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“Echo-Yankee-One, this is Sierra-Kilo-One-Two. Have armor movement on the hillside five miles away.”
“Roger, Sierra-Kilo-One-Two. We see them. We’ve called for fighter support. With any luck, the F-16s should be crossing the English Channel as we speak. Battalion is to open fire when the enemy’s within two miles. Six wants to stop them as far away as possible and hold them there until air support arrives. Sierra-Kilo-One-Two, open fire on the lead tank at two miles. Battalion will follow on your cue.”
“Roger,” Richardson said. “Will engage at two miles.”
Nine minutes, no more, and the battle would begin.
“Haines, you heard the man. Target the leader. Fire at two miles. Let’s get off as many shots as we can before the Russians figure out where we are.”
“I’m already on it,” Haines said.
“Let me know if you need my assistance in targeting the column and prioritizing the targets.”
“Roger. If I need help, I won’t hesitate to ask. But as slow as the Russians are moving, I think I can handle it by myself for now. Why don’t you just sit back and enjoy the show. I’ll try to make it a good one.”
The seconds slowly ticked by. Richardson peered through the tank’s night-vision system at the approaching armor. It didn’t take long for him to recognize that the tanks cresting the distant hill were older T-64s. Still good tanks but not top-of-the-line. They were certainly no match for the M-1s in a fair fight. The tank commander recognized that the enemy they were going to face in this final battle wasn’t going to be a first-line Russian unit. Possibly Regular Army, but definitely not one of the best or most prepared.
As the war neared the end of its fourth day, Richardson had no way of knowing that first-rate Russian armored divisions were few and far between. Almost all of the finest young men Mother Russia had to offer lay dead in the bloody fields of Germany. After four fierce days of fighting, an entire generation was gone.
He knew the M-1s would chew the older tanks to pieces. But nine Abrams tanks against an entire armored division, even a second-rate one, wasn’t going to work for long.
“Richardson,” Haines said, “another ten seconds and they’ll be at the two-mile point. I’ve locked onto the leader. He’ll be dead before he knows what hit him.”
“Roger. Engage when ready.”
Richardson had nothing to do but wait and watch the battle unfolding in front of him. For the moment, all of the engagement responsibilities rested on the shoulders of his new gunner.
Haines fired. The huge cannon expelled its first round. The Abrams recoiled, shuddering beneath the power of its main gun. On the distant hillside, the leading T-64 erupted in flames. A billowing fireball, an image that had become so much a part of the German countryside in the past four days, soared high into the dark heavens. The battle had begun.
Behind Richardson’s tank, eight more fired. Fierce explosions ripped through the overmatched Russian armor. The American guns quickly took their toll.
The defenders bided their time and destroyed their outgunned opponent without suffering a single loss of their own. On the fiery hillside, the Russian division faltered. The enemy armor ground to a halt. For the first ten minutes, the struggle was slow and predictable.
But things were about to change.
For by the fifteen-minute point, the battle had suddenly turned desperate.
This time it was the Russians who’d sprung the trap. Their lure, the older tanks, had worked in bringing the Americans out into the open. By sacrificing their aging armor, they’d identified the M-1s’ positions in the valley below.
From the hills, forty attack helicopters roared west. They were also older equipment, Hind-Ds manned by less-than-top-notch crews. Yet they were still quite lethal. And there were far too many of them for the handful of scattered tanks to handle. Like a swarm of raging hornets, the helicopters were quickly upon the American tanks. The first Abrams was gone before the battalion could react.
Without their antiaircraft gun, Richardson’s crew was nearly helpless against the buzzing helicopters. But he wasn’t going to let that stand in his way. He moved left through the compartment, popped the loader’s hatch, and settled in behind its machine gun.
Two flights of F-16s were on the way from Lakenheath. It would be another ten minutes, however, before the first of the fighters would arrive.
With the Americans busily battling the new threat, the Russian armor saw an opening. The T-64s quickly picked up speed. They roared toward the battlefield.
“Richardson, I’ve still got twelve shells left for the main gun. Do you want me to disengage from the armor and target the Hinds?” Haines asked.
“Negative. Keep firing at the tanks. We need to keep them pinned against that hillside until help arrives. If they reach open ground and are able to spread out, the battalion’s finished. We’ve got to somehow hold the armor where it’s at if we’re going to have any chance at all. You handle the tanks. I’ll use the machine gun to keep the helicopters off us.”
Richardson knew it was wishful thinking. A useless gesture, bound to fail. Still, he had little choice.
Without warning, two Apaches suddenly appeared in the sparkling night sky. The sleek forms raced into the center of the soaring Russians. In a version of combat seldom seen before this war, helicopter against helicopter, the desperate struggle continued. The Hind-D pilots were no match for their deftly skilled opponent.
Hellfires roared from beneath the American killers. For three minutes, one right after another, aging Russian rotor blades stopped spinning in midflight. They fell from the frigid skies in regular intervals beneath the Apaches’ fierce attack.
But two against forty wouldn’t succeed for long. A Russian Swatter missile ripped through the frightful night. An Apache exploded in midair. Seconds later, his partner fell prey to the concentrated Russian fire.
The Apaches were gone as quickly as they’d appeared. Both had been blown forever from the twinkling heavens. And the
F-16s were still seven minutes away.
The Russians were ready to put an end to the uneven struggle. They swooped in on the Americans once more. A pair of determined Hinds headed for the lead M-1. As the helicopters neared, Richardson fired long bursts from his machine gun. But the gun’s range was far too limited, and its armament much too small, to deal effectively with an airborne attack.
The Hinds were right on top of them. There was nothing Richardson could do but continue to fire and pray for divine intervention.
Within seconds of each other, both helicopters fired Swatter missiles at Richardson’s crippled tank. At blinding speed, death raced through the night toward its target. The first missile was a fraction high. It missed the turret by inches. The Swatter smashed into the rear of the crippled American tank. In a blinding flash, its engine was destroyed. The Abrams buckled. Its crew was tossed about like a child’s discarded toy. In the rear of the compartment, the tank’s new loader lay dying. A raging inferno roared forward from the twisted mass of burning metal at the back of the M-1. The tank’s fire-suppression system was overwhelmed by the unholy blaze.
If the Americans didn’t do something, in a handful of flittering heartbeats the frantic flames were going to engulf the crew compartment and end their lives.
“Get out!” Richardson screamed. “Haines . . . Jamie . . . save yourselves any way you can!”
Terror stabbed deep within Richardson’s heart. He struggled to free himself from the hatch. His crew did the same.
The second missile was right on target. Just as Richardson began to lift himself from the compartment, the missile struck the Abrams dead center. The M-1’s turret exploded in a mighty blast. In a fiery pyre, the American tank commander disappeared. A rising ball of death and destruction carried the shattered remains of the disheartened sergeant and his new gunner high into the heavens. In the final instant of his brief life, Richardson was gripped by an overwhelming sense of sadness. His last conscious thought was an undeniable realization that no one would mourn his passing.
