Red Metal

by Mark Greaney

  He reached for the radio and punched in the numbers for the second frequency he remembered.

  He tried again. “Any station this net, any station this net, this is call sign Shank on guard net ID three-niner-five decimal one hundred. Do you receive?”

  Still he heard nothing but static.

  Again he looked up at Paulina, who was now scanning through her binos out over the snowy fields in front of them. A small band of Polish militia was hoofing back to their spot from another wood line about three hundred meters away, and this made Paulina curse under her breath.

  As he was about to transmit yet again, a voice suddenly came over the radio, speaking American-accented English. “Station calling. Say again call sign.”

  Paulina stepped in closer to listen.

  “This is call sign Shank. I’m an American A-10 pilot. Shot down this morn—”

  Was it really this morning? Was it yesterday? He decided to just give the area: “Shot down over Bełchatów. I’m with the Seventy-fifth Fighter Squadron.”

  “We copy,” replied the phantom aircraft overhead.

  Shank still had no idea who this guy was. All pilots were taught that the simplest ruses were common during war, so neither man would take the other’s word that he was American, even though both men certainly sounded American.

  “Stand by for verification,” the voice over the radio said.

  After a few minutes the pilot came back with authentication data. Information only Shank and his unit could know. “What was your first command as a lieutenant, sir?”

  “I pushed papers at Andrews. I didn’t have a command.”

  “Were you ever incarcerated?”

  Shank smiled a little. “Arrested in Italy. Two nights in jail. It’s where I got my call sign.”

  After this brief exchange, the pilot seemed to be more trusting of Shank. “Okay, we have your data. We’ll pass along your location to the search-and-rescue folks.”

  “Uh . . . negative. I’ve linked up with Polish ground personnel. We believe we have Russian forces approaching our position. I need someone to prosecute targets for me.”

  There was a long pause now—so long that Paulina looked at Shank and pointed to the dial, indicating that perhaps he should adjust it. To this Shank just shook his head. These things took time. He had gone from the standard procedure of a downed pilot requesting evacuation to a downed pilot calling for close air support.

  He pictured the pilots of the aircraft above radioing back to base or else just discussing it among themselves, trying to figure out what to do.

  Then finally the radio crackled and the pilot said, “We copy all. We have your request and we’ll send it back. Remain on this net and we’ll check in.”

  “Understood. Here’s the issue. We believe Russian forces will be here in”—he looked at Jahdek, who held up two fingers—“two hours. I need close air support at that time. Please pass along.” It was dangerous to send up this information, but Shank was hoping the Russians were too far away to be listening in on him.

  “Okay, we copy all, Shank. We’ll pass along your request and will advise.”

  Shank turned to Paulina. “I told them the situation. Now we wait to see what they will do about it.”

  He stood up to stretch, careful to keep his wounded hand close to his body so he didn’t bump it on the people and equipment around him. Paulina squeezed his good arm gently and smiled, the first time he’d seen her do so. “You do it, Shank! Very good.”

  * * *

  • • •

  NORTHERN KENYA

  29 DECEMBER

  The Cobra attack helicopters’ twin Lycoming T53-L-703 turboshaft-driven blades chopped the air, thumping above the helicopter’s pilot and the gunner, driving the machine at a breakneck 170 miles per hour.

  “Stinger One-Six, this is Two-Six,” said the twenty-five-year-old pilot, scanning the horizon for the lead flight of four attack helos lined up to the front of his own flight of Cobras.

  “Go for One-Six,” the response crackled back.

  “I’ve pulled left from Route C80. Currently at grid 37 November 2059 6172. I am at the B.P. and inbound, time now,” he said, referring to the preset battle position.

  The pilot and his gunner in the front seat experienced momentary weightlessness as he pushed the stick hard forward and left and worked the rudder with his feet. He could see the flat desert landscape changing from the terrain he’d seen after taking off from USS Boxer.

