Freedom Fighters: The Rooftop
The ground was thickly layered with snow, and more fell from the rolling grey clouds above, keeping up its persistent part in the war effort. New York in the Winter was perfect for the kind of disorganised Guerrilla war they were fighting against the Soviet Liberation Army. In the Winter they not only had the wilderness of deserted apartment blocks, warehouses, tenements, factories, and storefronts they had all the year round, but they had the snow to deaden the sounds of footfalls and gunshots, and the right choice of colours could render you almost invisible to the eye from a distance.
This year, the freedom fighters would use these advantages, and make their enemies pay dearly for their past transgressions. The Soviet combat team consisted of two squads of ten men, nine regulars and a Sergeant to a squad. You could always tell which ones were Sergeants by the red beret, the only thing they wore that was different to the rest of the men, besides the insignias on their shoulders, but you couldn't really see those from a distance. The idea of the trap was simple-you take out enough Soviet sentries, somebody notices. That somebody calls in an armoured car full of reinforcements. If you had no anti-armour weaponry, which almost nobody did, you waited for the vehicle to retreat to the nearest command centre to await the next call. Then you lured the reinforcement unit into the ambush. About sixty Soviet soldiers were killed a week through the use of this plan, and yet they did not seem to have caught on yet.
The form of the ambush might vary, but the theory was the same. Now the twenty soldiers were cautiously moving up along the freeway. Just behind the parapet that divided the two halves of the freeway, five rebels crouched, spread out with about a metre space between them. A sixth freedom fighter armed with a Dragunov sniper's rifle was positioned atop an intact apartment block that stood next to the freeway to the Northeast. There were only six freedom fighters, but the stupidity of Russian troops and the element of surprise constituted the large part of a victorious engagement.
His name was Frederick Harold Marshall, a twenty-two year old Department Store Clerk. He was about six-four with what had been short brown hair once upon a time, but now was long and straggling. He wore black pants, a pair of 'requisitioned' Soviet army boots, fingerless gloves, a dark shirt, and a snow-camouflage jacket the six men had also 'requisitioned' a weak before from an ambush like this one. He was barely recognisable when considered next to the image of him in a family photo taken a year ago in Boston. He hoped one day he could see the city from whence he hailed just one more time, but that seemed unlikely. A rebel's life expectancy wasn't high these days-if the Soviets didn't get you then the cold might, or the lack of food. "Hey, Fred, get ready dude. They're almost on top of us." came the hushed tones of a nineteen-year-old street kid who he knew only as Johnny. The group of rebels had pulled him out of an ambushed Soviet prison van, in which he had been thrown by Soviet security forces for jaywalking. He had grabbed an AK and shot two of the soldiers himself, and had stuck around since then. He had cold blue eyes that you could swear looked straight through you, and black hair down to his shoulders. Right now the hood of his jacket was up, and you couldn't see it. Only those piercing eyes.
Marshall nodded, and tightened his right hand on his AK-47's pistol grip. He brought his left hand to the foregrip of the assault rifle, and prepared to spring the trap.
They didn't hear the sound of the sniper rifle due to the deadening snow, the direction of the wind, and the distance, but you could tell it had been fired by the cries of alarm as one of the sergeants went down, a 7.62 mm round through his eye. The man hit the tarmac surface of the freeway hard with the force of the bullet, and a gout of blood splashed the white of the snow, turning it crimson. "Now!" came the cry from further along the parapet, and the five rebels came up just as the second shot from the sniper felled the other sergeant and he began firing at the regulars. The five-man fire team opened up on full-auto. A dozen of the troops were cut down by the initial fusillade, a vicious hail of fire that sent the survivors scurrying down the roadway. Four made it off the freeway due to the sniper's fire. They leapt from the outside parapet and landed on the road below. One damaged a leg somehow but the others didn't dare go back for him. But the rebels didn't pursue. No point killing those they didn't have to. It was a dangerous thing to become desensitised to the killing. Thankfully, Fred Marshall was still at the stage where he could lie to himself and say he hadn't got to that point yet.
As the saying goes, denial isn't just a river in Egypt.
The squad moved out onto the killing field and began to police the weapons of the dead Soviet troops, their bodies already becoming absorbed by the snow.
The rebel sniper Vincenzo Fucile could see his five comrades through his scope. He grinned. It was a pity some of them had run, but at least the ambush had been successful. They had been running low on ammunition and grenades-pretty soon they would have been forced to use harsh language and spit wads.
He zoomed out the scope and prepared to pack up when his grin faded.
