Chapter 46 Terrian Torment And Aerial Eyes

With the night ready to fall, every maneuver that would have to be carried out in the dark would ultimately present dangers for Colonel Rickson and his hodgepodge of salvaged tanks and weary Marines. The forest pressed in from all sides, an inescapable barrier of redwoods and firs obscuring any sense of distance. Although Bohemium Grove still loomed ahead—their enemy's lair. Observing the land ahead through the unseen green maze, made the chances for success unattainable at this rate.

The armored infantry vehicles had to be ditched, succumbing to California's impregnable obstacles. Engines coughed, fuel leaked, leaving the Marines no other option but to cram in as passengers with the other tanks.

Still, the outdated tanks pressed on, their caterpillar tracks audibly grinding against damp earth and unforgiving rocks. Wrestling with the lack of modern recon equipment, Colonel Rickson's once-promised coordinated advance had deteriorated into a collection of disjointed quests, resulting in challenging terrain and blind-leaved alleys. He strained his eyes, peering through the periscope, its limited field of view offering only a myopic snapshot of the outside world.

It felt like navigating blindly, akin to driving with a blindfold on.

It wasn't all bad though; they still had the two choppers piloted by the Bloodies for company. They continued to survey from above, drifting in sweeping passes with dwindling precious fuel, racing against the setting sun.

Donald Trump's voice came from the seat behind him, with his usual impatience.

"See anything yet, Rickson?"

"Nothing but trees, trees, and more trees, Mr. President."

"I would have loaded up some nukes on Air Force One and blown the shit out of them. That's what I would have done."

"I'm right with you, sir. It's a shame Wang and Pushkin are using it as their personal envoy plane these days."

"Not for long, they won't."

"That's the spirit, Mr. Trump."

"What about you, Grey? Anything up top?" Rickson shouted.

Being the lowest denominator when it came to order of importance. Grey got the bum deal, clinging for dear life atop the rickety turret of Rickson's lead tank. With each lurch forward, pine needles snatched at him, leaving angry red scratches along his exposed forearms like spiky windscreen wipers.

Two dark shapes caught his eye, flitting between the trees, almost blending with the shadows.

"There are some black figures down there!" he yelled.

"Two of them, I think."

Grey ducked low as a particularly thick branch whipped past, snapping inches from his head. The tank lurched again, nearly throwing him off balance as he dug his fingers into the cold, ridged metal of the hatch rim for support. Trump hauled himself up using the rear gunner for leverage.

"Black? Like...enemy uniforms?" said a war-hungry President.

It came from somewhere off to the right—a gunshot, sharp and jarring, followed by another. Grey and Trump thought they were dead men.

"What the...?"

Before Colonel Rickson could ponder the situation further, his headset buzzed to life with Asp's sheepish voice.

"Colonel, that's us. We just shot a couple of very surprised grizzly bears."

"Could that not have been avoided without nearly blowing our entire cover?"

"Target practice, Colonel. If it moves, we shoot it! That's how we roll."

"I make the call about what can be shot at and what cannot. You get me?"

"If you say so, Colonel Rickson."

A wave of dissatisfaction crept over Rickson. Grizzlies? In a firefight with enemy soldiers, new weapons and adversary vehicles could be elicited. Wang's and Pushkin's foot soldiers had the lay of the land—more than they did at this moment in time—but territorial wildlife. He stole a glance at Trump, who had already sprung into an offensive position, locked and loaded on the rear gunner.

"Time to go, Rickson?"

Rickson sighed. "Negative, Mr. President. It was just a couple of grumpy bears."

Trump climbed down, followed by Grey scrambling down, his face scratched and leaves tangled in his thinning hair. Trump looked at Grey.

"At least someone found some excitement tonight. Even if it was the wrong kind."

At this point, the sun was dipping below the horizon; its fading light, dancing away in the deepening darkness. They still had a long way to go, and Bohemium Grove remained elusive.

"You know what you have demonstrated to me so far, Rickson?"

"I'm sure you're going to remind me, Mr. President."

"Yeah, that's exactly what I'm going to do. This whole mission has been haphazardly cobbled together with nothing but duct tape and wishful thinking. Am I wrong in my thinking?"