  “Clear through and forward from BP Jenna. Friendlies are LAVs and remain at given grid. Vicinity the 17 63. Confirm.” Ahead of him the low Kenyan desert rose sharply in a series of rocky hills that separated it from Ethiopia. The escarpment that rose toward the city of Moyale was unmistakable from the maps they’d studied aboard ship, and the miniature map currently strapped to his kneeboard.

  “Confirmed. About forty or fifty vics. I have positive identity. Requesting to go hot.” The thermal camera mounted on the ball sensor assembly on the nose of the aircraft showed the white-hot outlines of several clusters—he supposed they were in platoon order—tucked in the lowlands, out of sight from the rising escarpment that led up to Moyale.

  “Copy, Two-Six. I have the lead. You are cleared to click off safe. TOT remains one-eight.”

  “Copy. I confirm TOT is one-eight. Call sign for ground unit?”

  “Call sign is Grizzly OPS. He’s switched to net ID four-five.”

  “Understood, four-five. That is the unit?”

  “Negative. That’s OSC. Unit is call sign Highlanders.”

  “Copy, One-Six. Let me know when you are clear from the target.”

  “Affirm. I have my guys doing right pull. Then I’ll call you clear onto target. Time is one-seven. Commencing TOT in one mike. Off the net. Out.”

  The whump-whump of the rotor blades on the AH-1 Cobra attack helicopter filled the pilot’s ears as the radio went silent for the one minute before all hell was scheduled to break loose. He flicked the master arm switch and watched as his instrument panel went from red to green on all weapons. He turned the forward sensors toward the spot where they were told to expect to see the Russians, the top of the shelf at Moyale. He could already see sixteen to twenty BTR-82s making their way down the winding road. It was a perfect place for an attack.

  Then, in front, he saw the four Cobras from the first flight rise up from behind the tall hill clusters. Each aircraft quickly launched two missiles.

  About half of the missiles appeared to impact their targets; then he heard the call.

  “Two-Six, we’re clear of the target. We’ll fall in behind you for a reattack off of BP Jenna with more PGM and a rocket-and-gun run. Your turn now.”

  The lead pilot called to the other aircraft, each pilot slipped his collective forward, and the aircraft raced just above the Marines on the ground. He could see the dismounted infantry, each clustered near the LAV vehicles, now firing rapidly at the distant targets.

  Boom-boom-boom, came the throaty roar across the canyon dividing the Americans from the Russians. The Marine Corps LAV-25s unleashed a fury of 25mm cannon rounds. The Americans were firing at maximum range, but getting any closer to Lazar’s armored column would have been suicide. They had counted on surprise, and had achieved it, but it wouldn’t last, and the BTR-82s’ cannon outranged the Marine Corps’ 25mm.

  The pilots knew this needed to be a quick fight with a quick getaway, or the Marines would get slaughtered.

  * * *

  • • •

  On the ground, Dan Connolly watched the LAVs firing their depleted-uranium armor penetrators at the enemy. The light-armored vehicles weren’t getting as many precision hits as the Cobra pilots, but he saw one and then another of the BTRs in the kill zone hammered by the two LAV companies. The BTRs, in contrast, were having trouble fixing the source of the fire. Their cannons thunde
red out responding shells, but the shots went short, left, and right of the distant Marine vehicles.

  The whole reason Connolly and the regimental operations officer had taken a bet on this being a good site for an attack was the fact that the Russians were forced into a vulnerable position on the road. Although the Marines were attacking from below the Russians, they had the advantage of being on terrain that allowed them to hit and run, while the Russians were forced to drive down the road single file due to the terrain around them.

  A Cobra swept in from the southeast and pulled up directly over Connolly’s position on the hill, then opened up with his 20mm gun and Hydra 2.75-inch rockets. Connolly could see the spread of ordnance across the battlefield; most missed as the pilot fought to keep the helo steady, but three or four caught the flanks of Russian vehicles winding their way down the mountain road from atop the high Ethiopian shelf.

