Patrick McLanahan Collection #1 (47 page)

He thought for another moment. There was no supply line behind them anymore, Turabi knew. They would either make it to Bayramaly and their objective, the petroleum-control station outside the city, or they would get smashed out here. If they ran out of fuel, they weren't going to get any more from Chärjew in time. The reserve force, Battalion Six, had to move up to join the fighting. If they didn't advance, they were going to turn and run back to Chärjew on first contact.

“Bravo One and Bravo Two, move out and engage the point vehicles. Blast them the hell off the highway, and don't dance with them—those Hinds will be after you before too long. I want both One and Two at the objective point in one hour, or we're going to get chewed to pieces. Let's get moving, or we'll die out here in the desert.”

He held on as the command vehicle lurched forward, wheeled sharply left up and down over the edge of the highway, and drove several dozen meters away into the cotton fields. Moments later another explosion shook the area—and, yes, it had landed two hundred meters northeast on the highway, exactly where they'd be if they'd pulled back and stayed on the highway. Crap, this was getting hairy now. Turabi could practically feel a TV- or laser-guided bomb on its way for the command-post vehicle right now.

“Fast-movers!”
the senior watch officer shouted. “Sukhoi-24s, at least two inbound!”

“Inbound PGM attack!” Turabi radioed. “Radars to standby! All units pop smoke.” Not only could the tanks and heavier armored personnel carriers obscure themselves with smoke from their exhaust stacks, but they could also fire volleys of smoke grenades several dozen meters away to make it appear as if there were more vehicles than there really were. He didn't know if it would fool sophisticated sensors, but it was the only countermeasure his forces had.

“SAM-12 Bravo One,” the ops officer reported. One of the air-defense units in the lead battalion was launching surface-to-air missiles, their mobile 2K12 “Cub” missiles. “Another SAM-12 Bravo One . . . SAM-12, three missiles away, Bravo One.” That was a typical Cub engagement, Turabi knew, but he had ordered the operators to launch only one missile at a time to try to save missiles. Each battalion had only six systems—nine missiles total—to counter all the high-powered fighter-bombers at Mary. “Got one!” the ops officer crowed. “SAM-33 Bravo One engaging.” The SAM-33, or 9K33 Osa, or “Wasp,” was a short-range, low-altitude capable antiaircraft-missile system—that meant that the aircraft had blown past the longer-range Cub missile system and had to be engaged by the shorter-range, close-in Wasp. “Triple-A-Six-Mike Bravo One engaging radar.” Now the self-propelled antiaircraft guns were responding. The
enemy aircraft were coming in fast.

“How many aircraft, damn it?” Turabi shouted. “Where are they?”

“Got another one!” the comm officer crowed. “Sukhoi-24s, coming in low! They—”

They heard it almost simultaneously: the hiss of a high-speed jet passing very close by, like a fast-approaching swarm of angry bees racing across the desert, followed by two sonic booms that rattled everything not welded in place, followed by a string of large explosions. One or two bombs landed close enough to make the command-post vehicle jump a meter or two off the ground, and Turabi wasn't sure which direction was up—they could have been blasted on their side or blasted to hell, for all he knew. The lights went out inside the cab, and there was nothing but a loud squeal in his headphones. An electrical fire started someplace—the cab started filling with acidy fumes.

“Power!”
Turabi shouted. “Get the power on!” Someone tried to push past him in the darkness—one of the techs who sat behind the Plexiglas board, panicking and rushing toward the exit. Turabi shoved him back through the hinged board. “Get back to your station!” he shouted. “Get some battery lights on and get the generator restarted! Do it
now!
”

“They're dead!” the tech shouted. When the inside battery lights finally snapped on, Turabi could see the whites of the man's eyes, huge with fear. Turabi saw that the tech had opened up the slit between the command-post cab and the driver's cab, and a thick curl of smoke was drifting in. That's where the acrid electrical smell was coming from. “The front of the truck . . . God help us, they're all
dead!
”

The armor plating between the cabs had probably saved them from the same fate met by the drivers. “Close that shutter and
get the power back on!
” Turabi shouted. The fact that he stayed in the command-post vehicle seemed to boost the spirits of his men, and after a few moments they started working together once again. Soon the generator power was back on and the radios came back to life, and even the frightened techs behind the Plexiglas were updating the tactical-grid display with their grease pencils, writing backward with extraordinary speed and clarity.