He zoomed in on the window of an apartment block in the southwest that adjoined the freeway, opposite him. He zoomed in as far as he could using the powerful scope, drew the crosshairs over the window. Movement in the shadows, then figures in Soviet uniforms began emerging. They weren't rebels-they were wearing the full uniforms of Soviet regulars. There were maybe ten of them. Panic gripped the Italian-American University Graduate, and he wiped sweat from his brow above his dark eyes and brushed locks of his dark hair out of his face. He had three rounds left in the magazine so he exchanged it for a fresh one, then put the scope to his eye. He drew the crosshairs over the lead soldier's neck, going for a deliberately agonising shot-it was harsh but he needed the man to make a lot of noise, draw the attention of his friends.
My friends. How strange a way to put it. Perhaps they are, in a way.
He fired.
The strangled sound and the splashing of blood alerted Daniel Carter first. He was an ex-marine, and therefore the voted leader of the little squad of rebels. He was tall, and muscular, with dark skin, brown eyes that were almost black, and a shaved head, over which he wore a baseball cap. His senses had been honed by training, and he spun, dropped to one knee, raised the Kalashnikov in his hands, and sighted on the next soldier in the advancing group. He squeezed off a burst which hit the soldier in the face, killing him outright. The other four followed his lead a split-second slower, crouched and began to fire. "Fall back! Try and make it to Eagle-eye's apartment block. Use the cars as cover. Marshall, you go first!" he bellowed the order whilst keeping the Soviet soldiers ducking. There were shouts in Russian and a grenade flew over the parapet, but Johnny managed to get his hands on it and throw it back. There was a boom and strangled cries.
"Good one, Johnny! Marshall, where the hell is that covering fire"
"Right here Danny!" came the reply, and the sound of auto-fire filled the air. "Mike! You next!" Carter yelled as he reloaded his weapon. The Soviets were suppressed behind the parapet for the most part, but occasionally a shot from the enemy would ring past and bury itself in the outside parapet or the burned out car Marshall was using as a firing position. The local policeman Michael 'Red' O' Shea fell back to the car and hit Marshall on the shoulder, who bounded to the next car along. The two men renewed the cover fire. The next freedom fighter fell back, a man named Harry Yale, leaving Johnny and Carter.
"Get going Johnny!"
No answer.
"Johnny?"
Carter turned and saw Johnny lying in the snow, a gunshot wound in his stomach, a pool of blood spreading around them. He coughed, and his chin was covered in crimson liquid.
"Shit! I'm coming in with Johnny, guys, keep that cover going"
Firing intensified and Carter grabbed Johnny by the scruff of the neck and dragged him along into cover behind the car. It was hard work, carrying Johnny, and bounding from wrecked vehicle to wrecked vehicle, moving steadily towards the snipers nest, but at least they could make a decent stand there.
The snow stopped at some stage, giving Vincenzo clearer visual of the enemy unit. It had been reinforced, now thirty men were moving steadily long the parapet firing. He reloaded and began to add his fire to the fight now the Soviets were exposing themselves more frequently. Soon they were ducking again due to his deadly fire. Seven shots, seven kills. Admirable by any standard. He checked his sidearm, a Makarov he had taken from a high-ranking Soviet officer after blasting his brains out all over his aide. It was a trophy, and handy in a fight too.
He had a feeling he'd be needing it.
He returned to his prey.
He heard the footsteps at the last possible moment and rolled.
The Russian sniper had obviously been looking for a position of his own and found it occupied. He had done the same thing himself. It would cost this sniper his life. The Soviet drew a long blade from within his snow-camouflaged fatigues. He leapt upon the prostrate figure of the rebel, the knife-blade coming down in a gleaming arc that failed to connect as the rebel thrust out a leg, stopping the Russian's descent and rolling him off to the side, against the parapet of the rooftop. The dark-eyed Soviet recovered and leapt at him as he struggled to draw the Makarov, sending the compact pistol skittering off through the snow on the roof. Vincenzo managed to grab the Soviet's right wrist, pushing the knife-hand away. The Soviet grabbed his other shoulder and attempted to force the blade towards him, but Vincenzo twisted away and drove his fist into the soldier's head, right between the eyes, stunning him. He followed up by charging the Soviet down with his shoulder, flooring him. A frantic wrestling match ensued, neither man willing to relinquish the initiative.
Marshall bore the wounded Johnny now, half carrying, half dragging him while the others laid down covering fire, but all this suppression fire was leaving them dangerously low on ammo. The ammo they had stolen from the bodies of the Soviets they had ambushed would keep them going for a while, but if this turned into a drawn out battle they wouldn't last long. He pushed the wounded boy through the window of the North-eastern apartment block as gently as he could, Red helping him through, while Carter and Yale covered, then leapt through himself while the remaining two climbed through. The four men began to take the stairs, rushing for the roof. As they arrived they heard the struggle beyond.