  Boom! Something detonated right next to Connolly, blasting him out of his thoughts and blowing him off his feet, sending shards of red flint rock into his face and sides. He hit the deck hard, then ran his hand over his face and even his body armor. A sharp red shard, more like a slice of crystalline glass, had penetrated the outer layer of his load-bearing vest.

  In rapid succession, three more blasts impacted near him—enough to send him and the small group scrambling off the rocky promontory that gave them great sight lines but also made them one hell of a target.

  Incoming 30mm rounds echoed off the canyon’s walls, and blasts of return fire peppered the landscape in hundreds of small explosions.

  The Russians had them spotted and in range.

  Connolly ran to the LAV-C2, where he was met by Sergeant Casillas.

  “Sir, you okay?”

  “All good, Marine. Those cannon are getting closer.”

  “Check, sir. The LAV company wants to fire for another five mikes. Then the commander wants to pull back. He just lost two vehicles.”

  Connolly nodded and loaded up. He knew the enemy commander was advancing. The Russians possibly sensed that this was a small ambush, and knew they could retain the upper hand if they attacked into and through the forces lined up in front of him.

  It’s what Connolly himself would have done, and what he had done in Afghanistan many times.

  Connolly heard a new and unfamiliar noise, but when he looked into the sky he realized what it was.

  A Cobra had been hit full force by cannon fire.

  The helicopter burst into a ball of flame, breaking into tiny pieces, propelled through the sky behind burning fuel.

  Another buzzing sound was followed by another explosion, and the downed Cobra gunship’s wingman exploded like his leader.

  Just like that, four men had been lost and two helicopters were down.

  Connolly and the men around him dove into the open rear hatches of their armored vehicles as pieces of burning debris began raining down with a vengeance. Connolly’s LAV driver jammed his vehicle into reverse, tossing the lieutenant colonel and the rest of the men back against the metal hull and down onto the grated floors in heaps as gear and heavy ammunition boxes flew around inside the armored personnel carrier.

  Connolly looked up at Sergeant Casillas. “Is he trying to get us killed?” Punctuating his thought, the vehicle hit a huge bump, sending everyone in back flying into the air before slamming back down on the unyielding surfaces.

  Connolly untangled himself from the communications cords, then stood up and opened the top hatch to look out.

  Up on the mountain shelf leading from Ethiopia into Kenya, he counted roughly two dozen burning vehicles. What he now identified as Russian ZSU-23-4 self-propelled antiaircraft weapons were still firing their quad-barrel 23mm cannons into the skies in an effort to catch more of the now retreating Cobras. The Cobras were out of the fight now that their pilots had witnessed the capability of this awesome weapon; they just dropped flares and did their best to dodge the shots fired at them as they raced from danger.

  Connolly couldn’t see how many Marine Corps vehicles had been hit, but from the radio traffic he could hear through the headset in his crew helmet it sounded like casualties had been mostly one-sided, with the Russians taking the brunt of the damage.

  Surely a few LAVs had been destroyed, along with the two Cobras, but the light-armored reconnaissance attack had likely accomplished its mission. The Russian advance would slow down to regroup, and with luck they might pick their way a little more carefully as they rolled south.

  The heavy gunfire continued behind Connolly as they raced away along with the rest of the two LAV companies. The remaining Cobras escorted them out of the area and stayed ready to fire standoff missiles in case the Russians pursued at speed.

  But the Russians remained in Moyale, licking their wounds and reassessing their movements toward Mrima Hill.

  Connolly got on the radio and sent a situation report to Colonel Caster in the regimental command post. Connolly’s mission had successfully bought Caster some time, hopefully enough time to get everyone up to the mines and dug in.

  Caster’s response came over the radio soon after. “Good work to you and the two LAR company commanders.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Any idea where those ZSUs came from? I hadn’t seen any intel on those things, and they sound like they’re murderous.”

  “No, sir, didn’t see any reports on the things, either, but they certainly have leveled our aerial advantage. I counted at least twelve of them just with this regiment.”

