Red Metal

by Mark Greaney

  Grant said, “If the enemy is fighting the way we expect them to, the next attack will be a massive wall of Russian armor. They will have identified our locations and our strength through their reconnaissance in force, and will hit us from some flank if we are not working actively to get a step ahead.”

  Major Blaz Ott looked out over the rolling, moonlit German winter landscape. “I agree . . . but something else is going on.”

  “Yeah, I get that feeling, too. They had a purpose. They didn’t probe our ambush positions or even try to find our flanks. There was some objective more important than destroying our armor.”

  “Ja,” said Ott. “They had orders to get past us and continue on to the west.”

  “But . . . where are they heading?” Grant asked.

  “No idea,” the German captain admitted.

  “I want to pursue them, but we don’t know what else may be barreling toward us. And we’re not going to get very far with just the two refueling trucks. The last slant report from both our units wasn’t good. We’ve fired more than eighty percent of our ammo.” He sighed. “We can’t attack anybody right now. We’ll stay here, improve our defensive positions, and go to fifty percent manning so the men can get a few hours rest while we wait for resupply.”

  “Alles klar,” Ott said. “When do we expect more ammo and fuel?”

  “Chandler is on his way to Grafenwöhr now to pick up a supply convoy. I’m waiting to hear that he’s heading back. We need everything.” Grant stared out into the dark, cold distance.

  “Sir? Something wrong?”

  “I still can’t shake my suspicion that the Russians have something else up their sleeves.”

  * * *

  • • •

  BAYREUTH, GERMANY

  48 KILOMETERS NORTH OF GRAFENWÖHR ARMY TRAINING CENTER

  26 DECEMBER

  The twenty-five support vehicles had already been loaded by the time Lieutenant Chandler arrived back at Grafenwöhr, so he immediately got the vehicles on the road toward Münchberg.

  Virtually everyone stationed at the base had rushed in to help with loading, even if they normally worked in some other support position. Post exchange clerks, administrative personnel, even food service—all had gotten involved.

  Without satellite radio, long-distance comms were suffering terribly, but a few men remembered how to use the old Vietnam-vintage HF radios, which employed a technology that dated back to World War II. Too many units had fallen in love with the ease of push-button and uninterrupted satellite comms and didn’t train with HF frequencies anymore, so the men who could operate the HF sets became instant hot commodities.

  An hour into the return trip the mixed convoy of German and U.S. supply and support vehicles stopped at a crossroads north of Bayreuth so Chandler and some of the lead drivers could confer about the best route forward. As the men formed up on the hood of a truck and laid out a paper map, a sudden series of rapid explosions ripped through their middle, catching them utterly by surprise.

  Boom—boom—boom!

  Lieutenant Chandler and the others dropped flat to the highway.

  Boom—boom—boom!

  A burst of heavy automatic-weapons fire blasted up the road behind them.

  Chandler looked back and saw four Russian Bumerangs racing up the long line of his vehicles on Highway 9, firing as they went.

  A German ammo truck was the first to go up. A direct hit—hard for anyone to miss at that range. It high-order detonated, blasting everything in its area, including two adjacent fuel trucks. Chandler felt the wave of heat wash over him, the snow in their area vaporized into water, and the men closest to the blast were ripped apart, then cooked by the bath of flaming fuel.

  Chandler ran to his M88 recovery tank and hastily scrambled on top of the vehicle, his bare hands sticking to the cold armor and metal rungs as he climbed. He jumped into the commander’s hatch and swung the .50-caliber machine gun around to face the advancing Russian vehicles. He pumped rounds furiously at the armored personnel carriers as they came into view.

  Amid the explosions, smoke, and fire, he trained the heavy gun on the lead Russian vehicle and he didn’t let off the gun as it approached. Forty meters, thirty meters, twenty meters. He unloaded all two hundred rounds in the machine gun’s ready box.

  In the darkness, several of Lieutenant Chandler’s column of support vehicles burned. The rounds shot in the direction of the passing Russian vehicles simply bounced off thick armor, while the Russians continued to rip shells into the unarmored trucks.

  Chandler knew there was no hope. He and his column had been caught unawares and unprotected by a superior force. There was only one thing to do.

  Die fighting.

  He reloaded his machine gun and resumed firing, watched the tracers and white-hot rounds slam into the lead vehicle over and over. It looked like some of his rounds penetrated the heavy front ballistic windshield. The lead Bumerang slowed from its breakneck assault pace. The driver of the Bumerang, obviously dead or wounded, lost control and nosed into one of the burning fuel trucks, pushing it off the road and into the woods.

  Instantly, the APC was engulfed in flames as fuel spilled out of the burning truck and down onto the Bumerang.

  Undeterred, the rest of the Russian vehicles bypassed their downed comrade and continued to pound their cannon fire at everything in their path. Lieutenant Chandler watched as another Russian APC took the lead and spun its turret, training its deadly 30mm cannon right at him.

  His brain hardly had time to register the danger before the cannon fired, and Lieutenant Chandler’s torso was cleaved in two at the chest, his fingers still clutching the .50 as he died fighting.

