There were hundreds, if not a thousand infantrymen advancing on his position. They continued to pick them off with incredible accuracy, but they continued to progress, nonetheless. Like a relentless wave beating against the shore, they just kept coming. Soon they had advanced to within 25 meters of their position, and now both sides began throwing grenades at each other.
There was no room for doubt; the time to bug out and move to their second line of defense was right then, at that moment. LT Allen yelled over the HUD, “Everyone, fall back to the secondary positions and get ready to blow your claymores!” He hoped that they could all hear him over the growing cacophony of gun fire and explosions. As Allen got up to move to the next line, he was suddenly hit by half-a-dozen bullets and thrown on his back. Fortunately, the Raptor suit absorbed the hits, and they did not penetrate his armor, but the impact sure knocked the wind out of him. Time was of the essence though, and he had to move. He quickly injected himself with a shot of adrenaline from within the suit, and then moved swiftly to his fallback position.
Turning around to shoot at his pursuers, Allen jumped into his new foxhole and then immediately looked for the claymore mine clicker. He found three of them near the edge of the foxhole and grabbed them. In seconds, he was clicking through each detonator, setting off a chain of claymore anti-personnel mines in front of his position. Thousands of ball bearings were thrown like an iron wall against the attackers. He probably killed more than thirty enemy soldiers in that instant.
Seconds later, he was up shooting again at the attackers, assessing his surroundings. What he saw almost made his stomach turn. Blown apart bodies were strewn all over the place. The mines had torn the Russian soldiers apart as they advanced on him. There was no one left of the attacking force, at least for the moment. Ducking down in his foxhole again, he began to determine how many of his men were left and where they were. As he checked through his roster and blue force tracker, he could see only twelve of his soldiers had survived thus far; nearly a dozen lie wounded at their original defensive position, but there was no way they were going to be able to go back for them. Hundreds of additional Russian soldiers were advancing to fill the void of those that had recently been killed by the platoon’s latest round of claymore mines.
“Everyone that can hear me, I want you all to fall back to my position. We are going to try and bugout back to rally point Charlie. Now, move like you want to live!” he barked over the HUD. In a matter of minutes, what was left of his platoon had rallied to his position and they began to move as a group to the next rally point. Hot on their heels was the next wave of Russian soldiers. This time they were moving a little more slowly and cautiously as they approached the now empty foxholes and trench lines.
When the engineers were building the foxholes and trenches, they knew that they might have to sacrifice those positions at some point, so they had placed enough C4 in each of them to kill or maim any enemy soldiers unfortunate enough to be close by. Allen kept waiting for the Russians to reach a predetermined point when this weapon would be most useful. Without batting an eye, Allen pressed the red button on the remote detonator one of the engineers had given him. A series of loud explosions could be heard behind them as they moved quickly now to the rally point.
As they closed in on rally point Charlie, which was nearly five kilometers from their position, they began to see other members from their battalion show up on their blue force trackers. At least they wouldn’t be alone. Once there, they saw what was left of the battalion-not much, unfortunately. In total about one hundred and eighty-six soldiers had made it out. Their next orders were to move on into Fairbanks and join the rest of the division for their next defensive stand. This would be their last battle before they would fall back to the southeastern side of Fairbanks and catch their rides out of the area.
As they approached Fairbanks, they quickly saw the fortress the engineers had been building. This was going to be a house-to-house street fight through the city of Fairbanks. There was would be a total of 4,645 soldiers from the 32nd Infantry Division, who would have to try and hold the city for as long as possible. They had originally thought they would have closer to 6,000 soldiers, but casualties had been significantly higher than they anticipated. Two hours after arriving and getting set up in the buildings that Allen’s group of twelve soldiers would defend, the advanced elements of the Russian infantry began to arrive.
At first, it was just a few soldiers taking shots at each other; then the artillery rounds began to land. Standing on top of one of the buildings looking towards the action, Allen and his platoon sergeant could spot dozens of Russian light drone tanks, supported by dozens of infantry fighting vehicles and a few of their venerable T14 Armatas.
They heard over the battalion net a call for whatever air support was left in the area and asked that they focus their effort on the T14s and then the light drone tanks. The infantry could handle the IFVs with their anti-tank rockets. Soon they saw five Razorbacks leave the area of Lad Army Airfield and begin their short trek to the edge of Fairbanks. Within minutes, they were on station and quickly decimated the Russian armor. They were laying a world of hurt on the Russian infantry. This would be their last support mission; they were going to rearm one more time and then begin their journey back to the Marine positions where they would rebase.
With the last bit of their air support gone, they were officially on their own. What was left of their self-propelled artillery was moving further down the line towards the Marine positions. Once they found a good firing position that could still support them, they would radio in. Allen had what was left of his company spread out across two low-rise buildings controlling the intersection of Airport Way and University Avenue. He had several soldiers positioned in the buildings and forest surrounding the area. Their goal was to establish a good crossfire to prevent the road from being used. Several other platoons were spread out ahead of them and to their flanks. Most of the defense of the city would be broken down by small units, platoon size elements spread throughout the city. The goal was to bleed the Russians as they moved in to the city.
A local Alaskan militia unit had also been raised; they had close to 1,500 volunteers who agreed to help the soldiers defend the town and turn it into a real meat grinder. There would be a soldier or militia man behind virtually every building, block and road in the city. Fairbanks and Anchorage were going to be a real test for the Alaskan militia. It would also be the first time a militia force had fought on American soil since the war of 1812. The Russians and Chinese were about to get their first experience at what it would be like trying to occupy an American city with a populace that is heavily armed.
As Lieutenant Allen sat in the Mt. McKinley Bank with his platoon sergeant, SFC Jenkins, waiting for the action to arrive, he hurriedly stuffed an MRE in his face and wondered how they had survived the past twenty-four hours. His Raptor suit was scarred from the shrapnel and bullets that had hit him. He was also filthy, covered in mud. All he wanted to do was take the suit off and get a hot shower. Unfortunately, the only thing he could take off right now was his helmet and let his head feel some freedom from the suit. “Sergeant Jenkins, what do you think our chances are of surviving another day?” asked Allen, in a way that was clearly joking at their misfortunes.