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CHAPTER 1
As with all wars, there were a million good reasons to go to war, and there were no good reasons at all.
January 28—10:27 p.m.
2nd Platoon, Delta Troop, 1st Squadron, 4th Cavalry
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p; The German-Czech Border
Beneath the bleak border-guard tower, a solitary figure stood in the drifting snows. Deep within him, the soldier sensed something was wrong. It was a sensation he hadn’t felt in a very long time. It was the same helpless feeling he’d first experienced moments before his initial firefight so many years ago.
The blizzard pelted him. The windswept snows tore at the exposed cheeks of his aging face. For the moment, however, he had no choice but to endure the intolerable conditions. Sergeant First Class Robert Jensen raised his night-vision goggles. When the heavy goggles masked his eyes, his world turned from one of darkness and swirling snow to a surreal shade of green.
Two hundred yards away, across the open landscape, stood the stark cement-and-barbed-wire fence that separated East and West. When Jensen scanned the area beyond the border, the images confirmed what he already knew. On the other side of the wire, less than a mile from his position, hundreds of armored vehicles were on the move.
• • •
On a small hilltop, a Russian main battle tank’s crew watched the lone American with mounting interest.
“Josef, are you ready?” the tank’s commander asked.
“Nearly, Comrade Commander,” the tank’s driver said. “The engine doesn’t want to start in the bitter cold.”
“Well, hurry it up. We need to begin our attack. The American will soon get into his Humvee and leave, and he won’t return for over an hour.”
“But, Comrade Commander, how can you be so sure he won’t be back before then?”
“Because the American hasn’t varied his routine in the two weeks we’ve been watching. Every two hours he rotates the soldiers in the three towers. He’s changed the guards in the towers to the north. Now he’s satisfying his curiosity about our division’s activities while he waits for the final pair of soldiers to ascend this third tower and relieve those inside. Once that’s done, he’ll get into his vehicle and return to his headquarters hidden in the woods. He won’t come to the border again until nearly midnight, when he’ll begin replacing the soldiers in the towers once more.”
The T-90’s engine struggled to life. The driver revved the engine again and again as it rebelled against his efforts.
“Okay, Josef, whenever you’re ready, you can start your run at the American position,” the tank’s commander said. “Attack at full speed; hold nothing back.”
“But, Comrade Commander, what about the three Bradley Fighting Vehicles the Americans moved forward this morning and placed between the towers? Shouldn’t we concern ourselves with them?”
“You just worry about getting to the wire as quickly as you can. Dmetri and I will watch the Americans, won’t we, Dmetri?”
“Yes, Comrade Commander,” the tank’s gunner said.
• • •
Jensen was growing more miserable by the minute. Exposed to the elements, there was nothing he could do to make his predicament any better. He’d been out in the blizzard for the forty minutes it had taken to rotate the shifts in the three widespread towers. And it was beginning to take its toll.
Although squadron intelligence had reported that the unrelenting storm would end well before morning, it had yet to release its paralyzing grip. It was officially the worst blizzard to strike Europe in over thirty years. For seventy-two endless hours, the storm had been unceasing, slamming the center of the continent with gale-force winds and waist-deep snows.
For the forty-five hundred men of the American 4th Cavalry Regiment, their month guarding the southern half of the German border was nearly over. In three days, the relief regiment would arrive. It would be none too soon for the exhausted cavalrymen.
Jensen surveyed the distant landscape as the mock battles of the Russian war games continued. On a far ridge, a company-level encounter of BMP armored personnel carriers and T-80 tanks caught his eye. While he waited for Sergeant Foster and Specialist Four Marconi to start down from the forty-foot-high tower, he focused his attention on the armored attack.
Inside his parka, a brief smile came to Jensen’s lips. The enemy movements were exactly what the veteran platoon sergeant had anticipated. The struggle was predictable. There was nothing subtle in the Russian approach. Forget finesse. His adversary only knew one way to play the deadly game—straight ahead with brute force. What they lacked in cunning and guile, they made up for with a willingness to sacrifice men and equipment to overwhelm their opponent.
• • •
Having briefed Privates Ramirez and Steele, Foster and Marconi began climbing down the tower’s ladder.
“Christ, Michael, watch your step,” Foster called out. “Every inch of this thing’s covered with ice.”
Jensen dropped the heavy goggles from his eyes and turned toward the sound of Foster’s voice. A second fleeting smile found its way to his face. His exposure to the elements would soon be over. Even in this weather, five minutes from now, the trio would be safely within the warmth of the platoon building. After that, there would only be four guard rotations to accomplish before the relief platoon and the rising winter sun arrived at eight tomorrow morning.