  CHAPTER 38

  3RD AVIATION BRIGADE, REGIMENTAL HQ

  EAST OF ANSBACH ARMY AIRFIELD

  KATTERBACH KASERNE, GERMANY

  26 DECEMBER

  The Apache flown by Lieutenant Glisson, rearmed and refueled, raced one hundred meters over the sharp, snow-covered rooftops of the German town of Bayreuth. She looked down at the map on her kneeboard and was checking the distance to the last known sighting of the Russians when Jesse came over the intercom. “Glitter, I have Courage back on the net. They say they lost contact with the Russian tank column and need us to look to their southwest.”

  After another glance at the map she said, “Roger. Pull hard left and let’s pick up a reconnaissance formation. I’ll click over and talk to Courage’s commander.”

  Glitter switched the radio over from their squadron net to the one the Army armored regiment had been operating on.

  “Courage Six, this is Glitter. Do you have a general location for that Russian armor?”

  “Glitter, Courage Six. Negative. We lost contact and we’re red status on fuel and ammo. We’re hearing explosions to the southwest, though. Can’t judge the distance in these hills.”

  “Copy,” Sandra said. “We’ll take a look to your southwest and advise.”

  “Good deal. We also believe that if this is an advance party, some kind of heavy reconnaissance, there will be a larger follow-on force, and we need to be dug in for that. So far none of our spotters have picked up anything, though. We have resupply en route to us now.”

  “Copy all. You guys hang in there.”

  “Roger. Courage Six, out.”

  Jesse flicked two flight controls with his left hand, then pulled the heavy helicopter to the northwest. The aircraft responded quickly in the cold winter night. Viper One-Six and Viper Two-Six were now on a hunting mission, but given that the enemy had shown they had teeth, Glitter knew she’d have to stalk her prey with caution.

  * * *

  • • •

  RADOM, POLAND

  26 DECEMBER

  Paulina Tobiasz was confused to find herself lying in a bed in a bright, clean room, an IV in her arm and her uniform replaced by a
hospital gown. Her left forearm was bandaged, and her head and left shoulder hurt, but it was a dull ache, nothing like what she’d felt lying in the snow back . . . whenever that was.

  She scanned the room till she found a clock, and saw it was 4:51. There were no windows in the room, but she knew she’d passed out in the early morning, so she assumed it was now afternoon.

  A doctor entered the room through the open doorway to the hall, and he smiled when he saw she was awake.

  “How are you feeling, Paulina?”

  She just shrugged a little. She didn’t feel good; she didn’t feel happy to be alive; she didn’t feel much of anything right now.

  She’d seen Urszula die, and Bruno, and so many others.

  She said, “How many . . . how many were killed?”

  The doctor gave a pained smile now, and he sat on the edge of her bed. He was gray-haired, thin, fatherly. “Maybe you should wait to—”

  “Tell me,” she demanded, surprising herself with a power in her voice that made her head throb even more.

  The doctor looked down at the floor. “They told me there were ninety-three militia and one PLF officer in your company. Seventy-four are confirmed dead, including the lieutenant. Ten are wounded, including you. Nine are unhurt.”

  At this Paulina cocked her head. “Really?”

  The doctor said, “Only because they threw down their weapons and ran away into the forest to leave the rest of you to die.”

  She stared off into space. As far as Paulina was concerned, the ones who ran should all receive promotions to major. Running from that meat grinder showed a certain tactical prowess that had not been demonstrated by the rest of them, herself included.

  The doctor said, “Phones are out now, but when they come up, I can try to call your mom.”

  “My father. You can call my father.” Paulina began weeping openly now. “Please tell him I’m okay.”

  “Of course, dear. And I will tell him that you are a hero.”

  She looked through her tears. “A hero?” There had been no heroes on that field; of that Paulina was sure. She had been the lucky survivor of a massacre, nothing more. One more casualty of a tornado that had swept over the land before racing on.

  “You are a hero. There were pictures taken of the battle,” the man said.

  Paulina cocked her head. “That was a battle?”

  “You’re right. It wasn’t a battle. But still, you stood up in the face of all that armor. All those soldiers. You shot a Russian, even. You are very brave.”

  She remembered now. She had shot a man. One man out of an army. Paulina felt none of the pride the doctor clearly expected her to feel. She had not been brave; she’d been terrified, nothing more. Her body had taken over and she had wielded her gun in her panic.

  I am no soldier, she thought to herself.

  “How am I alive?”

  “You were pulled out of a trench with a body on top of you. This man had been shot four times, but the bullets did not pass through him to you.” The doctor looked down at the clipboard in his hand. “You do have a concussion. Probably from grenades. You took a round through the forearm, left side, but you were lucky there, too. It’s superficial, already stitched and bandaged, a quick, simple surgery. We gave you some medicine, so you’ve been out for sixteen hours.”

  It was after four in the morning, she now realized. She looked outside in the hallway now. “Where are they?”

  “Where are who?”

  “The Russians. The invaders.”

  The doctor smiled a little. “Oh . . . of course, you don’t know. They didn’t take over Poland. It was a blitzkrieg, a small unit that raced across the southern part of our nation to get to Germany. We’ve been waiting for a larger invasion, but nothing else has come after a full day.”