“Green One, Green One, this is Bravo Three, how do you read me?”

“Loud and clear now, Bravo Three,” Turabi responded. “We were knocked off the air for a minute. Did you make contact?”

“Affirmative! Looks like eight heavy-tank platoons in a staggered W formation, coming in hard from the north-northwest. We are engaging.”

“Bravo Three, acknowledged. Engage from your position. If you need to break contact, pull straight back to the south. Bravo Four and Airborne Three should be moving in any minute to back you up from the east, and Bravo Six should be moving in from the north. Don't let them break out past you—keep them in front of you. Acknowledge.” No reply. “Bravo Three, acknowledge.”

A skull-piercing shriek of pain and the roar of an explosion and fire suddenly broke the chatter over the command net. Oh, shit—the leader of Bravo Three or one of the other company commanders on the net had been hit, and his last dying action was to keep his fingers pressed onto the mike button so everyone on the net could hear his death scream. That was not good. “Airborne Three, this is Green One, what do you see?”

“We are engaging enemy tanks on the northwest grid,” the helicopter flight commander reported. “Bravo Three looks like they took several direct hits. The Turkmen are coming with T-72s and maybe even T-80s—they're shooting on the run.” The biggest tank Zarazi's force had was a T-64, which had a 125-millimeter smoothbore cannon and autoloader like the T-72, but it did not have a sophisticated laser-aiming computer, so it had to stop to fire its gun; most of Zarazi's tank force were much older T-55s and T-54s, whose 100-millimeter main guns probably wouldn't even put a dent in a T-72's 120-millimeter reactive armor.

“Roger, Air Three. I can see one platoon of Bravo Four moving in fast from the north, but I can't see the rest of Four, and there's no sign of Six. I will . . . shit . . . oh, shit—” And then his radio cut off as well.

“Airborne Three, come in.”

“This is Airborne Three-Two,” a different voice said. One of the wingmen had taken over on the net. “Lead took a hit. Looks like the armor coming in from the north brought some SAMs with them. We are engaging. I see only four tanks from Bravo Four coming in to help Bravo Three. They're going to get chewed to pieces here in about twenty minutes if they don't get more help.”

“Roger, Airborne Three. Did you hear that, Bravo Four? Get in there and help,
right now!
”

“Green One, this is Bravo One, we have pushed off the enemy force on the highway—they are scattering. The highway is clear. Do you want us to head north to help Bravo Three? Over.”

“Is Bravo Two still with you?”

“They are engaging the Hinds off to the south, but I think the Hinds might be withdrawing to the southwest. We appear clear to the south. I haven't heard from Bravo Two, but I think they lost only one or two units from the Hind attack.”

“Roger that. Stand by. Break. Bravo Two, this is Green One, are you up on the net?”

“Affirmative, Green One. It looks like the Hinds only had cannons and marking rockets and just a few missiles. They swept in, fired a few rounds, then headed away.”

“Roger. Bravo Two, you take the highway and make best speed to the objective. Don't stop to fight, just get to the control station and take it as soon as you can. Take as much air defense as you can. Keep an eye to the south—they might try another attack once the Hinds depart. Acknowledge.”

“Roger, Green One. We're on the move. Our air defense will have to catch up with us. They'll cover our six.”

“Roger that. Break. Bravo One, wheel north and attack the enemy's right flank. Get a good positive ID before you shoot—elements of Bravo Four are moving in behind the enemy formation. You'll be face-to-face.” He hoped.

“Acknowledged. We're on the move.”

Turabi took a moment to plant the image of the battlefield in his mind. It was not looking good. “Airborne Three, what's the status of Bravo Three?”

There was a slight pause, then, “Sorry, Colonel.”

Turabi swore loudly—an entire company of tanks, destroyed in less than fifteen minutes. Their entire northern flank was exposed now.