Jensen turned back toward the border and raised the goggles to his eyes.
Slicing through the blizzard like a runaway snowplow from the depths of hell, the Russian tank was roaring straight for him. The T-90 was three hundred yards away and closing fast. At the last possible instant, the tank dug its broad treads into the deep snow and clawed at the frozen earth below. Fifty-one tons of deadly steel screeched to a halt inches from the wire.
• • •
“Excellent, Josef, excellent,” the tank’s commander said. “Another superb job by the best tank driver in all of Central Army.”
“Thank you, Comrade Commander.”
“What do we do now?” Dmetri asked.
“Bring your main gun forward and aim it at the American.”
“Yes, Comrade Commander.”
The tank’s turret swung slowly around until Jensen was squarely within the sights of its massive cannon. From two hundred yards away, the Russians wouldn’t miss.
“I’m ready to fire upon your order, Comrade Commander.”
“Patience, Dmetri.”
• • •
Jensen stood rock steady. Not a muscle flinched. If the enemy’s bold move had unnerved him, he didn’t show it. Instead, he turned and scanned the area to his left with his night-vision equipment, searching the American side of the border. A half mile away, he located Staff Sergeant Brown’s Bradley Fighting Vehicle sitting in the ever-mounting snows.
Jensen spoke into his communication headset. “Delta-Two-One, this is Delta-Two-Five.”
“Yeah, Sarge,” Brown said.
“Brownie, I’ve got a T-90 in front of me that appears to be aiming his cannon right at my head.”
“We know, Sarge. We spotted him the instant he began his run at the fence.”
“I don’t think he’s going to fire. But just in case I’m wrong, why don’t you have your gunner lock onto this guy.”
“We already have. That Russian son of a bitch is sitting in the crosshairs of a TOW missile. Give the word, and we’ll blow him away.”
“If the time comes for you to destroy him, it’ll be because I’m already dead. Don’t do anything rash. But if he fires on my position, don’t wait for me to give the order. Send him straight to hell, then get all three Bradleys and the teams in the towers out of here as fast as you can. Your only chance will be to slip into the deepest part of the woods before the Russians get organized and set up your defenses there.”
“Okay, Sarge, you can count on me.”
“Brownie, notice anything unusual about this guy?”
“Unusual?”
“Take a good look. Tell me if you see what I see.”
Brown peered through his Bradley’s sophisticated thermal night-v
ision system at the idling Russian tank. It didn’t take long for him to locate what Jensen was alluding to.
“Jesus, Sarge, look at all those pennants flying from his radio antenna.”
“That’s right, Brownie. What you’ve got in your sights is the division commander himself.”
“A goddamn Russian general,” Brown said. “The guy must be insane, rushing the wire like that. He’s got to know we could blow him away at any time.”
“He’s probably thinking the exact same thing about us at the moment.”
“Well, this certainly confirms what squadron told us at this morning’s briefing.”
“No doubt at all, is there, Brownie.”
“None at all, Sarge,” Brown said.
“On our platoon’s three miles of border, we’re face-to-face with an entire Russian armored division. More than eight thousand men, three hundred BMPs, and three hundred tanks. And we’ve got forty-three men, eight Bradleys, and the two Humvees.”
“Doesn’t seem like much of a fair fight, does it,” Brown said.
“Yeah, the Russians won’t stand a chance if they’re crazy enough to take on 2nd Platoon, will they.”
“No chance at all, Sarge.”
“All right, Brownie, Foster and Marconi are climbing down as we speak. Doesn’t look like the T-90’s going to do anything but sit there for a while. Even so, don’t let your guard down. Keep your TOW trained on him until he decides he’s had enough of this foolishness and moves away from the wire. I’m going back to wrap these frozen fingers around a hot cup of coffee. The Russians are in your capable hands.”
“Don’t worry, Sarge. I’ll watch our little friends real close while you’re gone.”
Sergeant Foster dropped the final six feet to the waiting snows. The instant his boots touched, he grabbed the night-vision goggles dangling from his neck.
“Christ, Sarge. I was halfway down the ladder before I realized that bastard was headed straight for the wire. I damn near fainted, then I damn near fell. What the hell’s going on?”
Marconi reached the ground and joined the pair.
“Hell if I know,” Jensen said. “For the past two weeks, we’ve been watching Comrade and his crazy winter war games. Every shift’s been reporting that the Russians are getting bolder by the hour. But nothing’s come close to this. A division commander taking this kind of chance is nuts. Something’s wrong here, I can feel it.”
