The Three-Block War
"Go go go!" The sergeant shouted. I looked up, and, FN SCAR in hand, charged up the street, blasting anyone foolish enough to stand and fight. We were in the final stages of what I guess could be called World War III. The final showdown, the war to end all wars. It had finally happened—the United States and Europe on one side, Russia and her client states on the other. What the Kremlin hadn't banked on, though, was the determination that the citizens of the US and Europe summoned up. We were angry, we were mad, and we knew exactly who was responsible for all the social and economic upheaval in the last decade.
My name is Brian Kerr. I'm a corporal in the 75th Ranger Regiment, second in command of 1st Squad, 2nd Platoon, Bravo Company. We were the ones tapped to crash in the Kremlin's gates. I had fought for eight months straight. Paris, Berlin, Minsk, Kharkiv, Kursk, Volgograd, Voronezh…Now it was Moscow. We knew that the Russians were nearly done. It showed in the way they were fighting. They would rather die than retreat. We started to see older and older weapons, less and less experienced troops. To us, the killers at the forefront of America's spear, it was nearly over.
Sergeant Giles led the way. We stormed up the street, heading for Red Square. A Schwarzkopf tank platoon was waiting for us. They would take down the enemy positions as we advanced on the Kremlin. As I passed the first tank, I happened to see the nickname on its turret—Mamie. I knew whose tank it was, my friend Dave Hill's. We had gone to high school together, in Massachusetts (Thus the tank's name) and he was more mechanically inclined than I was. He was a corporal, same as I was, and probably a tank commander by then. I didn't know for sure. But I was happy that it was his tank covering me.
I was also thankful for the first few into the square. Machine gun positions just opened up on them. I guess the Russians panicked, which isn't a surprise. After all, it was the end of the war, and they didn't want to go down quietly. Thanks to my HUD, I could see where everyone was, and so could Giles. He arranged us in a perfect killing formation, going along the southern side of Red Square slowly, methodically. We wanted our rear pacified before we ended this thing. Now, in the propaganda movies of both sides, they show the soldiers mowing down the enemy, using the rifle like a fire hose. That wasn't anything like the way the Rangers, or any Allied forces for that matter, fought the urban and sub-urban wars.
The entire key to pacifying an urban target is selective, and very stringent, fire control. As Rangers, we were trained to fight hard and fast, and march light. As such, ammunition was at a premium. I actually didn't rely on my HUD all that much to aim for me, sending only two bullets at a maximum towards each soldier. Some of the other guys, with the squad machine guns, could afford to spray and pray, but not me. Within ten minutes, we had eliminated the last MG post, and set to work on the Kremlin gates themselves. Specialist Donahue, our token 'Paddy', as he called himself, set up the demolition charges. He was always a sight to watch when he was at work, an image of serenity even when gunfire was splitting the air around him. I guess he would lose himself in his work, but do it quickly as well. Although I respect demo experts, I don't want to know what goes on inside their head. I have a hard enough time predicting an enemy rifleman's behavior, and that's plenty enough for me.
With a surprisingly loud bang and crash, the reinforced steel gates of the Kremlin flew several feet and promptly fell flat against the ground. To this day, it is still one of the funniest images any of us has seen—this huge steel gate just falling after going six feet backwards. But the humor didn't last. The Tamin Guards, the Praetorian Guard of the Kremlin, began opening up on us, and it wasn't what we had gotten used to. Modern weapons were being fired at us, by men who knew what they were doing. Donahue, in his exposed position, was hit immediately, and I could see a splash of blood and viscera as he fell away.
The tragedy didn't last long. We all opened up on the gate, almost blowing apart the guards who stood in a line more appropriate to the Napoleonic wars than the Third World War. The tankers, too, saw what was happening, and added their big guns to the fray. The buildings inside the compound began to first shudder, then collapse under the tremendous barrage. We ran over to check Donahue, and found out that he wasn't dead—the viscera that we had seen was actually dirt that had kicked back at him when the door blew. His knee, though, was out of commission. We loaded him onto one of the tanks, and told him to coordinate defenses. Giles yelled at me.
"Brian, I want you to take Bravo team and gain entrance into the target building. I'll take Alpha team, and the tankers will provide covering fire. Ready?"
"Roger that, Sarge. Bravo team! On my lead, huah!" We leaped forward, confident that our fellows would protect us. The entrance was right there, right in front of me, yet something inside me screamed that something was wrong. Following my hunch, I stopped and instead ran to one of the numerous side doors. From the briefing we got, I knew this opened up into a small, rarely-used atrium that bypassed the main security checkpoint, probably a strongpoint by now. I placed a small charge on the door, and blew it in. Private O'Hara ran in first, laying down a wall of lead with his squad machine gun.
