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• • •
Relaxing on the hospital’s hillside, Robert Jensen saw the helicopters approaching. He initially didn’t react. For a moment, he believed it was another of the endless flights of Black Hawks bringing in American wounded. Too late, his freshly seeing eyes realized their mistake.
The Hinds were drawing near.
He twisted in his wheelchair to look at Morse’s beautiful face.
“Run!” he screamed.
She didn’t understand what he was trying to tell her. She sat frozen beside him. Confusion spread across her face at his sudden panic.
“Run! Those are Russian helicopters, and they’re spraying chemical weapons! Run now! Get inside as fast as you can!”
She leaped up and reached for the wheelchair’s handles.
“It’s too late. You’ll never make it if you try to take me with you.”
“No, I can’t leave you here.”
“Forget about me. It’s too far back to the building. You’ll never get up the hill fast enough pushing this contraption. Get inside and run as far into the building as you can. Do it now! Run!”
She hesitated, but when she saw the look in his eyes, she turned and started running toward the hospital. Her flowing hair trailed after her as she raced up the gentle slope. While she ran, she looked back at him. He hadn’t taken his eyes from her.
The spraying helicopters were right on top of him.
He could feel the droplets falling onto his exposed skin. He knew it would be over soon. Still, he continued to encourage her progress.
Fifty yards from the nearest building, she stumbled and fell. She looked back. There was disappointment in Jensen’s eyes. The helicopters were on her in seconds. Their nozzles continued spraying while passing over her and heading toward the hospital complex.
Jensen pitched forward from his chair. He fell upon the damp ground. He lay with his back to her on the wet grasses. Both their bodies began to tremble and twitch uncontrollably.
Inside the hospital, the seeping gases found a further home for its lethal poisons. In another hour, over the Atlantic, most of the medevac flights would turn around and head back to America. They weren’t going to be needed. There’d be few survivors remaining to pick up.
In a brief handful of painful seconds, Robert Jensen and Elizabeth Morse twitched no more.
Above him on the small hill, the beautiful lieutenant lay. Her limbs were distorted by the severe convulsions of her sudden death. Her sweet eyes were open wide, staring out but seeing nothing. Her face, turned toward the east, was filled with an overwhelming sadness.
He lay where he’d fallen toward the bottom of the hill, with only the flock of dead snowbirds to keep him company. The old soldier, responsible for the first American victory of the great war, would also see no more.
His face was as calm as a quiet spring morning.
He’d had his final hour in the sun.
CHAPTER 63
February 2—6:00 p.m.
Delta Troop, 1st Battalion, 12th Cavalry Regiment, 3rd Brigade Combat Team (Greywolf), 1st Cavalry Division
Bitburg
In the early-evening darkness, the aircraft convoy touched down at the former American air base. With only a few widespread landing lights to guide them, one after another the fifteen planes arrived. The first to land was the Delta Airlines 767 carrying 275 soldiers. Five C-5s, sheltering tanks within their holds, were directly behind. Three FedEx and two UPS cargo planes were next. A C-17 filled with large military trucks followed. The final three in the stretching procession were also C-5s. The minute they were safely down, the landing lights were extinguished.
They were all soon moving onto the tarmac. Before their jet engines stopped, air-base ground personnel swiftly moved to support the massive fleet. As the soldiers deplaned, many joined the airmen in beginning to unload their lethal cargo. Others began assembling and arming their units’ weapons. There was frantic but controlled action everywhere. Everyone knew their role.
Fuel trucks were sliding up to the planes and beginning their task.
Within minutes, nearly a thousand hands were working as one.
Apaches and Black Hawks were being readied, their rotors and wheels hurriedly attached. In no time at all, a first was armed and moving skyward to support the air police guarding the perimeter.
M-1s with freshly loaded cannon shells, machine-gun cartridges, and full gasoline tanks were roaring to life. Humvees and hand grenades, bandages and bullets, machine guns and mortars, all left the planes. The list was nearly without end.
As each aircraft was emptied, dependents were being led out and loaded onto them without delay. Given what had happened to those waiting at Ramstein yesterday for the chance to return home, not one complained about being crammed onto the unyielding floor of a C-5 for the very long, torturous ride to safety.
As the airmen and soldiers worked, six F-16s landed.
Crews hurriedly went about the process of refueling and arming the fighter aircraft.
• • •
Minutes later, a second aerial circus landed at Hahn, with two companies of Bradley Fighting Vehicles.
A quarter hour after that, Zweibrucken received its first soaring fleet.
The process was soon completed at each location.
• • •
The tank company, its supporting infantry, mortar teams, and helicopters headed east from Bitburg toward the Rhine.
As they did, the patchwork airborne convoy returned to the runway filled with anxious souls headed for home. In less than two days, these same planes would return anew filled with another critical load.
It was a scene that would be repeated over and over in the coming hours.
The Americans were on the move.
• • •
As the newly arriving cavalry soldiers steeled themselves for battle, little could they know that this ill-fated war was going to end much sooner than any of them could ever have imagined.
CHAPTER 64
February 2—11:14 p.m.
Inside the Kremlin
Moscow
Valexi Yovanovich stood before Cheninko’s desk. A few steps behind the Director of Operations waited the highly talented general’s second-in-command, Antonin Zulin. The Russian Premier, his impatience showing, glared at them.
None was aware that fresh American armored forces had been reaching the Rhine for the past few hours. Or that many more were on the way. They’d no idea their every move in the venomous game had been countered by their apt adversary. In many ways, with what Yovanovich had planned on this evening, it really didn’t matter.
Cheninko remained ruthlessly certain that on this night he’d have his final revenge on the Germans. He continued to believe that the annihilation of Germany and their domination over it for decades to come was all but assured. Despite what Yovanovich had told him, even if the Americans counterattacked in the coming weeks, Mother Russia would prevail.
“Why hasn’t the second wave of bridging equipment arrived at the Rhine, Yovanovich?” There was unmistakable malice in Cheninko’s voice. “Are you intentionally delaying the construction of the bridges and the crossing of the river? Because if you are, Comrade General, you’ll leave me with just one choice. Your actions can only lead to a place you do not wish to see.”
Cheninko looked toward the window where he’d stood witnessing countless executions. There could be no mistaking his meaning.
“Comrade Premier,” Yovanovich said, “we thought we’d have little problem breaching the river. With Ramstein destroyed, we hadn’t anticipated our enemy’s mounting such an aggressive defense. Despite our MiGs’ efforts to support them, nearly every attempt we’ve made to complete the spans and begin our crossings has been met by a brutal aerial assault. And much to our surprise, the handfuls of units that have reached the other side have
found determined ground forces waiting for them. It’s as if the Americans know exactly what we are doing. The new bridging equipment is on the way. Our combat engineers are, however, facing severe difficulties. There are few remaining roads on our side of the Rhine, and each of those is littered with untold obstacles. Even so, there will be enough equipment at each of the fording points to construct multiple crossings within the next twelve hours. We’re going to commit every fighter aircraft we have to making sure we succeed.”