“Airborne Three is breaking contact to reload,” came the report. “We've got elements of Airborne Two moving in. I think I saw one more platoon of Bravo Four moving in, but no sign of the rest of them and no sign of Bravo Six.”

“Bravo Six, what is your position? Can you see the enemy forces? They should be about ten kilometers in front of you.” No response. Damn it, Turabi swore, silently this time. They bugged out, probably back up the highway toward their reinforced ammo dump and supply depot at Ravnina. They were going to pay for that! “Bravo Four, have you made—”

“SAM-12 Bravo Two . . . SAM-12 Bravo Two, southwest!”

“Green One, Green One, many fast-movers, many fast-movers coming in from the southwest, going supersonic, very low altitude!” The Russians had waited until their Mi-24 Hinds moved out of the way and the left flank moved up, and then they swooped in with a force of fighter-bombers.

“Pop smoke! Pop smoke!” He was about to order the driver to move positions, but he remembered that the drivers were dead, the engine and front of their command-post vehicle blasted apart. There was no longer any choice—they were sitting ducks here. He pounded on the Plexiglas board with a fist. “Evacuate the command cab! Get moving!” The techs behind the glass needed no encouragement. They had the board opened and were racing out of the cab as soon as the metal stairs were lowered into place. Turabi remembered to grab the backpack radio and map case just before he leaped out of the vehicle.

The screening smoke was gagging and oily-tasting, so thick that at first Turabi didn't know which way to run—but soon the explosions started again, and he ran straight ahead until an explosion tossed him off his feet as if the hard-baked desert floor were a carpet that had just been pulled out from under him. He felt white-hot pieces of flying metal rip into his uniform and bounce off his helmet, and the soles of his boots seemed hot enough to melt. The last explosion felt like being hit with a hundred-kilo bag of sand, and he could do nothing else but close his eyes and scream.

Once the ringing in his ears stopped, he willed his legs to start working again and managed to crawl over to his command-post vehicle. It had taken an indirect hit that had turned the ten-ton vehicle over on its side and blown out all its tires. The drivers' cab was indeed burned out by what appeared to be a rocket or small missile. The bomb crater was fairly deep and was no longer smoldering, so Turabi crawled down inside it. The height was perfect—all but the very top of his head was underground. He thought it a little strange to be headquartered in his enemy's bomb crater, but there was no time to worry about that now. He set up the portable radio, extending the antenna as far over the crater rim as he could, and spread out his chart, holding it open with bomb fragments.

The network was eerily quiet. This did not feel good at all. “Bravo One, Green One.”

“Green One, this is Bravo One.” Again it was a different voice on the radio, much younger and panicky-sounding—the company commander and perhaps a platoon commander or two had probably been killed by now. “Are you all right, sir?”

Suddenly the net was coming alive again—it was as if all the units were waiting for someone to take charge. He couldn't blame his men too much. A month ago his most senior and battle-hardened commanders were little more than half-starved bandits driving Toyota pickups across the desert. They had to learn how to be tank commanders by watching, listening, following orders, and having the courage to take the fight right to the enemy. “The CP took a hit, and the crew scattered,” Turabi said, after he cleared the chatter off the command net again. “What's your situation?”

“We are engaging the Turkmen right flank,” the company commander reported. “The
nafahm
Bravo Four finally showed up in force and is engaging the enemy left. Air Two and Three are trying to keep the center from breaking through. No word at all from Bravo Three or Bravo Six.”

So they were still in the fight—good. It showed that competent warriors could still be effective even without a command post bugging them every five minutes. Turabi tried Bravo Six, the rear company, again—still no response.
Haramzadeh!
Bastards!

“Incoming!”
someone shouted. Turabi turned toward a hissing sound—just in time to see what looked like an immense dart or a small fighter jet drop out of the sky only a few hundred meters away. He knew he should be diving to the bottom of the crater, but the sight of such a large object moving so fast, hitting the earth so close to him was eerily fascinating. He didn't know if it was a downed Russian jet or a cruise missile—but soon it didn't matter. There was another powerful explosion, except this time it didn't feel like anything. Darkness closed in around him as if an “off” switch had been thrown in his brain.