Team Yankee: a novel of World War III (8 page)

A third group of follow-on vehicles appeared. These were a gaggle of dissimilar armored vehicles. As they reached the crest of the hill, they paused for a moment. Just before they started their descent, the tanks and the BMPs in front made a sharp oblique to the left and headed for the north side of the village. With one BMP, a T-72, a BTR-60, followed by an MTU bridge tank and a ZSU 23-4 antiaircraft gun, this could only be the battalion command group.

The scene before Team Yankee was too good to be true. For some unknown reason the Team had not been hit by artillery yet. The Soviets were rolling forward as if they were on maneuvers, not attack. Their change in direction offered most of the Team flank shots. And the actions by the command group had telegraphed who they were. If luck held for another minute or two, it would be all over for this motorized rifle battalion.

"ROMEO 83-THIS IS ROMEO 25-DO YOU SEE THAT LAST GAGGLE COMING DOWN

THE HILLOVER."

" 25-THIS IS 83-ROGER-OVER."

"83-THIS IS 25-THAT IS THE COMMAND

GROUP-I WANT YOU AND THE TWO TRACKS YOU HAVE UP THERE TO TAKE THEM

OUT-THE

BMP AND TANK FIRST-OVER."

"THIS IS 83-WILCO."

Uleski considered this last order before he relayed instructions to the ITVs. He paused for a moment and watched the advancing Soviets. The 55 was silent except for the hum of the engine. Uleski could feel the tension build up in himself and his crew. In the past, he had always been able to crack a joke or say something funny to lighten the pressures of a tense moment. But he couldn't, not this time. It suddenly dawned upon him that this was real. The tanks and BMPs were manned with real Soviets and they were coming his way.

Despite the heat of the day, Uleski felt a cold shiver run down his spine. His stomach began to knot up and he felt as if he were going to throw up. It was real, all real. In a minute, maybe two, all hell was going to break loose and he was right in the middle of it. Uleskifs head, flooded with disjointed thoughts, began to spin, with one thought coming back over and over, "Oh God, please make this go away."

When Bannon had finished with Uleski, he switched to the battalion net and instructed the FSO to fire the prearranged artillery barrage. When the FSO acknowledged the request, Bannon went back to the Team net, "ALL BRAVO 3 ROMEO ELEMENTS-UPON IMPACT

OF FRIENDLY ARTILLERY, YOU WILL COMMENCE FIRINGMAINTAIN FIRE

DISTRIBUTION AND GOOD SHOOTING-ROMEO 25 OUT."

This last message neither upset nor unnerved Garger. Without bothering to acknowledge the commander's orders, Garger switched to the platoon net and issued his own. The clear, sunny day, with the sun to the 3rd Platoon's back, made it all too easy. All the BMPs were exposed to the entire platoon. Garger ordered Pierso and Pierso's wingman, the 33 tank, to engage the right half of the BMPs. Garger instructed his own wingman, Blackfoot, to begin to engage

the far left BMP and then work his way toward the center of the line. He would begin in the center and work his way to the left. In this way, the platoon would avoid killing the same BMP.

With nothing to do but wait for the artillery, Garger leaned back and considered the scene before him. This was easier than the Armor School at Fort Knox. It couldn't be that simple.

There had to be a catch. The Soviets were coming at them as if the Team wasn't there.

Garger tried hard to think if there was something he had missed, an order to be given.

Something. But there wasn't. All seemed to be in order. All was ready. "What the hell," he thought. "Might as well relax and enjoy the moment."

In the Mech Platoon's positions Sergeant First Class Polgar grasped the hand grips of his M2 machine gun as he watched the Soviets. He was amazed. When he was a young private, Polgar had been in Vietnam two months before he had seen his first VC, and they had been dead VC. In the first day of this war, he was looking at all the Soviets he cared to see. He looked to his left and then to his right at his PCs. The four M- I 13s with him weren't going to do a hell of a lot if the tanks in the Team fell flat on their ass. As the Soviets drew near, Polgar tracked the Soviets with his M2

and thought, "Those dumb-ass tankers better be as good as they think they are, or this is going to be a damned short war."

The Team was charged and ready. Bannon could feel it. Now, he prepared to fight his own tank crew.