Colonel Rickson started to respond to Trump's angry outburst only to be cut off by more radio signals coming his way from one of the choppers. Grey and Trump leaned in to listen as the pilot dialed in.

"It's the Bloodies in Commodore One reporting to ground units; we're running low on fuel up here. Gonna have to set down about 10 miles west of you. We've got some information for you. I don't think you're going to like it."

"Indulge me. It can't get any worse. Can it?"

"Ooh, it can trust me. Steep cliffs pave the forest east and west of you, and I don't fancy your odds there."

"Thanks for the heads up, Commodore One," Rickson said with resignation.

"We await your next call up, Colonel."

"Will do."

"Give me a site report, Commodore Two,” Rickson demanded.

"The treeline’s thick as a brick wall, as far as we can see."

Trump snatched the radio from Rickson’s grip, much to his behest.

"This is Trump. I’m running the show now. Tell me something we don't know. Commodore Two?"

"We've spotted a river cutting through ahead of you."

"How far out?"

"It's just a click away. 1km ahead of you. Your options are to follow the rapids or backtrack."

"That’s not on the table!" Trump retorted.

"Just a heads up, those rapids are no joke."

"And where do they lead, Commodore Two?"

"Directly to the edge of Bohemium Grove, if you’ve got the bollocks for it. Otherwise, it’s a sheer drop down some cliffs to the east and west of you, and I don't fancy your chances there."

"Yeah, I heard that already. Fuck! Over and out. Stand by for orders."

With a slam, Trump returned the radio to its cradle, his face reddening with frustration.

"Rickson, these choppers are useless to us right now! We need to get a move on, and quick!"

Rickson held his ground despite the mounting pressure.

"Mr. President, with all due respect, we need to assess the situation before making any rash decisions."

"There's no time for assessments, Rickson! We’re losing light, burning fuel, and most of all my patience is on its last thread. Step away from that scope and let me see what we're dealing with here."

Caught between the pillar of military protocol and the hard place of Trump’s iron will, Rickson knew better than to argue. He stepped back, allowing Trump to take his place at the periscope. Scanning the dense forest through the magnified lens, Trump began to strategize their next move. The game was on with the dismissal of Colonel Rickson's command.

"You know, I'm no military mind," Grey piped up from behind.

"Go on, I'm listening," said Trump uninterestingly.

"Why not just blast our way through?"

Colonel Rickson shot Grey with dagger eyes.

"What? put a spotlight on exactly where we are. Brilliant idea, Grey. Not!"

"Hear him out, Colonel Rickson. Unless you have any bright ideas."

A calculating flicker sparked in Grey's eyes. "Mr. President, what if we didn't try to sneak in? What if we lured them out?"

Trump perked up, intrigued. "Lure them out? How?"

"We make some noise," Grey said.

"Cause a controlled distraction. See where they come from, their numbers, tactics. Then… Who knows?"

Colonel Rickson knew exactly where Grey was heading—a daring ambush, a hijacking under the cover of darkness. Trump, however, slapped his knee with a grin.

"A spring attack! Now, that's what I'm talking about! Rickson, what do you think?"

"It's a little unorthodox, reckless even. Mr. President, with caution, we need a precise plan, minimal casualties, and..."

"And what, Rickson? This whole situation is unorthodox. Our odds of being killed anyway are stacked against us. Fuck it!"

"I have seen 'Apocalypse Now' enough times to know how this all works," said Grey.

"Let's capture a couple of their soldiers for a little chat and show these Grove dwellers what happens when you mess with the American eagle," Trump finished up.

A cobbled-together last-ditch plan took root in Colonel Rickson's mind. It was reckless, bordering on suicidal, but it dovetailed perfectly with President Trump's volatile nature. They would become the bait, luring their unseen enemy into a deadly trap. Every tick of the clock spoke of the possibility of discovery, ambush, or annihilation. Rickson barked orders into the radio with a taut sense of urgency. Asp and Dante, along with the remaining Marines, were to regroup and position themselves in a defensive cluster. Grenades and their meager arsenal of explosives were pooled and distributed. Grey received a heavy ammunition belt along with a quick rookie rundown from Rickson on how to handle the unfamiliar machine gun.

Rickson disappeared into the woods alone planning the the following phase of the assault.