Marshall kicked open the door to the top of the apartment block and raised his rifle.
Vincenzo ducked a sweep of the enemy sniper's knife blade, then slammed his fist into the man's stomach. Or at least, he meant to. The soldier's training took over and he grabbed Vincenzo's wrist, spinning him and grasping him around the neck. The blade came down, and the Italian-American reached up, blocking the knife with both wrists. Then he swung the elbow of his left arm backwards into the kidney of the Russian, once, twice, and finally a third time. This weakened the soldier's grip long enough for the rebel to turn, twisting the knife wrist, and slam the blade into the Russian's belly while it was still in the soldier's own grip. The man looked shocked and stumbled backwards.
The door to the roof flew open, revealing his comrades. Marshall raised his rifle, and put three rounds in the Russian to add insult to injury. The soldier pitched backwards over the parapet, falling to the street below. "Good timing there, Fred." Vincenzo said with a lopsided smirk.
"Hey, screw you man I panicked." There was a moment of easy, appreciative laughter then suddenly the seriousness of the situation re-asserted itself. They dragged Johnny onto the roof and sat him against the parapet. The boy had lost consciousness in the running battle, and his heartbeat was slowing. He wouldn't make it through the next half-hour, let alone through the night.
Such a pointless way to die.
Anger welled up in Marshall's stomach. The door to the roof burst open again, but now he was ready. He snapped up his rifle and opened up.
"What the fuck are you here for! What's the point!" he bellowed, unloading on the foremost soldiers and advancing on the door slowly. The first three men went down with multiple chest and abdomen wounds, impeding the progress of those behind them. Marshall primed a grenade he had taken off one of the dead sergeants and hurled it inside the doorway. He slammed the sheet metal door shut and heard the reverberations and screams, the ping of shrapnel. It satisfied him greatly to hear them shriek and bleed. He hoped to God they were in as much pain as Johnny would be in were he still conscious. More than that. He prayed for it. The Commies had been certain of a quick victory first time, now he had bought himself and his comrades time as they advanced up the stairs at a measured pace, covering the door.
The men with him looked mildly surprised for a moment, then Yale spoke.
"Guys, I hate to rain on the parade here, but there's no way off of this roof"
"Not true." chimed in Red. They all looked at him. "There's a way out through them"
Marshall liked the sound of that.
Next time the Russians tried a push, they sent grenades through first. Which were rolled back.
"You'd think they'd learn to stop doing that." Vincenzo said to Red from their position behind a metal vent stack. Red chuckled.
Marshall and Yale were dug in behind a similar structure across the way, Johnny's unconscious figure in cover behind them. Carter was directly opposite the door, his AK-47 upand propped on a crude barricade of loose bricks and some crates and things they had found lying around. It wouldn't take long for the soldiers to sort out an advance strategy. Then they'd be fighting for their lives.
Harold Yale had been a truck driver before the Invasion-when the Soviet Liberation Army had reached New York, they had torn him from his vehicle and thrown him against the wall along with a bunch of others. Daniel Carter had dropped the Commie troops and Harry had tagged along with him into the alleys and backstreets where they had met up with Red. They had found Marshall and Vincenzo in a basement a few days afterwards. Yale looked at Marshall, feeling in the breast pocket of the ragged workman's overalls he was wearing and took out a pack of cigarettes. He and Marshall had hit it off right away, both of them having a similar sense of humour, which meant a penchant for sarcasm that could rile anybody on the receiving end. When it came to a situation like this, however, the two men knew how to be serious and level-headed.
Yale offered Marshall a cigarette and the man took it gratefully. Yale found a small box of matches in the same pocket and lit the small white cylinders. Marshall nodded his thanks, and took a generous pull, before letting a jet of smoke escape the corner of his mouth.
Now Russian voices echoed up from within the confines of the staircase once again.
Then the staccato beat of helicopter blades filled the cold night air.
"Shit." Marshall muttered. Yale heartily agreed.
Red turned, his grey hair blowing in the wind that was kicking up. He heard the blades of the chopper getting close, and then suddenly the dark bulk of a gunship appeared on the skyline made up of the rooftops of the buildings across the freeway. He heard its chin gun powering up.
"Damn." he muttered.
The chin gun's rotating barrels began to spit lead furiously at the rebels, who threw themselves flat except for Vincenzo. His torso disappeared in a haze of red as he fell apart under the relentless fire of the machine gun.
