Chapter 1

Aah, America. Brings back fond memories. I attended Mardi Gras here several years back as a foreign exchange student to a nice family in Tennessee. America is a great place, full of nice people, lots of fun, freedom, opportunity. I, Boris Masakov, make my return to Louisiana, however for different reasons.

The door flung open. Before we had a chance to get out, a barrage of machine-gun fire took out two of our better men. The rest of us splashed into the salty gulf, sprinting, or should I say drowning trying to get to the sandy beach. We were fodder for the machine-guns, too slow to make a challenge for those eating us up. I felt like my death sentence was just signed, sealed, and about to be carried out. 

How I made it to the shore, I will never know. I crawled up; attempting to find what was left of my squad. A man, who I didn’t know, rolled over towards me. He said, “This war will be Hell.” 

He reached into his pocket, pulled the pin on the grenade, and threw it at where he thought a pillbox was located. The customary loud boom reverberated seconds later, proceeded by a barrage of flying sand and rotten blood smothering our bodies. The call came from the captain to advance and take up positions further up the beach, and almost as soon as my new friend stood up, he was greeted with a bullet to the face. 

I had no time to react, just to run. Run for my life. Literally. Air support was coming by the minute it seemed, softening up the American defenses, dropping clusters after clusters of incendiary devices of death. This wasn’t a pretty pinpoint strike operation, but an ugly, gruesome battle of attrition. 

America was losing its grip, and its chance to win the Battle of New Orleans. They had expected something, but clearly nothing of the magnitude that we hit them with. It wasn’t long until we controlled the entrance to the Mississippi River, and now we could start the split. 

The Lenin brigade marched forward to do the dirty work of taking over the city. I was one of the lucky few to stay behind on orders, helping to set up a command and control facility and conduct operations. 

This wasn’t the first time I visited here. As a kid, I came here with a family when I was a foreign exchange student. New Orleans was just as I remembered it; bright, sunny, full of fresh wind, but the beach was far from recognizable. I was forced into the Soviet Army, drafted, as the Americans would call it, and sent into this Hellish nightmare. 

Premier Romanov has ordered a preemptive invasion on all major ports belonging to America. America has such a vast border to cover, that it’s impossible for them to prevent at least some penetration into their land. And in penetrating far enough here, the military is hoping to set up a forward base to stage future operations. 

I can’t wait to go home. I long to see sweet Tatanya’s face in my eyes once more. If we’re here to stay, I hope it’s finished soon. But I fear it won’t be. I know, I know the determination of American people, because I’ve been here before. 

I had just finished helping to set up camp and I proceeded to lie on my cot and close my eyes. It was nightfall, if you want to call it that, but the skies were ablaze, full of bright oranges and yellows produced by the bombardment of New Orleans. I had started a prayer for the civilians there, hoping they had fled, hoping they were all right. They had no part in this. They are innocent, and don’t need any of what they’re getting. All a product of a huge squabble between two leaders. Two leaders who hate each other. 

My thoughts were interrupted by an intruder who yelled for me to get my gear. Apparently we were having trouble in the streets of New Orleans and needed anyone who was available. Reinforcements were coming from the Gulf, to take up positions in the rear. 

I grabbed my rifle and stumbled through the sand and onto the nearest road. I found my squad, spearheaded by a behemoth of a man, Capt. Mashka. He briefed us on the situation. “The Lenin brigade had secured half of the city, but snipers and various small-arms fire had kept them from advancing any further. We haven’t secured enough territory for tanks to make their way on shore, because if we had to fall back, that would only impede our retreat. It’s pretty obvious that some of us will die, but it would be necessary to take the city, and for the security of the Soviet Union’s military. 

As we made our way up the street taking us to the heart of New Orleans, we heard the jets and bombers overhead, speeding their way to soften up the American resistance and aid in our taking control of the city. 

After a long time of clearing areas and meeting resistance here and there, we met a fierce firefight at what I identified was the New Orleans mayoral building, where the heart of New Orleans’ government was located. We took on fire from the windows of the magnificent structure, and blazes were everywhere. I took an opportunity to take out one GI perched at a window, which was so stupid as to keep visible as he put a new magazine into his rifle. That let us take up positions closer to the white building behind the charred skeleton of a station wagon. 

There was another squad about 50 meters from us, and Capt. Mashka sent a runner to gain info on their situation. As soon as he stood up, we got sprayed with the brains and blood that spewed from his shattered cranium. 
“Anyone else knows how to operate an RPG?” Called the Captain. The runner he sent was the only one trained in operating the bulky object.

“It can’t be that hard, can it? Just pull the trigger, right?” I asked. 
“It kinda helps to have something to load into it to be fired, doesn’t it?” Remarked the captain. 

I just realized that both our squads were fodder for the sniper. The only RPG rounds were in the guy’s pockets, and his body lie well within sight of the sniper. I sheepishly crawled out when I heard that gunshot. “Fuck.” I thought, and my life flashed before my eyes. When I didn’t lose consciousness, I instinctively grabbed a round from the guy’s pocket and broke all land speed records running back to the car. I set the bulky mass up on my shoulder, and shoved what I could through the window to disguise my movements. Capt. Mashka loaded the round into the back, and I fired the trigger. I was knocked back several feet, and heard the final scream from the sniper who had picked two of us off, now obliterated in a rain of fire and debris. A conscript from the adjacent squad was the one who saved me, sacrificing himself for the better of the two squads. 

Another runner was sent, and this time, he made it over. After a few times going back and forth, we had decided to storm the building and clear out any resistance. None was to be found, and the two Captains set up shop in the chamber where the Mayor’s Cabinet was housed. I explored the various rooms of the marvelous building, and when finished, I reported back to Capt. Mashka. It was well into the morning into this point, and the city had pretty much been cleared of all organized resistance. New Orleans was now the newest member of the Soviet family. I knew the place well, but nothing was recognizable.

to be continued...

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