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“Are the tanks making any attempt to cross the wire?”
“Negative. For the moment, they’re just sitting there.”
For the briefest of instants, Jensen’s mind begged him to believe it was nothing more than another Russian ploy to test their American adversaries. Just that brazen general trying to see how his foe would react this time.
But the veteran platoon sergeant knew otherwise. Tanks and BMPs at the wire might be a test of wills. Moving dismounted infantry into position to support the armor, however, could mean only one thing. As much as he fought against it, there was just one conclusion he could reach—the Russians were preparing to attack.
Jensen’s mind was racing. Still, he forced himself to sound completely calm. “Roger, Two-One. Wait one.”
Jensen turned to the lieutenant. Searching looks passed over their faces, each knowing what they needed to do but wanting the reassurance of the other. When Powers made no move to take charge, Jensen issued the order for the platoon’s fifteen men at the border to prepare for war.
“Second Platoon, lock and load.”
In the towers, each soldier chambered a round into the barrel of his M-4, released the safety, and selected a target from the Russian infantry. In the three Bradleys, the vehicle commander reached for his machine-gun controls and went through the identical procedure. Each then did the same with his 25mm armor-piercing Bushmaster. The soldier in the “gunner” position armed his pair of upgraded TOW missiles. They all knew the powerful missile, tested in a dozen nasty little wars, would slice through the thickest Russian armor with ease. The Bradley drivers started their engines and revved them against the cold.
In all, it took less than ten seconds for the platoon’s border force to be ready for battle.
“Jewels, let squadron know what’s going on up here,” Jensen said.
Without waiting for a response, Jensen pushed past the three replacements and into the platoon living area.
As he stood in the middle of the room and made the fateful pronouncement, the platoon sergeant’s voice was almost casual in its tone and belied the terror welling in his soul. “Let’s go, 2nd Platoon. We’ve got bad guys at the wire. And they appear to mean business.”
At the tables, cards flew. Confused soldiers in various states of dress scrambled to ready themselves for whatever lay ahead.
• • •
With Jensen busy in the living area, Powers decided the moment was ripe for him to exercise his newly acquired leadership skills.
“Come on, men!” Powers said. He motioned for Winston, Johnson, and Reed to follow.
Rushing out the door, with the three cavalry soldiers close on his heels, the fresh-faced lieutenant ran to his Humvee. With trembling fingers, he removed the thick canvas tarp covering the Humvee’s machine gun.
“You drive,” Powers said, pointing to Johnson.
The soldiers scrambled into the Humvee. Powers climbed into the rear and positioned himself behind the machine gun.
“All right, men, there’s no time to waste. Let’s get up to the border!” Powers yelled.
In one motion, Johnson started the engine and slammed the accelerator to the floor. The tires spun wildly, spraying snow in every direction. The small combat vehicle careened its way onto the twisting trail. The border was a mile away. Reaching forty miles per hour as they roared through the blackness of the narrow roadway, the soldiers were in for the ride of their lives. In the rear of the Humvee, the lieutenant held on with all his might.
• • •
Satisfied that Cruz and Austin could finish organizing the platoon’s remaining twenty-two men, Jensen returned to the operations room.
“Where the hell’s the lieutenant?” he asked.
“Took off in his Hummer,” Jelewski said.
“When’d he do that?”
“A couple of minutes ago. Right after you went into the living area, he took Reed’s team and left for the border.”
A mixture of anger and frustration flashed in the platoon sergeant’s eyes. But before Jensen could utter the endless stream of expletives forming on his lips, Brown was screaming into the radio, “Delta-Two, I’ve got tanks through the wire! Jesus Christ, they’re everywhere! Say again, I’ve got tanks through the wire! Request immediate instructions! Request immediate instructions!”
The Russians had made their move.
Jensen lunged toward the radio. He had to get Brown and his men away from the border. It was their only chance. If they were going to inflict maximum damage on the enemy and hope to somehow live to see another sunrise, he had to get his overmatched soldiers into the protective cover of the welcoming tangle of German forest. And he had to do it now.
