Red dog winds of war boo.., p.1
Red Dog (Winds of War Book 8), page 1
Other Books by William C. Dietz
THE WINDS OF WAR SERIES
Red Ice
Red Flood
Red Dragon
Red Thunder
Red Tide
Red Sands
Red River
Red Dog
AMERICA RISING SERIES
Into the Guns
Seek and Destroy
Battle Hymn
MUTANT FILES SERIES
Deadeye
Redzone
Graveyard
LEGION OF THE DAMNED SERIES
Legion of the Damned
The Final Battle
By Blood Alone
By Force of Arms
For More Than Glory
For Those Who Fell
When All Seems Lost
When Duty Calls
A Fighting Chance
Andromeda’s Fall
Andromeda’s Choice
Andromeda’s War
RED DOG
WILLIAM C. DIETZ
Wind’s End Publishing
Copyright © 2023 by William C. Dietz
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination, or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
Cover art by Damonza
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT AND DEDICATION
RED DOG would have been impossible without the technical advice I received from Vietnam War Chinook pilot Jim Weatherill, a true American hero.
During Jim’s combat tour he was awarded the Air Medal, which is given for single acts of heroism or meritorious achievement in a combat zone.
More than that, Jim was subsequently awarded thirty oak leaf clusters, each representing another air medal.
Jim was also the recipient of an Army Commendation Medal for meritorious service, plus the Broken Wing Award for the emergency landing that followed an engine failure.
Jim is also an accomplished writer, who in partnership with his wife Anne, wrote THE BLADES CARRY ME.
THE BLADES CARRY ME is the hair-raising account of Jim’s exploits in Vietnam, as well as the touching story of what life was like for Anne back in the United States.
“BLADES” is a must-read.
And now, with WHEN PATHS CROSS, Jim brings his writing talent to fiction.
Highly recommended!
This book is dedicated to Jim, and all of the other pilots who flew helicopters in Nam, thank you one and all.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
Syria
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Author’s Notes
About the Winds of War Series
About William C. Dietz
SYRIA
CHAPTER ONE
Northwest, Syria
The CH-47D Chinook helicopter was passing through a mountain pass in the coastal Al-Ansariyyah range as it came under fire. There was no way to know by whom, because it could have been ISIS, al-Qaeda, Iranian regulars or bandits. And that didn’t matter.
What mattered was that the Chinook had been hit. And, thanks to the audible alarms and the read outs in front of her, army Captain Marie Soto knew that the port engine was failing and the heavily laden helo was losing altitude as a result.
“I think the bastards are firing down on us,” co-pilot Jonny Lee observed. “And they hit one of our transmissions.”
Chinooks have five transmissions, all connected by drive shafts. That made for a lot of moving parts and a lot of things that could go wrong.
“Yeah, more like two or three of them,” Soto replied, as the second engine lost power.
“We’re taking fire from both sides,” her crew chief warned. “And trailing smoke.”
Soto’s job was to maintain control and keep her passengers alive. “We’re going down Chief. Pass the word. Get the APU (auxiliary power unit) started Jonny! We don’t have time for the checklist. Pull the fire handles and follow me on the controls.”
Lee ran the engine failure list from memory. Engine condition levers, generator switches, fuel pumps and many more. Each item required a visual check and acknowledgement.
The ground was coming up fast. Soto managed a quick warning to the crew and passengers. “Hang on! We’re going in hard.”
Soto could see her landing spot through the plexiglass under the yaw pedals. Draw a horizontal line and tip it down 70 degrees. That was the correct glide angle.
Soto caused the Chinook to flare and nearly stop. But the landing area fell away and the front wheels hit hard. The helicopter skidded and the slowing rotors slammed into a boulder.
The impact threw the helo’s passengers around as the rotors pounded to a stop.
“Let’s shut this thing down,” Soto said calmly. “The last thing we need is a fire.”
Crew Chief Alma Alvarez was back in the cargo area. The sound of her voice carried all the way to the cockpit. “Check the people on either side of you! Help them if they need it… And get out of the helicopter now!”
The Chinook was carrying forty-nine soldiers plus crew. Alvarez gave instructions to her crew as passengers left via the rear hatch. “Pull the guns. I’ll bring the grenade launcher. We’ll return the ammo. This is tango territory. Who knows what sort of riff raff the crash will attract.”
The passengers were replacements for casualties or people who had rotated out. That meant they weren’t a coherent unit. Some were 11B infantry, but most were techs, medics, and mechanics.
That was irrelevant, however. “Every soldier, a rifleman.” A phrase coined to convey the concept that army personnel are warriors first, regardless of their MOS (military occupational specialty).
With only a few exceptions, they were armed. That’s why Captain Roy Preston felt good about the group’s capacity to defend itself.
But Preston didn’t feel so good about his ability to lead them. He was a supply officer after all. But he’d been through officer training, and that would have to do.