"The way's cleared, Brian! Let's hoof it!" He screamed back at us. I took a quick glance over my shoulder, and saw Alpha team hot on our heels. Apparently they realized the change in plans, and improvised accordingly. We piled into the Kremlin, lucky to be alive. The Tamin Guards only had assault rifles and machine guns; otherwise the tankers would've called up some of the Halfbacks that usually accompanied them. Nevertheless, the Guards had deadly accurate fire, negated only by our training and willingness to kill.
"Okay, boys, listen up and listen good. We're to race five floors up on foot. Once there, we storm the council room, and either capture or kill anyone in it. If we can capture enough of their command element, we can force the Russians to sue for peace. But, in the here and now, we kill anything that moves? You got me?" Giles asked, looking at each of us.
"Blood makes the green grass grow, sir!" I shouted back, and all of us laughed, but only for a second. We knew that we had to end this, and fast. Our comrades were counting on us.
We began to run. Sure enough, we passed behind the checkpoint, and blasted it from behind. The Guards didn't have a chance. Apparently, they didn't have enough body armor to pass around, and had equipped themselves with old Kevlar gear. It didn't stand a chance against the 6.8mm rounds in our weapons. Almost immediately, we began to charge up the flights of stairs. The tankers kept track of our progress via the Blue Force tracker, and had called in reinforcements. A platoon of one-oh-one airborne had fast-roped onto the Minister's Council roof, and was racing down to meet us. The 101st has always had a good rep with me, despite all the rivalry that might seem apparent. The air assault boys knew what they were doing, and were good at it. I was glad to have them with us.
That didn't mean, though, that it was easy going. The Guards resisted us every step of the way. Grenades, machine guns, even anti-material rifles were hurled their particular breed of death and destruction at us. We were ahead of the curve, though, and kept on beating them back. Our medic, PFC Bradson, was still busy as hell. We absorbed casualties, mostly wounds to extremities, but the wounds made it hard for our guys to return fire. Mostly he applied cursory first aid, and that was enough for most. Halfway up the third flight, though, O'Hara was hit in the leg, one of the few unarmored spots. It looked like an arterial bleed, but Bradson wasn't sure. We left one of our grenadiers behind to cover him as he worked. It put a crimp in our firepower, but the 101 boys had already gotten to the fifth floor, and were helping us up by eliminating the fourth floor.
"Are we glad to see you!" I shouted as I saw the familiar eagle patch on his shoulder.
"Just waiting for you guys to join the party. You bring the beer, or the peanuts?" Again, this was typical soldier humor, so we didn't pay it much mind. We had a mission, and it was damn near over."Corporal, place a charge on that door. We'll blow it, and see if anyone resists. If they do, flash-bang 'em." The lieutenant in charge of the platoon told me. Giles, knowing an experienced officer when he saw one, didn't object. I did as the el-tee ordered, then backed off to blow it. Sure enough, a hail of small-arms fire tore into the wall. Giles threw in two flash-bangs, then covered his eyes. I could see the bright flash, and the fire suddenly ceased. We raced in, covering each other and blasting the Guards down. Amazingly, the 'command element' was all there—they thought they could still carry out a meeting in time of war, right in their own damn city! We Rangers didn't waste time. We zip-tied the subjects wrist and ankle, and radioed in for a chopper. We got word that several were heading in to reinforce our position. Every single Russian was converging on the Kremlin. They had realized what was up, and wanted to stop it. Thinking quickly, the one-oh-one lieutenant activated a jammer, and I was confused. Giles looked at me.
"These Russians probably have kill-chips. If the Russkies fail to capture the Kremlin, they'll kill the command element themselves. It would essentially be suicide, in terms of how their military works, but it would make them martyrs. We don't want that." Giles turned and started up toward the roof. The Rangers took up the rear, and the 101 boys took the subjects up between us. Sure enough, once we got to the roof there were two Black Hawks waiting for us. We got the subjects loaded, then waved them away. We still had to contend with the Russians on the ground.
The M5s fanned out in a classic defensive formation, blasting away at the Russians. Our attack choppers and Razorbacks kept blasting away at them, with small mushroom clouds bursting up occasionally. The rest of the JSF Moscow operation came roaring in, and we just sat back. The Russian attack was decimated, obliterated, annihilated. We had won. A small squad of Rangers and a platoon of 101st boys stood on the Kremlin's roof and watched the dawn rise on the rainy, overcast morning of 31 August 2024. It was this day that the war was won.
A week later, the Russians were forced to an unconditional surrender. All of the Rangers were awarded Medals of Honor, for undertaking the mission without informing higher. The tankers and airborne guys received DFCs and Silver stars. Every man in the squad is still in the service, but for me, the satisfaction wasn't in the medals or the ticker-tape parades or the girls that wanted me once they saw that medal on my neck. It was the feeling of exhilaration and joy that the squad had survived the entire war intact, seeing that Moscow dawn.