One kilometer in, Rickson stopped and looked around along a downward compression, picking up the sound of water rushing. A thick mist clung to the forest floor. Dark blotches of rich earth spoke of lingering moisture. Exposed tree roots gripped the steepening banks, desperately clinging to the soil, remnants of a river's erosion, he figured.

He slid down the sharp bank to discover the thinning of trees and the parting of mist, revealing a panorama that almost stole his breath away.

A monstrous serpent of whitewater carving its way through the rugged heart of the wilderness.

Mighty boulders, as large as automobiles, were caught in the river’s relentless grasp. Some were submerged, others dislodged. Razor-sharp cliffs climbed on either side. Great timbers, once proud trees, now reduced to driftwood, spun in the churning waters, snatched away by the unforgiving hand of Mother Nature herself.

This was no tame brook or gentle stream. This was a wild river, untamed and unyielding, certainly not for tanks to cross anyway.

Rickson assessed the landscape with a military eye, scouring the riverbeds for any sign of a bridge, a path, or anything else that could offer them safe passage. The river was wide, at least a hundred meters across, and the current impossibly swift. He threw a pebble into the gurgling water. It vanished instantly, swallowed by the hungry rapids. Rickson shoved the radio over his mouth, ready to recount his unsuccessful jaunt.

"Mr. President, I have found that river reported in by Commodore Two."

"Trump is in range. What have you got for me?"

"In my expert opinion, there's no crossing this," Rickson stated flatly.

"Expert?" Trump burst out.

"I don't need experts. I need results."

"Mr. President, sir, These rapids are Class V at least. Even experts wouldn't attempt this."

"Give me five minutes, Rickson, and let me be the judge of that."

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"Be my guest."

Pretty soon, the rumble of treads announced the approach of the armored column cresting the rise. Rickson pivoted as the tanks lumbered to a stop along the riverbank, jostling for space on the narrow strip of land.

Asp and Dante surfaced from the hatches first. Their war-hardened eyes were tempered by the harsh realities of the environment.

"Well, fuck me; Rickson wasn't joking," Asp remarked.

"Ain't no way over that unless you've got wings," said Dante.

"Maybe the choppers had the right idea of bugging out early."

One by one, the crew jumped down from the vehicles with boots hitting the dirt. The Marines chattered amongst themselves, eying the cliffs and frothing river with doubt. Grey was the last out. Trump, though, was a different breed. Undeterred; he shouldered his way forward for his first glimpse of the obstacle in their path.

"Maybe a little whitewater rafting will liven things up," Trump joked.

Their pursuit had led them to a literal dead end, yet turning back was not an option. All eyes turned expectantly to Rickson and Trump atop the bank, awaiting the command that would ultimately seal their fate—to advance or retreat in the face of the raging rapids.

Trump stared intently at Colonel Rickson, his hands on his hips, refusing to accept defeat.

"What if we rode the rapids in these tanks?" Trump suggested loudly.

"That's ridiculous, Mr. President. Even with modifications, which we don't have the luxury of, by the way. Those currents would swamp us in an instant. This ain't no logging ride at Disney World. We'd be trapped like tin cans falling off a cliff."

"We'd get to the other end real fast, though," Trump countered.

"At the cost of losing all our valuable vehicles and our lives, I cannot condone such a dangerous plan."

"You worry too much, Colonel."

Trump playfully rolled a few hand grenades around his hands like a juggler about to perform.

"How about blasting a path through?" Trump reasoned.

"I don't get your meaning."

"Firing or blowing up the water might create a temporary channel for us to cross."

"Firing weapons is highly unlikely to clear a permanent path through those rapids. Trust me when I say that it has been tried before. Besides considering the cliff proximity, it could destabilize the river banks and the cliffs themselves. There's no telling what collateral damage might occur. It's not a viable option."

Trump threw up his hands in frustration.

"What about an unmanned tank plunge? We can airlift ourselves out of here in Commodore One and Commodore Two. Hopefully, we can collect the tanks later down the line."

Rickson shook his head firmly. Trump's lack of reasoning was ticking him off big time at this point; he should have remained back at Tomlaes Bay for the sake of his sanity.

"Sir Come on, really. Maneuvering tanks without operators underwater… it's impossible. The strong currents would smash them against the rocks long before we arrive."

