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Authors: Dirk Patton

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BOOK: Anvil
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17

 

“Still no
comms,” the First Sergeant shouted a few seconds later when he leapt into the
hole next to me.

He was
referring to continued attempts to contact the command element of the Soldiers
that were about to be cut off.  I was still firing the captured machine
gun, heavy on the trigger.  This was definitely one of those times that
you didn’t worry about overheating and damaging a weapon.  All that
mattered was sending as much lead downrange as quickly as you could.

“Need ammo,”
I shouted, noting the belt was about to run out.

He grabbed
the same can the first Russian I’d shot had been opening, snatched up the end
of a fresh belt of ammunition and moved next to me.  When the last round
fired I yanked the breech cover open and he slapped the new belt into
place.  A second later I was back in action.  But the damn Russians
weren’t cooperating. 

Instead of
standing out in the open for me to shoot, they had taken cover and were firing
back.  Bullets were screaming overhead and slamming into the dirt I was
sheltered behind.  Fortunately, only the barrel of the machine gun was exposed
through one of several slots the gunner had cut in the surrounding berm. 

To add to
the fun, mortars were still falling all around.  No more or less accurate,
but I was getting an itch on my back, worried the troops firing that particular
weapon were about due for a lucky drop.

With the
Russians eating dirt, their advance stalled.  They didn’t pull back and
give even an inch of the ground they’d taken, but at least they weren’t still
progressing.  The remaining four Rangers arrived and set up to guard our
rear.  We were within Russian lines and it was only a matter of time
before someone behind us realized that it was American hands firing the machine
gun.

“Now that
just ain’t fair,” the First Sergeant drawled when two Russian BTRs appeared
over a rise to our front.

The BTR was
first developed by the Soviets during the Cold War, having been continually
updated and upgraded.  Not to simplify it too much, it’s their version of
a Bradley.  Only with eight wheels instead of tracks, so it looks less
like a tank.  But it’s no less deadly, sporting a 30 mm auto-canon. 

I didn’t
even bother targeting either of the vehicles.  They have an armored hide
that the best I could hope for would be to chip the paint.  But what
wasn’t armored were the tires.  BTRs have been around for a long time,
with that one glaring vulnerability, and the Russian answer has been to install
winches on each vehicle so it can be more easily recovered if disabled by
multiple flats.

Using the tracers
to direct my aim, I began shredding the left side tires on the vehicle closest
to me.  Soon it was bogged down, unable to do more than move in a circle
as all four tires on one side were destroyed and the heavy vehicle crushed its
steel wheels into the dirt.  It was a good thing that it couldn’t move,
but a few flat tires didn’t have any impact on its weapons.

“Down,” I
screamed as the BTR’s turret turned and lined up its canon on our position.

Diving into
the bottom of the hole, I cursed when someone’s boot struck the side of my
face.  Then I didn’t care as the first of the 30 mm rounds slammed into
the edge of the berm surrounding the hole.  The Russian fired for several
seconds, thoroughly saturating the area with high explosive shells.  If we
hadn’t been below the grade of the surrounding terrain, well, let’s just say it
wouldn’t have been pretty.

The First
Sergeant’s face was inches from mine as we both pressed as tight to the bottom
of the hole as we could. 

“I saw an
Arty unit on the map at the CP,” I shouted.  “Time to bring some smoke.”

He nodded
and began squirming, reaching into a pocket and pulling out a small map
book.  Mortars continued to drop all around us as the second BTR joined
the party.  We were in the eye of the storm as both the Russians and our
own troops tried to turn us into jelly stains.

The First
Sergeant, Dutch I finally had time to read the name tape on his uniform,
started screaming into his radio.  He referred to the map book, calling in
the fire mission.  He listened for two seconds and confirmed the read back
before stuffing it back into his pocket.

It couldn’t
have been more than twenty seconds, but it felt like a lifetime before the
first artillery shell arrived.  Dutch poked his head up when he heard it
coming in, verified where it struck and got back on the radio and screamed,
“Fire for effect!”