  “Germany? Why are they in Germany?”

  “Nobody has any idea, because communications are so bad. But whatever they are doing, they are no longer doing it in Poland.”

  Paulina thought a moment. “Well . . . they might want to go home someday, and to do that they’ll have to come back through.”

  “That’s true,” the doctor allowed. “But you’ve done your part. You need to rest.”

  She sat up. “No. I have to be ready for them.” She winced as the IV bit into the back of her hand with the movement.

  “Young lady, you need another day in the hospital to—”

  A captain with the Polish Land Forces walked into the room from the hallway. He wore a fresh camouflage battle uniform and had a serious, intense look on his face. “Doctor, if Tobiasz says she can fight, we’re going to let her fight.” His face broke into a slight smile. “You are a hero, young lady.”

  Paulina wished like hell people would just stop saying that, because if she were a hero, Urszula would still be alive.

  * * *

  • • •

  37TH ARMORED REGIMENT (COMPOSITE) AND PANZERBATAILLON 203

  MÜNCHBERG, GERMANY

  26 DECEMBER

  Grant knew he had to come in person, but even so, it was hard leaving his unit, even just for an hour.

  He thought of his boss, the brigadier general in charge of the tank regiment. Where the fuck is he? He’d been wondering this for going on twenty hours now, always when he worried about his own skill. Or lack thereof.

  All he could think of was that if the Russians attacked his regiment right now, Major Ott would have to figure it out, because Grant had appointed the German officer to take command in his absence.

  Grant and the small pack of Humvees had been vectored toward the site of the carnage by the female Apache pilot. When they got within a couple of kilometers, they were further directed by the red cast of flames across the clouds that dotted the early-morning skies.

  As they pulled up to the outskirts of the slaughter, they could hear the sound of a few rounds of ammunition cooking off, so they parked and walked closer along the frozen ground next to the autobahn. As others hung back, Tom Grant walked on toward the still-burning column, the ground under his feet going from icy and hard to slushy and muddy, due to the heat from the explosions and resultant fires. When the fires burn out, this highway will be a damn sheet of ice, Grant thought.

  He and a dozen of his men walked among the burned column, inspecting the site. The damage was horrific. He saw a single downed Russian Bumerang, but the rest of the detritus of the battle was American equipment. He recognized the hull numbers of some of the destroyed vehicles, while other vehicles were unrecognizable, just twisted hulks of metal.

  It wasn’t difficult to find Lieutenant Chandler’s M88. It and several other vehicles, including three refueling trucks, were relatively intact because of the Russians’ haste.

  Somehow they got behind us and they’re navigating in our rear. There’s no real frontage to this thing. How the hell am I supposed to make sense of this? He glanced over at shadows in the trees. More men from his headquarters group were there, skirting the wood line adjacent to him, wary of the cook-offs.

  But Grant wasn’t thinking about his own safety now. At the moment he couldn’t have cared less if he lived or died. This was his fault. He should have known this enemy would go directly for his supply lines.

  If I were a real tanker, I would have sent escort vehicles, at least some anti-tank vehicles or gun trucks. If I were anything but a fucking logistics puke in charge of fucking tank maintenance, this would never have happened.

  But he knew why he hadn’t sent armor to the rear with Chandler. Everything he’d ever been taught about fighting in Europe against the Russians told him the worst was yet to come. He was certain a massive wall of Russian tanks would slam through Poland into Germany at any moment. How could he divide his tiny force to protect a resupply convoy that was supposedly well behind the lines?

  But his reasoning did not alleviate his self-loathin
g.

  In the flickering light he came across Lieutenant Chandler’s severed torso. He closed his eyes hard for a moment but soon he forced them back open. The Russian 30mm rounds hadn’t penetrated the M88. The armor had been too thick. They had instead burst against the huge hull and its front glacis. This sprayed shrapnel like a fan up the sloped armor in front; thousands of tiny razors had sliced the young African American in half.

  He crouched down and cradled the top half of Chandler’s body. He lifted him up and carried him along, looking for a clear spot to lay him out for the recovery personnel. He tried not to look at the ooze coming from the young man’s torso, his entrails spilling out.

  He’d pieced bodies of his friends back together in Afghanistan after IED explosions, so he was accustomed to sights and smells that few humans ever encountered. Yet now he felt true revulsion. An urge to retch, to purge this fear and anger that had haunted him along with the MRE he had halfway wolfed down when the call came that the resupply convoy had been wiped out.

  Hold it together, he thought. The men cannot see me weakening.

  Through some internal strength he was able to hold back his vomit. He looked down at his lieutenant’s face. It was ashen, lifeless, gray, but it was still his. A good officer, he thought. Full of promise.

  This is my mess. It’s up to me to make it right.

  Fuck this! Grant thought. No more waiting for the general to arrive. This is my fight until I’m properly relieved. For better or for worse. These are my people. This is my war. This is my unit and I give the commands.

  I own this battle space.

  Five minutes later he walked back to his Humvee with a renewed sense of purpose and stepped up to his driver. “Back to my regiment. We’re gonna grab some ammo and fuel, and then we’re goin’ on the motherfucking attack!”