And, when a master sergeant stepped up to salute him, Preston knew that his ass was golden. “Sergeant Clay, sir… What’s the plan?”
Preston grinned. “I’m no expert Sergeant, but I’d say we should establish a perimeter ASAP. I would appreciate your help.”
“No prob, sir. We’ve got some noncoms. I’ll appoint four squad leaders, divide the troops equally, and give each squad a quadrant to protect.”
That was when Soto arrived. She was wearing a tac vest and carrying an M4 carbine. “Have we got injuries?”
“Nothing serious,” Clay answered. “Some lacerations, contusions and sprains. No purple hearts.”
Soto nodded. “Good. I heard you mention a perimeter. My crew pulled their guns. Please site them where you think they’ll be most effective.”
“Will do,” Clay replied. “I’ll let you know once I’ve had a chance to look things over. Can we expect air support?”
“We can,” Soto replied. “Two A-10s are on the way.”
“I’ll tell the troops,” Clay volunteered. “That’ll be good for morale.” Then he left.
“We lucked out,” Preston said. “It’s clear that Clay knows what he’s doing. And, we had a pro in the cockpit. The landing sucked but I’ll take it.”
Soto laughed and offered her hand. “Marie Soto.”
“Roy Preston. You go clockwise, and I’ll go counterclockwise. Let’s see what kind of condition our condition is in.”
The first thing Soto noticed was how arid the countryside was compared to the fertile land on the west side of the mountains.
Still, judging from the presence of an old farmhouse, and a rusty water tank, it appeared that someone tried to grow crops there. Tried and failed.
Then Soto paused to eyeball the slopes above. The Nikon binoculars were part of her personal survival kit, and powerful in spite of their diminutive size.
The tan colored rock was home to fan-shaped scree fields, a scattering of wind twisted trees, and at least two mountain goats. Is an observer looking down on us? Soto wondered. While his posse comes our way? Soto saw a momentary reflection, and knew the answer.
“Excuse me, ma’am,” a private said. “Your crew chief sent me. We’re taking everything off the Chinook. Should we store it in the farmhouse?”
“No,” Soto replied. “That’s the first thing the tangos will fire on if they show up. Divide the stuff by four and establish separate dumps.”
Just then a mortar round lan ded on the house, exploded, and hurled debris in every direction. The soldier stared at her. He said, “Yes, ma’am,” and ran off.
Soto took off at a jog and circled the perimeter to the point where Clay was dispatching runners hither and yon. A round landed on the Chinook, exploded, and triggered a fuel fire. There was a loud WHUMP, flames shot straight up, and debris cartwheeled through the air. “They didn’t waste any time,” Clay observed, as Soto knelt next to him.
“I think they have an observer on the mountain,” Soto told him. “He’s walking the rounds in. They assume air support will arrive soon, and want to score on us before that happens.”
“Let’s hope the zoomies put the pedal to the metal,” Clay replied. “In the meantime, let’s circle the perimeter. When the shelling stops, the tangos will attack. Warn the troops.”
Soto wanted to find a hole and crawl in, but knew the sergeant was right, and forced herself to scuttle from position to position spreading the word. Most of the soldiers were busy scraping out firing positions and stacking rocks.
Soto was inspecting her third defensive position when the shelling stopped. A reedy cry of “Allahu akbar!” (God is most great) was heard, accompanied by the chatter of automatic weapons, and the realization that the attackers were closer than Soto had assumed.
The enemy fighters rose from the ground like wraiths, each wearing a homemade ghillie suit, and charged. Not everywhere, but at a single point on the perimeter, where they hoped to break through. The target was twenty yards to Soto’s left.
“Hold your ground!” she yelled. “Don’t leave your positions!”
Otherwise, a reserve force could surge in to take ground, Soto thought. Who are these bastards? Somebody knows what they’re doing.
A series of explosions marched across the ground outside the perimeter, and Soto saw an arm somersault through the air, as Alvarez fired her M79 grenade launcher.
The weapon had been a favorite in Vietnam, and was still in use, even though six shot launchers were available. “Morir hijos de puta!” (Die mother fuckers) Alvarez shouted, while bullets kicked up geysers of dust all around her. That’s when Lee tackled the crew chief from behind and most likely saved her life.
The grenades did the trick though, and tangos fortunate enough to survive the barrage of grenades went flat, and tried to disappear. Clay was on-scene by then shooting enemy fighters with a machine-like efficiency.
Soto’s HOOK 3 radio burped static. “Wizard-Two-Two, this is Dozer and Vapor in from the north with guns, rockets, and bombs. Pop smoke to mark your perimeter. Over.”
Soto hurried to respond. “This is Wizard-Two-Two… Welcome to the hood. Standby. Radios are in short supply. I’ll pass the word. Over.”
Dozer’s reply was drowned out by the roar of twin turbofan engines as a “Hog” roared overhead, quickly followed by its twin.