Trump scowled at the river, unwilling to concede so easily in the face of the wilderness, and Rickson's level-headed logic as much as it triggered him. Forcing a crossing here seemed outright suicidal. Trump just threw caution to the wind anyway.

He was the Big Kahuna after all.

"Colonel Rickson you're lack of balls is pissing me off. I'm overruling you; we blast a path through that thing," he insisted stubbornly.

"Mr. President, I cannot recommend such a risky plan in good conscience."

"Well, it's happening whether you recommend it or not. I'm not turning back now."

Rickson studied Trump's steadfastness. His mind was set, and challenging him now would only further erode morale and waste precious time. Already, the sun was sinking behind the cliffs.

"Very well, sir. But we do it my way."

"Yeah, controlled explosions and all that horsehit. Just give the order."

Colonel Rickson addressed the group with forced authority, delivering Trump's revised orders.

"Alright, listen up! The president has made his decision. We're blasting a path through. But I'm in charge of how we do it."

"How on earth is that going to help us out?" Grey inquired.

Rickson continued, locking eyes with Trump.

"Hear me out. We're gonna fire off a series of controlled explosions from one of the MBT tanks holding the rear. Hopefully, it will disrupt the water flow and create a temporary window for crossing."

"By my calculations," said Dante.

"Would that not blow us up?"

"It won't be no reckless firebombing from the riverbanks," assured Rickson.

"So who has the job of killing us all as our rear gunner, then Colonel Rickson?" Asp asked.

"Grey, you're the man for the job."

Grey's jaw dropped; even Trump seemed to hesitate for a fleeting moment before regaining his resolute demeanor letting Rickson follow through with his chain of thought.

"What the fuck! Why me?"

"I need the youngest hardened men alive to survive this. You're no spring chicken, are you?"

"Trump's older than me, for Christ's sake!"

"Watch how you speak to me, Grey. I can shoot the dead weight on this team quite easily," said Trump.

"Colonel Rickson let's be honest. What do I know about tank weaponry?"

"Listen, Grey, the situation's dire. I know you're no soldier. Don't worry, I'll prime the tank myself, set the sights, leave you a hair-trigger margin for error. All you gotta do is pull the damn lever when I say fire."

Grey said nervously. "I have no training for this, Colonel. What if I screw up?"

"We will all get swept away and eaten by the rapids," Rickson remarked.

"Grey, let's not dwell on the negatives here. If things go south, Commodore One will be overhead, watching. They'll pluck you on out of here in no time, back to Tomales Bay.

"What would I say?"

"You are to report to Colonel Lieutenant Lancaster that we didn't make it."

Grey took a deep breath at the mounting pressure placed on his shoulders. The likelihood of ever seeing his family again was diminishing at an alarming rate.

"So, it's basically a suicide mission with a bonus life raft for me at the end."

"It's called taking calculated risks, Grey. Not everyone gets a hero's send-off in this game. Now, man up. We don't have all night."

"All right. If you think it's our only chance, I'll do it."

"Good man. Now let's get that tank set up before sundown."

Grey's hands felt clammy while Colonel Rickson maneuvered their tank off to the side of the riverbank. Then he came to join him up top, climbing in the gunner's seat, ritualistically securing the heavy shells into the turret gun with an echoing clank. Then he fussed with the intricate targeting mechanism.

"Alright, Grey. This ain't pretty; these are APDS-FS," Rickson explained, sensing Grey's anxieties.

"It'll punch through anything in its path."

The remaining tanks rattled into a single file along the shore, caterpillar tracks churning the loose soil. They peered through their scopes. Trump sat up rigidly, impatient as ever, revving the engine of the lead tank, eager to charge into the fray. Behind him, Asp and Dante experienced a moment of skepticism. The rest of the Marines also took their positions at the back in what looked like the start of a grand prix.

Rickson trained his sights on the river, making an off-the-cuff alignment with the designated coordinates that he saw fit.

"When I fire, watch how the water reacts."

Rickson squeezed the trigger, the metallic ringing of the released round splitting the air. A shell ripped from the barrel, a streak of orange biting against the darkening sky. It punched into the water, erupting forth a plume of spray. For a fleeting moment, the river diverted around the impact site, with the currents bending ever so slightly. Just for a few seconds, jagged rocks were exposed before being swallowed again.

