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“Nothing more than what they’ve been telling us for the past two weeks. This is still officially a war game the Russians are conducting to test their ability to defend Eastern Europe during winter. We’re to stay alert but avoid confrontation with them at all costs.”
“Someone needs to tell that to that general who had his cannon pointed at my head.”
“Maybe somebody did, Sarge,” Jelewski said.
“Yeah, maybe they did. I’ll be back in a couple of minutes. Holler if you need me.”
Stripping off his gear as he went, the platoon sergeant entered the larger living area. When he pulled the heavy parka from his head, he revealed his closely cropped hair, which was every bit as gray as the old soldier’s eyes.
Inside the noisy room, the never-ceasing card games continued.
When Jensen entered, a few members of the platoon lounged on double-decked bunks along the walls. But the majority of the cavalry soldiers were crowded around the three tables, playing in the games or hovering to pounce upon the slightest mistake by those involved.
With a newly poured cup of strong coffee, Jensen wandered over to the farthest table. There, the three squad leaders not at the border, Staff Sergeants Cruz and Austin and Sergeant Renoir, along with his assistant squad leader, Sergeant Richmond, were involved in a furious game of pinochle.
“Want to take on winners, Sarge?” Specialist Four Winston, standing next to Jensen, asked.
“Wait a minute, Winston,” Cruz said. “I’m not giving up this seat for at least another hour. And Brown told me that when I relieve him, he wants my spot.”
“Thanks for asking, Winnie,” Jensen said. “But I can’t right now. Got to go back in the other room and watch the lieutenant so he doesn’t hurt himself with that pipe.”
Jensen’s comment met with laughter all around. It saved him from having to explain that the real reason he wasn’t interested in the game was his concern over what was happening on the other side of the snow-choked border.
Cruz tossed a card on the table and looked up with a broad grin on his face. “You just don’t want to get your butt kicked again, Bob, that’s all.”
“Fat chance. When’s the last time you two amateurs were able to beat me?” Jensen said.
“I think it was what? About three thirty this afternoon, wouldn’t you say, Hector?” Austin said.
“Sounds about right to me, Seth.”
“You guys got lucky, and you know it.”
When Cruz and Austin ignored his comment, Jensen wandered back into the operations center. He slumped into a cold metal chair next to Jelewski, glanced at his watch, and noted it was 10:40. Just over an hour before he would bundle himself in his wet winter gear once more and return to the blowing snows.
• • •
It turned out to be an uneventful hour. Jelewski made communication checks with squadron headquarters at 10:45 and with the towers and Bradleys at 11:00. The Russians continued to rumble through the furious snowstorm all along the Czech and Polish borders with Germany. Cruz and Austin humiliated their younger opponents. And the lieutenant played with his pipe.
Late in the hour, Jensen removed three computer-generated cards from his shirt pocket. Printed on the cards were the names of his wife, Linda, and the couple’s teenage daughters. The cards had arrived yesterday. They were official notice that his family had left Regensburg. If all went well, in the next few days he would receive three additional cards for each of them as they cleared the hurdles on their way home to Texas.
And in a short time, he knew he’d be clearing those same hurdles. In five weeks, Robert Jensen was scheduled to join his family in the small East Texas town that held such fond memories of his boyhood days. There he’d begin a long-overdue retirement.
• • •
11:40. Time to prepare the next shift to go forward to the border. Jensen shoved the cards into his shirt pocket and headed into the platoon living area.
“All right, next shift get ready to move out.” He took his parka and gear off the bunk where he’d hung them earlier. “First groups for the towers and Bradleys in five minutes.”
This was met with the usual pleas for “just one more hand” and some rather unkind comments about the veteran soldier’s parentage, which, with a smile on his weathered face, Jensen ignored.
He grabbed his M-4 assault rifle and loaded a thirty-round clip of ammunition. Ready to return to the blizzard, Jensen stood in the middle of the living area, waiting for the pair of troopers scheduled for the northernmost tower.
In the other room, the lieutenant got up and started to prepare himself to sally forth once more with a trio of soldiers for the farthest Bradley.
Up and down the 150 miles of border under American control, scores of 4th Cavalry platoons were doing the same.
• • •
The platoon’s routine was suddenly broken.
“Hey, Sarge! I think you’d better get in here!” Jelewski called out. “There’s something odd happening at the border.”
The urgency in the radio operator’s voice was unmistakable.
CHAPTER 3
January 28—11:43 p.m.
2nd Platoon, Delta Troop, 1st Squadron, 4th Cavalry
The German-Czech Border
“What’s wrong?” Jensen asked the moment he entered the room.
“Listen,” Jelewski said.
“. . . can’t tell for sure, Brownie. So many coming toward the wire that I can’t count ’em all,” Sergeant Kelly, commanding the northern Bradley, said. There was no mistaking the fear dripping from each of Kelly’s anxious words.
In the platoon’s operations center, Jelewski, Jensen, and Powers froze the instant they heard the compelling tone in the young soldier’s voice. Just then, the three replacements for Kelly’s Bradley, Specialists Winston and Johnson and Sergeant Reed entered the small room.
“It’s the same here, Kelly,” Brown said. “There are a dozen tanks at the wire in front of me. Got BMPs in support, with infantry dismounting from most of them.”
“What do you want us to do?”
“Wait one, Delta-Two-Two,” Brown said. “Delta-Two-Three, are you there?”
“Roger, Brownie, we’re here,” came the excited reply from third squad’s Bradley, a mile south of Brown’s position. “Lots of them moving our way, too.”
“Okay, Two-Three . . .” Brown said, pausing just long enough to make a final assessment of the utterly unanticipated situation. “All of you listen to me. Nobody panic. At this point, we’ve no idea what the Russians are up to. More than likely, it’s just another one of their stupid stunts. After tw
o weeks of staring across the border at us, that crazy general must’ve gone snow-blind. By now, the sorry bastard’s probably bored out of his skull. So he’s decided to have some fun at our expense. I know things look pretty grim at the moment. But we’re going to be just fine as long as we stay calm. Everybody take a deep breath and hold your ground. Keep your heads down and don’t do anything foolish until I find out what platoon wants us to do . . . Delta-Two, Delta-Two, this is Delta-Two-One.”
“Go ahead, Two-One,” Jelewski said.
“Jewels, is Jensen there?” Brown said, ignoring the likely presence of the lieutenant in the room.
Jensen took the handset from Jelewski. “Roger, Brownie, go ahead.”
“Sarge, we’ve got some really strange goings-on up here. The Russians have obviously lost their minds.”
“How so, Brownie?”
“I’ve got to tell you, I don’t know what to make of any of it. Things seemed perfectly normal until about three minutes ago. The Russians were playing their little war games just like they’d been doing all day. Their tanks and BMPs were racing around in the snows, making their mock attacks on each other. I was just sitting here halfheartedly watching their antics and counting the minutes until this shift was up. That’s when it happened.”
“When what happened, Brownie?”
“All hell broke loose, Sarge. Without warning, the Russian armor turned and raced at top speed across the snows straight for us. They came from every direction. And they didn’t stop until they’d reached the wire. But that’s not the worst of it. There are dismounted infantry in full battle dress pouring from the BMPs. I still can’t believe what I’m seeing. Everywhere I look, an endless stream of Russian armor’s moving toward the border. The other positions are reporting the same. What do you want us to do?”