It appeared that the tangos knew what was coming because some of them popped up and ran. “Aimed fire only!” Clay bellowed. “Conserve your ammo!”
Soto’s runner ran hunched over as enemy bullets snapped past him. Purple smoke, the only color the Chinook carried, billowed in his wake. “Standby Wizard-Two-Two,” Dozer said. “Daddy gonna mow the lawn. Over.”
What followed was a textbook example of what air support could do. Rockets flashed off rails, and gravity bombs tumbled through the air, soon followed by the unmistakable roar of GAU-8/A Avenger rotary cannons. A single gun run was sufficient to silence the battlefield.
“Hey Wiz,” Dozer said. “Sorry we can’t linger. But we’ve got a customer east of here who wants your leftovers. A QRF (quick reaction force) is headed this way, ETA three hours. Hasta la vista.” And with that, the planes banked then flew east.
Soto noticed that the shadows had grown longer and the light was starting to fade. Shit, shit, shit. Night was about to fall. Would the tangos try to creep in under the cover of darkness? Probably. Soto went looking for Preston and Clay. The captain was nowhere to be seen. But the sergeant was making the rounds. “This is your chance to improve your firing position, son…”
“Two swallows of water Corporal, that’s all you get, pass it along.”
“What the hell? Who’s the idiot who took a dump here? Order them to dig a pit toilet.”
“Hello, Captain… Kudos to your crew chief. She has balls.”
“I’m sure she’ll be pleased to hear it,” Soto replied dryly. “Where’s Captain Preston?”
Clay made a face. “KIA, ma’am. He took a bullet to the head.”
Soto winced. “How many?”
“Four killed and seven wounded. Two seriously.”
Soto looked around to make sure that no one else could hear. “So, Sergeant… Based on your experience how bad will this get tonight?”
“Well, there’s no way to be sure,” Clay answered. “But if I had to guess, I’d say it’s gonna be an eight, on a scale of one to ten.”
“That bad?”
“Yeah, that bad.”
“What do you recommend?”
“Ration water, feed the troops whatever we have, keep two thirds of our force on watch, establish listening posts, and redistribute the remaining ammo. Some people are short and others aren’t.”
Soto nodded. “As Picard would say, ‘Make it so.’”
“I’m more of a STAR WARS fan,” Clay replied. “But, yes ma’am.”
The explosion caught Soto by surprise, and caused her to flinch. “Mortars,” Clay said. “The tangos know the planes are gone.”
Downed aircraft had a high priority with the folks at Central Command. And Soto took advantage of that to request a second ground support mission. “The tangos are pounding us with mortars. And there isn’t much cover. Send more Hogs. Over.”
“Roger that, Wizard. Prepare to mark your position with flares. Over.”
A full twenty minutes passed before a plane roared overhead. “Wizard-Two-Two, this is Boots. I am an A-10 with guns, rockets and bombs. My wingman had to turn back, so I’m solo tonight, but ready to party. What you got? Over.”
Soto couldn’t help but laugh in response to the other woman’s patter. “Boots, this is Wizard. We’re surrounded. The tangos are firing on us with indirect. Flares are ready. Over.”
“Light ‘em up,” Boots said cheerfully. “Then duck for cover. Over.”
Soto turned to a runner. “Flares in five. Tell ‘em.”
The kid took off as Soto spoke. “We’re short on radios, Boots. Give us five while we spread the word.”
“Roger that,” Boots replied. “In the meantime, I’ll try to scare the shit out of them. Over.”
The mortar fire slowed and stopped as Boots made low altitude passes over the area. The tangos, whoever they were, responded with small arms fire.
Soto had a high level of admiration for Boots, and her willingness to draw fire to protect the people on the ground, but couldn’t help but worry. All it would take was what aviators called a “golden BB” to hit the Hog in the right place, and bring the flying tank down. A possibility that Soto, as a Chinook pilot, worried about all the time.
Boots was still at it when the runner returned. “All squad leaders have been notified, ma’am. And the countdown is underway.”
“Boots, this is Wizard. You’ll see the flares shortly. Make your first run when you’re ready. Over.”
“Gotcha Wizard,” the A-10 pilot replied. “The groundfire is heaviest south of your position. I’ll start there. Over.”
A series of explosions, each marked by an orange-red flash of light, and a resonant BOOM, marched across the flat land to the south.
There was no way to accurately assess the damage inflicted by the gravity bombs, but given the massed groundfire originating from that area, Soto assumed that a whole lot of hajis were headed for heaven.
Then Boots switched her attention to the east. Rockets slashed in, flashes of light marked hits, and Soto saw a momentary billow of flame as a vehicle took a hit.
“Uh oh,” Boots said. “I have multiple lock-ons. Firing flares… Too many… Punching out.”
The explosion was so bright it illuminated the entire area. But only for a couple of seconds as fiery debris rained from the sky, hit the ground, and was lost in the darkness. “She-it,” Clay said. “Did she make it?”