He handed Grey a stack of ammunition.

"Grey, I've already locked the angle for you. Don't move it; don't deviate from it, whatever you do. It's a fine line; you've gotta skim the water's surface and create that temporary channel for us without hitting any of the tanks. Got it?"

"How will I know when to proceed? Just in case my timing is off." Grey asked.

"You wait for my command and just keep firing and pray to God. I'll be the last to cross. Commodore one will then take you over once we are finished."

His tone was soft yet assured. Rickson had saved his life. Now Grey could potentially end his. Rickson jumped down from Grey's altitude and took his place among the others. Above, the lone Blackhawk of Commodore One circled like a watchful raptor, its searchlight probing the forest depths. No doubt witnessing the peril about to begin.

Rickson tapped his radio. "Commodore One, keep watch from above. We move on my mark."

"We are watching you from a safe distance, wishing you good luck. We don't want to give you stage fright, Colonel. Strangely, we have lost contact with Commodore Two," one of the Bloodies replied.

Confusion wrinkled across Rickson's face. He made a frantic distress call, only to get nothing beyond empty static answering him back. But there was no time for delay. With a final glance at the lined tanks, he made the call. And so they revved.

"Light it up, Grey. And Godspeed."

##########

The forest concealed more than met the eye across the rushing river. Two figures lay hidden deep in the undergrowth under a concealment of camouflage netting, observing the unfolding events. The Chinese mercenary was certain that he recognized the face through his optics.

"Is that really Donald Trump leading them?" he whispered in a Mandarin accent to his Russian counterpart.

"Nyet, it can't be. That is clearly Chuck Norris," the Russian replied with a quiet laugh.

"Did you not have reruns of Texas Ranger in your native land growing up?"

"China censored American shows mostly."

"Perhaps that is why you think so—that it's Donald Trump."

Above the tree lines, unseen by Rickson's crew, a platoon of Wang's and Pushkin's foot soldiers lined the cliff tops on military trikes. Through high-powered scopes, their commanders watched intently. One raised his radio.

"Am I correct in my thinking that they aim to cross the river?"

"I believe the lead tank holds Donald Trump himself," the Chinese mercenary replied.

His Russian colleague looked sideways at him, holding his tongue. A voice shot back through the Chinese mercenaries' radio.

"Have the landmines been installed correctly along the banks?"

"Confirmed Commander Lee."

"Both of you fall out of position," Commander Lee responded.

Below, the mercenaries smiled darkly, awaiting the forthcoming gambit. They slid away in quiet conversation, mindful of the landmines they had placed.

"Let us see if our Texas Ranger will remain should they make it across," the Russian mused.

"Trump will be detonated if they do," said the Chinese fighter with a laugh.

Commodore One buzzed away from the path of Colonel Rickson's awaiting advance with a rhythmic thump-thump-thump, creating a downdraft that kicked up airborne dust from the ground below. The chopper navigated in a calculated pattern just behind Grey's tank in a series of darting movements designed to hamper its visibility from the forest and the cliffs, now that Commodore Two had gone AWOL.

Commander Lee of the Chinese People's Liberation Army watched the chopper's movements with keen eyes. Next to him, Commander Volkovski, wrapped in a Russian Federation black trench coat, said.

"We've already eliminated one of their flying machines."

"With luck, this entire unit can be picked off before nightfall," said Commander Lee.

"This entire unit can be picked off now," Commander Volkovski responded.

The commander's smiles were invisible in the gloom. Lee nudged the targeted crosshairs through his scope on the lead tank.

"You know, alive, Trump could prove a valuable asset for Wang's and Pushkin's propaganda machine. It would only incense the Americans further."

"As you very well know, Commander Lee, our masters have declared that any man who brings him to his end gets a medal of honor and a ten million bounty for his head."

"You're right, Commander Volkovski. They are in no man's land for the taking. Five million each would be fair spoils for our efforts."

"Praise and promotion would also follow us. We will be set for life under the new regime," Commander Volkovski said proudly.

"Let's start the proceedings."