"No! No!" yelled Red, and rolled as the fire stitched a horizontal line across the tiles of the rooftop towards him, showering him with chips of concrete. He fired his rifle blindly, splashing the windshield with rounds. The chopper thundered sideways in a defensive action, so that it was facing the rooftop side-on. It's side door slid open, and a squad of Soviet soldiers was revealed inside, rifles up and ready. A hail of rounds from the rebels hammered inside the open door, killing the two soldiers nearest the doorway. The three behind dove for cover inside the helicopters protective hull. Red, thinking fast, primed a stolen grenade and hurled it inside. It bounced around inside the chopper and ended up, by some strange quirk of fate, in the cockpit when it detonated.
The chopper's windshield exploded outwards, showering the rooftop with crystalline shards of reinforced glass, and the chopper settled into a final, spiralling landing. "Out of commission!" yelled Red, and had just enough time to end up once again on the floor as the stairs door burst open and Soviets poured out onto the roof.
Danny Carter was returning fire before the first soldier even had his rifle up, but it was painfully apparent it wasn't going to be enough. They had three rifles to the enemy's twenty or so, and death was the only option. But he was damned if the price of their lives wouldn't be a high one. Six of the Russians were down, but the original holding pattern was gone and the Rebels were simply locked in a disorganised fight for their lives, falling back like crazy bastards through the forest of vent openings, chimneys, and vent stacks that littered the roof of the apartment block. He paused behind one such stack to drop another Soviet who strayed too far from the advancing skirmish line threatening to push the rebel troops clean off the roof. The man went down with 7.62mm rounds in his neck, stomach and face, dying with a horrific, strangled cry that entirely failed to curdle Carter's blood. Return fire from another enemy soldier ricocheted from the metal above the ex-marine's head, forcing him into a crouch. He swung his rifle around and forced the man into cover with an answering shot, then continued his fighting retreat at a more measured pace. He could hear sounds of battle from his left and sighed with relief-he wasn't the last man standing. Not this time.
He spotted yet another enemy and raised his weapon, but was distracted by a deep, resonating clang as something bounced off the vent stack to his left.
He looked down, spotting the fragmentation grenade. He hurled himself in the opposite direction, rolling into cover a second too late. The shockwave carried him five feet into the air and brought him back to the hard tile with a heavy thud. He lay there, shell-shocked, ears ringing, dots in front of his eyes. The world was eerily quite except for an incessant, high-pitched whine. He knew he had to find cover, but the thoughts and instincts didn't quite make it to his limbs. He tasted blood. Then someone had him by the scruff of the neck and was dragging him into cover, ducking the incoming enemy fire.
Dazed, the rebel rolled over to see Yale crouched over him, mouthing something. His hearing began to clear and he entered once again the realm of depth perception.
And with this sudden clarity came pain. "God damn, Carter, you scared me for a second." Yale muttered above him, firing his rifle at an unseen target. Carter tried to drag himself into a sitting position, shunting aside the pain. It's in your mind, man. It's in your mind.
It was actually in his leg, and no bullshit marine mantra was going to convince him otherwise. He reached down and pulled the sharp shard of grenade shrapnel from his thigh. He choked back an agonised yell, then reached for his pistol, a Colt 1911 A1, a family heirloom that had become extremely handy since the invasion. Seven forty-five calibre rounds. The weight of the treasured weapon felt good in his hands. He wondered if the months of handling the inferior, mass-produced Soviet weapons had affected his handling of this fine pistol.
His first seven shots proved that it hadn't. Carter allowed himself a small half-smile.
"They're getting close, Carter. We need to move." stated Yale, matter-of-factly, while he ignored a gunshot wound in his upper arm. The adrenalin was still coursing through his veins, and he wouldn't feel the pain until the come-down, Carter knew.
He dropped the empty magazine from his Colt and replaced it with a fresh one, working the slide. "I hear that. Lets go drag Marshall's and Red's asses out of the fire." "Ten-four."
Marshall hurled himself backwards, rifle blazing. One Soviet fell dead, another wounded, as he emptied his final magazine while frantically dodging incoming rounds. He hurled his empty rifle at the enemy line ineffectually, an act of desperate rage. He had lost his jacket, an incendiary grenade having set it on fire, and the chill was cutting through his shirt. He drew the pistol from his waistband, a Berretta 92FS Red had given him. Fifteen in the magazine, two spares. Forty-five rounds was the measure of life left to him. He grimly flicked off the safety, and worked the slide. He would make every last one count. The Soviet came out of nowhere, shoulder-charging him, knocking him flat. The young soldier, for he could not have been more than twenty-five, had a heavy beard for one his age, and he had cold, grey eyes that showed great pain. Pain of the same kind that Marshall felt every damn day. This man was evidently homesick, and so was Marshall, whose home had been taken from him. Marshall wondered if this was one of the conscripts, one of those ripped from their everyday lives, and their families, a man with a story not too different from Marshall's own. Amazing how much more perceptive you were, seconds from death. But he felt almost a kinship with the invader.