The lieutenant’s Humvee chose that exact moment to burst from the woods. His hand already positioned to key his headset, he beat Jensen to the punch.
“Open fire!” Powers screamed. “Open fire!”
He squeezed the trigger of his machine gun, firing wild bursts toward the border.
“No-o-o!” Jensen shrieked into the platoon radio. “Fall back! Fall back! Brownie, get everyone into the trees and set up defensive positions!”
Jensen was, however, too late. None of them heard him over the battle erupting in every direction.
Targets were everywhere in Brown’s night-vision sights. With his Bushmaster chain gun, the squad leader tore into a BMP2 that had stopped to discharge its seven infantrymen. Under Brown’s relentless assault, smoke poured from the BMP. Flames licked at the enemy armored vehicle’s sides. As Russian infantry emerged from the rear of the crippled personnel carrier, Brown switched to his machine gun. With two quick bursts, he cut down four white-clad figures and watched them crumple to the snow.
Brown’s gunner had a T-80 in his sights. He fired the first of his TOW missiles. The missile screamed through the night, ramming headlong into its massive target. The ground beneath them trembled. A fearful explosion threw huge pieces of the dying tank high into the winter sky. The resulting fireball was visible for miles around. The blizzard-swept battlefield turned as bright as the brightest day.
A half mile to Brown’s left, the pair of Americans in the center guard tower opened fire on a squad of Russian infantry caught by the false daylight of the burning tank. Struck repeatedly, the advancing infantry went down. The firing from the tower attracted the attention of the T-80s the infantry squad had been attempting to support. The lead tank methodically raised the elevation on its 125mm cannon, located the M-4 muzzle flashes, and fired from close range. In less than a heartbeat, the massive shell slammed into the frozen tower, obliterating it and the cavalry soldiers within. America had suffered its first losses of the new war.
Powers’s Humvee headed north across the open ground that separated it from Brown’s position. While the battle intensified, the Humvee ripped through the blizzard with guns blazing. A BMP’s machine gun returned the Humvee’s fire. Lethal streams of tracer fire soared in both directions.
The deadly duel of men and machines would, however, be short-lived. The Humvee was overmatched. Its armored opponent was far too powerful. The Russian fire homed in, coming ever closer to the speeding Americans. The BMP’s gunner focused on the figure behind the enemy machine gun. The inviting target of the standing Powers was struck by a pair of armor-piercing bullets that found their way through the machine gun’s protective plating and the lieutenant’s body armor. The first found his right arm, tearing a huge gash in a well-developed biceps. The other smashed into the lieutenant’s broad chest and dug for the fragile life hidden within. The impacting bullets forever silenced the Humvee’s machine gun.
A second burst of machine-gun fire caught Johnson in the shoulder and neck. The shorter Winston, sitting next to him in the front passenger seat, was struck just above his left cheekbone by the withering Russian assault. Winston died instantly, as a substantial portion of his f
ace and head disappeared.
The searing pain of Johnson’s wounds soared deep into his brain, overwhelming all conscious thought. He instinctively jerked the steering wheel sharply to the left, away from the BMP’s fire. The extreme actions of its driver were too much for the Humvee to overcome. It tumbled over and over in the treacherous snows, finally skidding to a stop beneath a heavy drift. In the rear seat, Sergeant Reed was pinned beneath the twisted wreckage. His neck was broken.
The crash threw the severely injured Powers from the vehicle. The lieutenant slammed to the bitter ground. His motionless form lay in the snow, barely alive. His broken pipe, torn from his shirt pocket, lay next to him.
The Humvee’s crash also broke Johnson’s left arm and crushed his rib cage. He tried to scream out, but the enemy bullet that had ripped through his neck had destroyed his larynx. In barely a minute, as his freely flowing blood mixed with the snow, his pain was over.
The rest of 2nd Platoon’s border force was faring little better. On the far right of the platoon’s position, 3rd Squad’s Bradley never got off a shot. Shortly after the battle began, a duo of T-80s fired their main guns at nearly the same instant, destroying the smaller American armored vehicle and its crew of three.