The
artillery battery must have been close because it wasn’t long before even over
the nearly deafening roar of battle I could hear the freight train rumble of
approaching shells. 

“Gotta be
155s,” Dutch shouted, referring to 155 mm shells.

I didn’t
argue, or do much of anything else other than hold my mouth open to equalize
the pressure in my head and hopefully preserve my ear drums from the pounding
that was about to begin.  Then the shells arrived, the earth shaking hard
enough to bounce me an inch or two into the air.  By the time the third
shell struck, all fire from the BTRs had stopped.  Then the Red Leg
Soldiers manning the battery went to town.

The barrage
continued for nearly three minutes.  Three minutes of explosion upon
explosion, drowning out all sounds and shrinking my world to a near constant
roar.  I couldn’t tell if the mortars were still dropping in my immediate
area and couldn’t have done a damn thing if they were.  When it was
finally over, an eerie quiet descended over this part of the battlefield.

Weapons of
all descriptions were still being fired just a few hundred yards away, but
within reach of the artillery barrage nothing was happening.  Anyone that was
still alive was face down, trying to dig their way to China.  Opening my
eyes, I saw Dutch speaking on his radio and I couldn’t figure out how the hell
he could hear to carry on a conversation.  Raising up slightly, I looked
around at the total devastation.

The ground
in the area of the BTRs and the leading edge of the Russian advance had been
churned up and cratered, looking very much like a desolate moonscape.  One
of the BTRs was burning furiously, the other unrecognizable.  It must have
taken a direct hit as not much more than the steel frame was left.  As I
watched, a few Russian heads began poking up from locations that had somehow
survived the attack.  I looked down when Dutch banged on my arm.

“What?” 
I shouted when I could see his lips moving but wasn’t hearing anything other
than a high pitched tone in both ears.

“Second fire
mission?”  He shouted back.

I looked
back out at the Russian lines, seeing more heads still emerging from
cover.  Farther back I could see movement and wished for a pair of
binoculars.  At the limit of my vision I could see several large trucks
maneuvering into a line.  I stared for a moment to make sure of what was
mounted on the back.

“Tell the
Red Legs to bug the fuck out,” I shouted, grabbing Dutch’s arm and pulling him
up onto his knees.

He looked
where I was pointing, cursed and relayed the message.  The Russian trucks
were carrying the Tornado, multiple rocket launching system.  They’d
probably had time to track the inbound artillery on radar, determine the
location of the battery and were about to send a few dozen high explosive
warheads in return for the pounding we’d just delivered.

Dutch
continued shouting into his radio and as my hearing slowly returned I was able
to make out what he was saying.  I was also hearing another voice in my
ear and it took me a moment to remember I also had a radio with an
earpiece.  I had apparently landed on the frequency being used by the Air
Force and was hearing targeting missions being relayed to pilots. 
Sometimes even I get lucky!

One of the
flyboys had already spotted the Tornados and called it in.  I listened as
an A-10 pilot acknowledged the new target.  Standing and watching the
destruction of the Russian rocket launchers would have been fun, but more
troops were pushing into the area that had been devastated by the artillery
attack.  We were running out of time.

“On me,” I
shouted, leaping out of the hole and running across the hill.

The Russians
regrouped quickly and before we had covered fifty yards there were bullets
coming our way.  Fortunately, we were running away from them and there
weren’t any additional BTRs to light us up with canon fire.  Still, we
sought cover as we moved, none of us particularly enamored with the thought of
getting shot in the ass.

There was a
bloom of white smoke from the direction of the Tornados and moments later
multiple rockets streaked overhead.  Almost before I even registered that
the Russians had fired, a pair of A-10s screamed by on my right, seemingly only
feet above the ground.  I had lost elevation and could no longer see the
truck mounted launchers, but I heard the buzz of the Warthogs’ guns a heartbeat
before a massive explosion erupted on the horizon.

