Occupation duty. "Just my luck," Private Ivan Petrov thought, "that I get stuck pulling the most boring, tedious duty of the war. Even the monotony of occupation could have been broken up if he were in another part of this wretched Capitalist country. Rumors circulated. The latest buzz among the enlisted men was that soldiers in Florida and California were living it up in the temperate climates of those areas. Here in West Texas there was no such thing as warm. There was just hot. The sweltering heat was bad enough. The humidity, nearly thick enough to cut with a knife, made the heat close to unbearable.
Petrov wanted to be on the front lines. He wanted to prove himself in battle for the motherland. By the time he had gotten to Texas, the fighting in the area had already wrapped up and headed north toward the great plains of the American interior. Ivan was several hundred miles behind the line, and at this rate he would never be able to show his devotion to the Soviet Union.
Today, thankfully, the monotony would be broken up just a bit. Petrov's platoon was traveling to the small city of Midland. Apparently, there had been some problem stamping out local resistance in the area. A small handful of soldiers had already been killed at the hands of these insurgents. The high command was hoping that a larger troop presence would be able to stop the bloodshed and stamp out these American resisters.
On the side of Highway 385, a small band of men secretly watched as the small convoy of Soviet troop trucks drew closer to them. So far, the men had limited themselves to small scale operations. They would slip silently into the area and snipe Russian soldiers when they got the chance. A couple of carefully aimed Molotov cocktails had destroyed light Soviet vehicles.
That all changed several days ago. The men raided a small Soviet ammo dump, and were able to get their hands on some major ordinance. Now, in their most large scale operation since taking up arms against the occupiers, they were going to put that ordinance to use.
The man with the detonator waited until the truck in the middle of the convoy was nearest to the improvised explosive devise before detonating it.
Petrov could see the flash out of the corner of his eye. The truck traveling behind the one he was in seemed to jump straight up into the air. Flames were licking at the canvas covered area at the back of the vehicle. It slammed back onto the ground on it's right side as soldiers, some of them already on fire, spilled out from the back.
The other trucks in the convoy stopped. Petrov, and his fellow soldiers began to exit the truck and deploy to deal with the threat. As they, and other soldiers fanned out onto the highway, all hell broke lose. Plumes of smoke streaked their way to some of the unharmed trucks. One, two, then three more trucks were dispatched with brilliant explosions.
"RPG!" Petrov yelled. "There in the field!" Petrov pointed to the tall, overgrown grass where he had seen at least one RPG come from.
Wounded soldiers screamed for help, screamed for their mothers, screamed for mercy. The smell of burning fuel and the sickly sweet stench of burning flesh blended together. Trucks and bodies burned. Chaos and confusion was going to quickly take over if the surviving platoon leaders didn't take charge quickly.
His platoon leader. Lieutenant Fillipov, was trying his best to issue orders to the platoon
"The Americans!" Fillipov shouted. "They're hiding in the grass. Get in there and show them how the Soviet Union treats insurgent..."
Before he could finish Fillipov head snapped back, as the back of his head exploded in a pink mist. He fell dead. AK-47 fire erupted from the grass on both sides of the highway. More Soviets fell. Most them howled in pain. Many others fell without making any kind of sound at all. Another truck was rocked by an explosion.
Petrov heard a dull thump. He looked down, and noticed the grenade no more then several feet from him. Before he or any of his fellow soldiers could react, he was thrown through the air.
Ivan Petrov was thrown through the air like a rag doll. When he hit the ground, he knew he had to get back to his feet and take those damned Americans out. When he stood up and realized that he didn't have his rifle with him. He must have dropped it when he was thrown around. He looked down, and saw his rifle at his feet...
...Still being held in his right hand. It was then that Petrov finally noticed the bloody, ragged stump where his right arm used to be. The entire right side of his body was covered in blood. A wave if dizziness overtook him, and he sat on the surface of the bloody, burning highway.
He could see so many of the friends from his platoon laying around him dead and dying. He watched as several Russian soldiers were closing in on the positions of some of the American insurgents. One of the soldiers went down. The other two moved the grass in front of them with AK-47 fire. Petrov hoped that they got the American bastard that they were aiming for.
Petrov wondered why he wasn't in pain. His arm had been blown off by a grenade, yet he couldn't feel a thing. It seemed like he should feel something. He was being overcome by an intense tiredness, however. "How strange that I would be tired at this time. With everything that's going on, how can I be tired?"
No one noticed Private Ivan Petrov stop breathing. He was just one more dead Russian on Highway 385