He grabbed the TC's override and traversed the turret to his intended victim, yelling out the fire command without switching on the intercom, "GUNNER-SABOT-TANK WITH MINE

ROLLER."

"IDENTIFIED." Folk had the target in his sight.

"UP." Kelp had armed the main gun and was clear of the path of recoil. Bannon knelt down on top of his seat, perched above the gunner and loader, watching through the extension as Folk tracked the T-72. They waited. The enemy continued to advance. And they waited. The line of tanks was now

beginning to reach the valley floor. And they waited. The sweat was rolling down Bannon's face and he was beginning to lose nerve. And they waited. "SPLASH-OVER." The FSO's call on the battalion net heralded the impact of the artillery. Across the valley, the crest of the far hill erupted as hundreds of small bomblets impacted and went off. On target! "FIRE!"

"ON THE WAAAAAY!"

The image of the T-72 disappeared before Bannon's eye in a flash and cloud of smoke as Folk fired. The tank rocked back as the gun recoiled and spit out the spent shell casing.

Kelp hit the ammo door switch with his knee, causing it to slide open with a bang. He hauled out the next round, loaded the gun, and armed it before the dust and obscuration cleared.

When it did, the T-72 with the mine roller was stopped, broadside to 66, and burning furiously.

"TARGET-CEASE FIRE." They had drawn their first blood. "STAND BY GUNNER." Bannon popped his head up to get an overall picture of what was going on. Just as he did, the 33

tank fired a HEAT-T round at a BMP. He watched the tracer streak towards the target and impact with a bright orange flash and black ball of smoke. The BMP lurched forward another few meters then stopped, quivered, and began to burn. Bannon scanned the valley floor and opposite slope watching that scene repeated again and again. When the first round missed a BMP, the BMP would turn away from the impact. This maneuver, however, only added a few more seconds to its life because the second round usually found its mark. He watched as two BMPs, scrambling to avoid being hit, rammed each other and stopped. This calamity only made it easier for Team Yankee's gunners, and both BMPs died within seconds of each other, locked together.

The crest of the far hill had disappeared from view. The smoke and DPICM were doing their jobs. So far, nothing had followed the Soviet command group down. The command group had scattered, but it, too, was suffering. The BMP from the command group was lying on its side, a track hanging off and burning. The tank that had been with it had been hit but had only shed its right track. It stood, immobile but defiant, returning fire towards the headquarters position. This'uneven contest, however, did not last long. In return, the T-72

received a TOW missile that detonated at the turret ring and ripped the turret off with a thunderous explosion.

"I have a BMP in my sights, can I engage." Folk was impatient. Bannon knelt down, glanced at Kelp to ensure he was clear, checked that the gun was armed, and gave the command to fire. Folk gave an on-the-way and fired. The rock and recoil shook the tank. A glance in the extension told him that Folk had been on the mark again. Another BMP crew and infantry squad had become heroes of the Soviet Union, posthumously. "Sergeant Folk, find your own targets, if there are any left, and engage at will. Just make sure you're not killing dead tracks."

"Yes, sir!" His reply had a glee in it that reminded Bannon of a teenager who had just been given the keys to the family car. Bannon popped up again to survey the battlefield.

The devastation in the valley was awesome. Over twenty armored vehicles lay strewn there, dismembered, twisted, burning hulks. Folk had nothing to engage. The lead echelon of the motorized battalion had been annihilated. Six T-72 tanks, sixteen BMPs, a BTR-60, a ZSU

23-4, and an MTU bridge launcher, along with almost two hundred Russian soldiers, were gone. The engagement had lasted less than four minutes. Team Yankee had won its first battle.

CHAPTER THREE.

Change of Mission.

When the decision to evacuate military dependents from Europe was finally made after countless delays and hesitations, there was a rush of frantic and seemingly uncoordinated activity to get it done before hostilities broke out. The drive to Rhein-Main, which normally took one hour, on that evening took nearly four. There was solid traffic on the autobahn from the time Pat Bannon and the others left the housing area until they pulled into the Air Base.