Still
running, I glanced back and was happy to see all of the Rangers were still with
me.  Turning back to the front, I rounded a low hill and damn near got my
head blown off by friendly fire.  Three soldiers, a Corporal and two
Privates, were huddled behind the hill. 

I wasn’t in
uniform, still wearing the all black tactical clothing Titus had given me. 
If not for Dutch shouting that we were Americans, my day would have ended right
then.  We were in a low area that for the moment was screened from the
battle raging all around.  I didn’t know why these three were here, and
didn’t give a shit.

“Where’s
your CO, Corporal?”  I asked, skidding on the snow as I pulled to a stop.

“Who the
hell are you?”  He asked, not lowering his rifle.

“Major
Chase.  Now where is he?”  I stepped forward and pushed on the muzzle
of his weapon until it was pointing at the ground.

“Dead, sir,”
he said.  “So’s our Top.”

“Who’s in
command?”  Dutch asked, looming over the frightened man.

“Lieutenant
Willis,” he said, sparing a glance at the two Privates with him.

“Take me to
him,” I said.

The Corporal
looked at me for a few long moments, swallowing nervously.  I saw the fear
in his eyes and realized what he and the other men were doing.  They were
running.  Well, I’d deal with that later.  If there was a
later.  It sounded like the fighting was growing closer.

“Now, Corporal,”
I said, staring hard.

“Yes, sir,”
he mumbled, dropping his gaze and turning back towards the sounds of the
heaviest fighting.

I pushed him
to a run, the Rangers corralling the other two and keeping them in front. 
We rounded a couple of hills, small arms fire steadily growing louder. 
Incoming RPGs and grenades punctuated the sounds and we had to slow and start
using the terrain as protection from Russian fire.

Soon we were
moving past fighting positions that had been hastily dug in the hard soil. 
Bullets were passing overhead and the occasional enemy mortar dropped in to
keep things interesting.  I was dismayed to see a large number of bodies
on the ground.  For every two men still fighting there was probably one of
their brothers lying dead.  This was insane.  These men should have
been pulled back.

To my left,
beyond a low line of short, rolling hills, the bulk of the Soldiers were spread
across the terrain facing an advancing wall of Russian troops supported by
BTRs.  They had maybe five minutes before every single one of them was
dead.  There’s overwhelming odds, then there was what I was seeing. 
Maybe two hundred men faced off against five thousand.

“Dutch, get
those men pulled back behind these hills,” I shouted.

He peeled
off, taking two of the Rangers with him.  The other two stayed with me,
following the Corporal around another hill.  I pulled to a stop when I
looked up and saw a tall, thin man standing on the top.  He was completely
exposed to enemy fire and held a large pair of binoculars to his eyes, watching
the approaching Russians.

“There,” the
Corporal pointed and tried to slip away before being body checked to a stop by
one of the Rangers.

Before I
could speak, the man turned slightly, looking at something closer.  I saw
his back stiffen as he spun and leapt down the side of the hill.

“Who ordered
those men to withdraw, goddamn it?”  He screamed.  His eyes were
wild, face florid and spittle flew from his lips.

“I did,” I
said, stepping so I was directly in front of him when he reached the bottom of
the hill. 

“Who the
fuck are you?”  He shouted, eyes searching my clothing and not finding any
indication of name or rank.

“Major
Chase.  You’re relieved, Lieutenant.”

“Like hell I
am,” he yelled, stepping forward until the toes of his boots bumped into
mine.  “We’re holding this ground!  No one’s going anywhere until the
Russians are stopped!”

Before I
could take his head off, mortars began dropping much too close.  The
Russians were responding to seeing the troops repositioning behind the
hills.  We all turned as a Havoc attack helicopter popped up from behind a
larger fold in the terrain.  He was no more than a quarter of a mile away,
directly facing us.

BOOK: Anvil
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