  Caster’s Texas drawl rumbled over the radio. “That worries the shit out of me. Assuming Lazar’s other forces have similar assets, it’s going to mean the vast majority of this fight is going to be done on the ground.” And then the colonel said, “I want you to fall back. We’re sending some tanks up to Mount Kenya; it’s a few hours north of here. The terrain is jungle and the highway passes close by, and Lazar won’t be able to bypass it if he wants to get here to the mine before our carrier battle group arrives. We’ll hit him with a bigger delaying action, really give our boys at Mrima Hill time to dig in and get ready for the Russians.”

  “Copy, sir. We’re on the way.”

  Caster replied with “Grizzly Six, out.”

  CHAPTER 66

  SOUTHEASTERN POLAND

  29 DECEMBER

  Shank woke to someone shaking him by the knee where he sat in the heated truck. He opened his eyes and saw Jahdek.

  “You need more pills?”

  Shank felt a little better. Not good, just better. “No, I’m okay. What time is it? I think I fell asleep.”

  “Yes, no trouble. It’s almost nine o’clock. Paulina looked in here and saw you sleeping. She ordered everyone to leave you alone.”

  Shank asked, “What about the Russians?”

  “A company of tanks and some troop carriers are coming this way. PLF has seen them just to the west, but that unit doesn’t have anti-armor weapons, and our air force is down to our last F-16s. There will be no chance if your pilots don’t come help.”

  Shank quickly went about trying to raise anyone on the radio. Five minutes, nothing. Ten, still no one.

  After a few more tries he heard a distant voice. It was weak, but clearly it was calling for him. His antenna was simply not enough. He needed them to fly closer.

  Paulina came by. “Radio working? You have plane?”

  “I can hear them; they just can’t hear me. Still trying.”

  “Please,” she said. “Not too much time.”

  Shank continued calling out on the radio. Behind the lines, where he sat in the truck, was a bustle of frenzied activity, and Shank just sat there, rubbing his cast gently.

  Paulina watched him a moment, then heaved a heavy sigh. She was disappointed in him, and it made him feel like shit.

  She began to turn away, when a voice came over the radio.

&
nbsp; “Shank? Shank, this is Nooner. You receiving me?” The broadcast was loud and clear.

  Shank grabbed the mic. “Hot damn, Nooner, you bastard! I’ve got you Lima Charlie.”

  Paulina smiled. She understood enough to realize Shank knew the pilot he was talking to.

  “Roger, sir. Same, same. We thought you were dead until we got word back at . . . well, you know . . . back at our airfield.” Nooner was cautious with his words over the unencrypted radio channel. “You all right?”

  “I look like shit but I’m operational. I’ve linked up with a Polish militia unit. We are forward of the Russian advance, which has split into smaller elements.”

  “Yeah, they have. They’re all over the damn place down there.”

  “Roger that. We have eyes on some roads and fields that are going to be rotten with Russkies in the next few minutes.” Shank ran his finger over the map. “A town called Kraśnik is about twelve kilometers west of my position.”

  “Copy. We’re a four-gun flight, ready for work. Let me know what you want to do.”

  “I want to integrate you into the Polish militia ambush. You’ll kick it off. I need you to set a battle position in the vicinity of a place called Zamość. We’ll call that BP Raiders. I need you then to fly along Route 74, heading west, then veer hard north at Frampol. From there I want you to run in two craft sections, one every five mikes, then back to BP Raiders and then along that route again. We’ll start there, then see what effect we achieve and shoot up another nine-line brief for changes as needed. Good?”

  “Nooner copies all. What’s the TOT?”

  “Copy. TOT is . . .” Shank checked his watch; it was 2210 hours. “Can you make twenty-two-thirty hours?”

  “Roger. We copy. First TOT is set for two-two-thirty hours.”

  Paulina stood near Shank again, right at his shoulder, listening intently.

  “All okay?” she asked.

  “Yes, all okay.” He smiled back. She held up his left arm and examined the bandage carefully. She unwound it a few feet and then retied it more neatly.