The regular German police, reinforced with military personnel, had established checkpoints along the route. At every checkpoint the NCO on the bus had to present his paperwork before being cleared through. Pat noticed that the Germans were retaining some people at one checkpoint. There was a stationary car riddled with bullet holes on the autobahn's median. Next to it a white sheet with red blotches covered a mound. No one could imagine what offense could have caused such a response by the Germans. Whatever the reason, the fact that the Germans were ready to use their ever-present submachine guns highlighted the seriousness of the situation. The last checkpoint was at the main gate of Rhein-Main. Before the bus was allowed to enter, Air Force security personnel boarded the bus and checked everyone's ID card.

They, too, had their weapons at the ready. Two more security personnel had the bus driver open the baggage compartments of the bus. While one of the security officers checked them and the driver, the other stood back and covered the driver with his weapon. The German police on duty at the gate with the U.S. personnel were questioning two women off to one side. Pat guessed that they there German nationals trying to get out with the U.S.

families.

The Air Base was swarming with activity. At one of the intersections, the bus was stopped while a line of trucks rolled by, coming up from the flight line and heading to a back gate. In the trucks were U.S. troops, reinforcements from the States deployed under the REFORGER program. Pat guessed that the dependents would fly back on the same planes that were bringing these troops in. Maybe this nightmare was almost over. At least they were now at the last stop on this side of the Atlantic. Instead of going to the terminal, however, the buses dropped them off at the post gym. There were already a large number of people there. On the gym floor, rows of cots with blankets were set up. As at the post theater, the families were grouped by unit. Some of the women from the battalion who had come up on the first group of buses had established an area for the families from each of the units. The new arrivals were told that since the terminal was already overflowing with evacuees, they had been sent to the gym until it was their turn to go. Pat was told that the Air Force personnel running the evacuation were better and more helpful than the Army community personnel but were having difficulties dealing with all the incoming families that were being dumped at Rhein-Main. One Air Force officer had told them that the people in the gym probably wouldn't leave until the morning.

This depressed Pat. She, like the other wives and mothers, was ready to go. They had finally geared themselves up for the final leap. Now, they had to spend a night in an open gym with hundreds of other dejected and anxious people. It seemed that every new move only added more stress and pressure. The situation, however deplorable, had to be endured. Pat decided that she could hold out a little longer. She had to. A little group was beginning to depend on her. And it was growing. Jane Ortelli, the wife of Sean's tank driver, joined them. She was nineteen years old and had never been out of the state of New Jersey until she came over to

Germany. Jane stood at the side before boarding the bus, clutching her four-month-old baby as she would a teddy bear, for security and comfort. Pat went over to her and insisted that she join them since they were all going on the same bus. Jane was thankful and relieved.

A little girl named Debby had also joined the group. Debby's only parent was a medic who had been deployed to the border with everyone else. Fran Wilson had volunteered to escort the eight-year-old girl back to the States where her grandparents would meet her.

Pat and her group established themselves a little area by taking eight of the cots and pushing them together. The four adults stationed themselves on the corner cots and put the children in the middle. Jane kept her baby with her, not wanting to part for a moment with the only thing of value she had on earth. Sarah, overcoming her fears, insisted on having her own cot, just like her brothers. Sean and Debby stayed together. Sean, despite being a year younger, took over the role of big brother and helped Debby. He tried to explain everything to her like his father had to him, even though he had no idea what he was talking about. Debby would listen intently to every word as if it were gospel, then ask Sean another question. But at least Debby was talking now and seemed to be more at ease. Kurt insisted on staying near his buddy Sue. He was enjoying all the attention Sue was giving him.

There was little rest that night. Fear, apprehension, discomfort, and a desire to get on with the evacuation kept the adults awake while the adventure of the trip kept the children alert and active. Some of the adults talked in hushed voices, seeking company and escape from their fears. Others simply withdrew into themselves, no longer able to cope with the grim reality they found themselves in. Pat prayed that all this would end tomorrow. It had to. There was only so much

more that she could give and hold back. It had to end, soon. Only exhaustion allowed her to get a few hours sleep.

Movement to the terminal began early. Groups left in the order in which they arrived. Pat and her little group had time for breakfast before their turn. Everyone was tired. It had been nearly impossible for anyone to get a good night's rest. Cold meals, little sleep, overcrowded conditions, wearing the same clothes they had slept in, and the trauma of the whole ordeal had worn women and children down to the point of exhaustion. Pat could not remember a time when she had been more tired and miserable. The ride to the terminal was a quiet one.