"Frederick Harold Marshall." he said aloud. Whether or not the Soviet spoke English, he got the message, and for a fleeting second, Marshall understood that the Soviet felt the kinship too, though they both knew their duties, and Marshall knew that he would have done the same, as the soldier standing over him worked the bolt on his rifle.
"M-Mikhail Dmitri Arkady." the soldier stuttered. Marshall closed his eyes, but heard only a splattering sound, rather than the report of a rifle. His eyes flickered open in time to see the hapless Soviet slump to his right, a round in his chest. "Come on, Marshall." came Red's voice from somewhere behind.
Marshall ignored him, and crouch-walked to the Russian, staying out of the line of fire.
The Soviet slipped something out of the breast pocket of his jacket and forced it into Marshall's hand as the light in his eyes faded.
"Come on Marshall, he's just a Soviet," yelled Red, "we need to find the others"
Red turned away and began to move, and as a result didn't hear Marshall's last utterance.
"Wrong-he's a man first." Suddenly, Marshall was sick of the killing. Sick to his stomach. But his friends were in danger, and he wasn't going to let them down. He picked up his Berretta, leaving the Soviet's rifle by his side, after checking the magazine.
Empty. A hot tear slid down his cheek.
But just one.
Yale and Carter were running out of room to fall back. They were fifteen feet from the edge, and closing. Contacts, to the left-but the two lowered their weapons at the sight of Red, closely followed by a weary-looking Marshall. Even more closely followed by Soviet infantry.
"Keep it tight everybody. Drop 'em as they come, and call targets, we need to save ammo"
"Contacts, two, ten o' clock." called out Red. "I got 'em"
Red's rifle sounded. One soldier was killed outright, the other hit in the gut. It was a mortal wound, and painful by the looks of it.
"Two more, two o' clock!" called out Yale. More rifle fire.
"Focus fire! Five contacts, dead ahead!" Carter shouted out.
There was a brief exchange of rifle fire, a furious firefight that lasted barely eight seconds, but when the gun smoke cleared all five Soviets were down and out. Carter pushed himself to his knees from where Yale had thrown him flat as two Soviets levelled their rifles at the rebels' appointed squad leader.
A grim silence had settled over the rooftop. It was unsettling for a second, and then disbelief took over. Even the wind stopped and examined the scene critically, wondering what was wrong with this picture.
All around, blood stained the snow, empty shell cases and corpses littered the tiled, partially snow-covered rooftop, but Carter couldn't see any living Soviets anywhere.
"Is it clear?" he asked, barely able to believe what he was seeing,his voice breaking the silence in the same way C4 explosives break a dolls house.
"Uh-I think so. Yeah I think so!" came the much-relieved voce of Marshall, who sounded easily as dumbfounded-if not moreso-than Carter. Carter's lips twisted into a smile, but then he remembered Johnny, way too young to die, and Vincenzo, who would have had a glowing life ahead of him if not for the invasion.
The urge to smile faded completely when he realised the volume of lives that had been lost that night.
Yale sounded choked when he finally spoke, spluttering the words.
"Guys-guys look"
The adrenalin was wearing off. Emotions were running high now, the battle taking its real toll.
Carter turned. "It's okay, Yale. We made it, and we'll remember those who died." he had hoped he'd never have to use this speech. "But-" he saw the source of Yale's sudden excess of emotion.
Red lay on his back, three neat holes in his chest. The final casualty of a horrific night.
Frederick Harold Marshall took a crumpled square of laminated paper from his pants pocket, the same square Mikhail Dmitri Arkady had borne so recently, and flattened it out as best he could, its smooth laminate slipping in fingers wet with melted snow. He stood several metres from the miraculously intact churchyard in which Carter and Yale were burying Red and Johnny, and what they could find of Vincenzo.
Two people on a park bench, a young, brunette woman, and a small boy of no more than four, both wearing heavy, warmth-trapping garments. Snow was falling around them, the buildings behind indistinct hulks of darkness, these two bearing the only light. He felt emotion well up in his stomach, and turned the picture over in his hands. Several words were written in Russian in the top left-hand corner.
From Anistasiya and Victor, your beloved wife and son, written in the soldier's native tongue.
Marshall silently slid the picture back into his jeans pocket, and said nothing as he turned to help bury his fallen comrades in the timeless, frozen earth.