Commander Lee turned to one of his soldiers, a young man with a steady hand, and instructed him to aim his rocket grenade launcher at the unsuspecting aircraft. The soldier nodded, settling down in an outcropped bed of rock. Commander Lee then spoke with the utmost authority.

“Soldiers, dismount!”

The foot soldiers hopped off their trikes and melted into the vegetation of moss, finding a strategic position that overlooked the tanks. Their fingers tightened around the grips of their rocket grenade launchers, waiting for Commander Lee's command for the perfect moment to strike.

"All fire!"

The cliffside soldiers blazed off the launchers on Commander Lee's order, sending balls of orange cracking through the canyon like reigning comets to the riverbanks. Grey caught the movement out of the corner of his eye just as he pulled the trigger of the tank's main gun. The world became a strobe of explosions. Shells detonated around them in a percussion of gunfire.

Rockets sped skyward, tracing a curving line of smoke aimed at the hovering helicopter.

The interior of Commodore One instantly morphed into a disco inferno of flames, unable to defend itself against the tracking missiles that had bombarded the rear rotor with a hail of shrapnel.

"Enemy attack! were on fire"

Commodore One obliterated in mid-air, lighting up the retinas of Colonel Rickson's squadron.

Grey closed his eyes to the fiery spectacle, his aim wavering. Sending shells lancing into the water, spraying a bubbling eruption too far to the left. Trump howled insanely over the radio.

"Rickson? We're taking fire! Grey is shooting at us."

Rickson cursed and spun his turret, searching for the source of return fire, raking the line of armored vehicles, knowing this was a full-on ambush. His tank rocked under multiple impacts, armor spalling off in chunks. However, it lurched ahead, dragged by the river's grip. Asp and Dante's tank, directly behind him, slammed against a submerged boulder with a bone-jarring impact.

"Drive, forward! Drive!" Rickson urged on.

Trump plunged dizzyingly into the whitewater for a ride of fire and steel, spinning like a drunken waltzer. But the chaos didn't end there. Trump randomly fired off a succession of rounds at the invisible enemy, setting off a deadly chain reaction.

With each impact, a shower of rock and dust shed from the banks. Landmines hidden beneath the surface transformed into a deadly fireworks display, each explosion sending a geyser of earth and water skyward. Grey ducked into his tank, wrestling with controls now foreign to him, flinging the tank riverward as water cascaded over and within.

Ahead, a yawning whirlpool of warfare awaited. Marines tumbled screaming from hatches from Trump's friendly fire, riding the currents to their demise. Commander Volkovski stared at the carnage, counting the machines being smashed to pieces. Beside him, Commander Lee lowered a pair of binoculars, smiling with satisfaction, and ordered the footsoldiers to cease fire.

"That's enough for now. They will be all dead soon," Commander Lee said somberly.

Commander Volkovski noted with a tone of dissatisfaction.

"A rich bounty awaits, but the prize is still out there, carried by the current. We must find Trump's body before the river claims him."

"Presenting Trump's body to our masters," Commander Lee claimed.

"Would Ironclad our riches in the new world order?"

He turned around to his minions.

"Anybody who can find the American president's body will get one hundred thousand friendship coins."

The soldiers scrambled onto their trikes, their engines growling to life, ready to follow the river's course like a pack of wolves hunting their wounded prey on the commander's instructions.

It was only Grey's tank left now, spinning wildly, tossed by the rapids. The rest had been lost to the hands of the river downstream. He braced himself for the inevitable, his mind numb with exhaustion, clamoring out the hatch why he still could.

He grasped for anything to stabilize his tumbling world, reflexively seizing the gun mounting with one hand for balance. His palm struck a lever, inadvertently discharging the remaining shells towards the cliffs with a muffled thud. Consequentially, a cascade of rock and earth tumbled; fissures cracked like lightning. With an earth-shattering shudder, the precipice crumbled into the rapids below.

Commander Lee and Commander Volkovski looked at each other in utter confusion before the ground under their feet collapsed. Their cries were lost in the roar of the avalanche, followed by the men on their trikes, tumbling with the rocks and mud into the hungry current. Before Grey leaped from his teetering tank, he thought he heard the garbled static of Trump's voice, from the dying communications system.

Whoever was dead or alive by now, he could not say. All he knew was that the river had swallowed him, sweeping him lost away into the shadow of the night.