of habit, didn't dawn on him that they were the guerrillas, and these were their tricks now. They all had plenty of morphine and medical supplies, courtesy of the Joe-led efforts at black marketeering. They were, arguably, one of the most expert black market resistance cells in the region. It meant that Dan had a small medical kit on his hip.

"Sorry about that. Can you keep moving? Do you want morphine?" That meant they'd have to carry her. Dan didn't really want to have to resort to that anymore than Joe did, but it might be necessary.

The gunfire going in the background punctuated the need.

"We gotta move. Now."

The Ben and Preston plan worked out, it looked like, as the two experienced mountain hunters took advantage of the confusion to draw blood, but eventually, watching guys go down, the Soviets figured out that someone else was engaging them. Then they reacted with fire, a large volume of it. It was spray and pray, not accurate but still dangerous. With a muzzle brake and a free-floating barrel, the AK-12 was a decent full auto performer, but these guys didn't have the optics to suitably engage at the longer ranges, not easily.

Dan, Joe and the lady were moving along when the return fire started to come toward them. It was longer distance than the effective aimed range of Soviet-issue rifles, but one sent splinters flying from a tree, and some of that shrapnel caught Danny in the scalp. He grunted in pain and crumpled. He rolled over in the dirt. As he came to a stop, he immediately yanked the balaclava off, ripped open his med pack and pulled the gauze out. He packed it on his skull to try and stop the bleeding, though the blood was already pumping down the side of his head and onto his shoulders, all over his coat. Whatever got his scalp, it got it good.

He tried to use his sleeve to clear it out of his eyes, but it was still all over his face, "I can't see, I need assistance!"

The moment she was spotted, the situation grew a bit more intense. She noticed another individual staying behind to cover the man with the rifle as he came around to conduct a personal search, making sure Jane wasn't carrying any weapons which she might be able to use against them. But despite the predictable safety precautions, the American didn't have to be so rough with her. Jane winced when he pushed on her abdomen, but she did not complain any further. It would not get her anywhere, and they might just leave her behind. That was a chance she was not willing to take.

When he proceeded to finally ask her a few questions, Jane stuttered momentarily. In all honesty, she would love some morphine, but then she would turn into a burden. Better grit her teeth through the pain than have them all killed.

Only a few moments had passed before his question was answered for her. Gunfire erupted from the distance, causing the rifleman to react accordingly as the three of them began to quickly move, the pain getting to Jane once more. They were making their way when a tree trunk erupted near them, the American stumbling to the ground as a result. The blood just poured out from his head, and it sure as hell didn't look good. Even Jane forgot about her own pain for just a split second, wondering what she should do as the poor man became a bit overwhelmed by it all. For a short moment, she was at a loss for words, but then she finally rushed to his side.

"Let me get that from you!" Jane took the gauze off his hand, grabbing the man's chin with a firm grip to wipe the blood off his eyes. She followed the remaining trail of blood before she pressed on his wound to slow the bleeding. "I need something to hold this in place," she called out to the other man.