Red Metal

by Mark Greaney

  Apollo hung up the phone and looked down the hill. It was dark now, but he could picture the jungle that went on for kilometers before turning into reddish brown arid land. He closed his eyes again but opened them when he felt someone walk up beside him.

  “Hey, Captain. Any news about your dad?” It was Connolly, the American lieutenant colonel.

  Apollo’s eyes searched the distance, but it was too dark to see the enemy. “The Russians tortured and murdered him.”

  “Jesus Christ.” Connolly put an arm on Apollo’s shoulder and squeezed it tight. “I’m sorry, Captain. I’m really sorry.” Apollo did not respond. “Look, you should probably go to medical and take a few minutes to—”

  The Frenchman turned to the American. “I came here to stop those men, down this hill, from killing my men, and your men. Right now, Lieutenant Colonel, nothing else matters.”

  He squeezed the hand on his shoulder, nodded his appreciation to Connolly, and said, “I need to check on my Javelin crews at the front.”

  He turned and walked off into the darkness.

  * * *

  • • •

  SOUTH OF WARSAW, POLAND

  31 DECEMBER

  The four Polish Land Forces vehicles stopped at the gas station just before two a.m. While men began pumping gas into the Honker Skorpion 3 all-purpose pickups, others who were awake and felt like stretching their legs climbed out to smoke or just stand around. More than half the men remained in the beds of their vehicles, sleeping against their huge military field rucksacks.

  The pickups had machine guns and all the men carried rifles, but the war was over, in Poland anyway, so no one was on any real guard. The Russian armored column, fractured and diminished as it was, was well inside Belarus and running through the night.

  These men were all weary from fighting, glad it was over, and looking forward to their first real rest in a week.

  The night was well below freezing, but the air was clear and the stars shone brightly. A train passed a few hundred meters away, heading west, the clickety-clack of its steel wheels the only sounds in the still winter night. It was clearly a local passenger train; the lights were on inside the cars, and the soldiers watched it drive past absentmindedly as they smoked.

  It was a nice reminder that things would someday return to normal.

  Ray Vance hobbled out of a truck behind them, and when they offered him a smoke, he accepted. Shank didn’t look much like a smoker. More a clean-living guy. The bandages over his eye and hand couldn’t mask his keen features. He was youthful looking and handsome.

  The turret machine gunner on the lieutenant’s Skorpion 3 spoke enough English to understand the pilot and to be understood himself.

  The pilot had been handed over to this small group of regular army forces for transport up to Warsaw. He would go to the hospital there to be checked out and then fly back to his unit in Germany.

  For the motor transport lieutenant and his drivers, this was actually the fifth stop. Their most recent was at a jeweler’s in the town of Grójec. It was an unofficial detour because the American had asked if he could run into the store for a few minutes, and the young PLF lieutenant had no problem with a little break, especially because the American offered to buy all the men lunch at McDonald’s.

  The American spent nearly a half hour in the jewelry store browsing through rings.

  The Poles came back from McDonald’s to find the American holding a small shopping bag. Of course they were curious, and they prodded him a bit, with the gunner translating, but he wouldn’t tell them what was inside the bag.

  Hours had passed since then, but Shank had remained tight-lipped about his purchase. But now, as he stood with the others near the wall of the gas station, smoking and huddling deep in their coats to ward off a cold breeze, the turret gunner asked him again, “What did you buy?”

  Shank smiled. “You boys are gonna keep asking till I tell you, aren’t you?”

  “Yes. The guys want to know what was so important.”

  After a pause he said, “A ring.”

  “For mother?”

  “No. For a girl.”

  The gunner translated and the men all laughed. They spoke more to the young gunner, and he looked back at Shank.

  “They want to know if it is a Polish girl. Someone you met here.”

  “As matter of fact, yes,” he answered with a grin.

  His words needed no translation, and the others all laughed some more. More cigarettes came out; he demurred on a second. But when the lieutenant brought out a flask of Polish vodka, he took a sip along with the men.

  Shank had gotten his first taste of ground combat and he hoped like hell it would be his last. The worry was constant. The threats were constant. But it was good to be around others. In the air he was alone. Here, the camaraderie was ever present. Strengthening their resolve. Bonding the men and women of the ground combat arms.

  The lieutenant said some words to the gunner, who translated yet again. “He says that vodka warms the belly on a cold night like this. But that maybe your heart is already warmed by this Sasza of yours.”

  “Oh . . . ,” said the American captain, blushing a little under the scrutiny. “Actually, her name is Paulina.”

  More laughter as all the men repeated “Paulina,” clapping him on the shoulder and back.

  The lieutenant looked at his watch, then smiled. In English he said, “Happy New Year, Shank,” and he offered him another drink.

  Shank smiled as well as he took the flask. “Happy New Year.”

  As he finished swallowing his gulp, a flash of light and a concussive crash enveloped the gas station. One of the Polish Land Forces pickups went up in a ball of fire, blasting debris in all directions just fifty feet from where Shank stood.

  The men near the store turned to find cover, but the gunfire of a dozen fully automatic rifles began jackhammering from the trees to the west, the whipcrack of AK rounds snapping through the air around the men standing there by the wall.

  Shank began to race through the front door of the gas station, but a rifle round caught him under the chin. He raised both arms and clutched his throat with his right hand and the cast on his left.

  Blood shot out of the wound; an artery was severed.

  The second, third, and fourth bullets hit him in the back and legs.

  Shank pitched forward and fell facedown on the sidewalk in front of the door.

  As the others spun and fell, the lieutenant’s gunner, wounded, managed to scramble to the door of his Skorpion 3. He was just leaning in to grab his rifle when a burst of rounds caught him in the abdomen. He fell to the frozen concrete, the lit cigarette still dangling from his mouth.

  The bulk of the firing lasted no more than fifteen seconds, and in that span the American pilot and all sixteen Polish soldiers were killed, their bodies perforated by gunfire or torn by explosions. Some of the men died while sleeping against their packs in the truck beds.

  * * *

  • • •

  The Spetsnaz troop reloaded their magazines in the trees, then approached the gas station with weapons held high. They had spent the last two days on foot, moving east only at night. The plan had been to rejoin the main column as it passed through Poland, but the routes changed after Wrocław, and this team had been missed by the Russian forces on the way out.

  So tonight, hungry, cold, and tired, Major Lyosha Rochenkov decided they would steal some vehicles for warmth and mobility.

  It had been pure luck to find the Polish Land Forces Skorpions filled with and surrounded by soldiers who looked like they had no idea there were still Russian military inside Poland. Rochenkov had carefully moved his men into the trees near the gas station, then ordered them to open fire.

  The Russians walked among the bodies now, kicking the still forms lying on the ground and poking with their ri
fles at the men in the trucks, checking to see if any remained alive.

  They were all dead.

  A young Spetsnaz soldier said, “Major, this one over here is an officer. Do you want his uniform?”

  “Da. Everyone, change quickly into their uniforms.”

  “Sir,” said the NCO of the unit, “if we are caught in Polish uniforms, we will be shot.”

  Rochenkov said, “What the fuck do you think they will do with us now that we’ve slaughtered half a platoon of men without quarter? We can move easier in their vehicles with their uniforms on, and we’re just as dead either way if we don’t make it into Belarus by sunrise.”

  The Spetsnaz major removed the coat from the lieutenant and put it on over his own uniform. It fit, for the most part, though the front was still wet and red with blood.

  A special forces sergeant called from over by the door to the gas station. “Major? This one over here . . . I think this guy is an American.”

  The Spetsnaz major walked over and looked at the body on the sidewalk in front of the door to the gas station. He knelt and rolled the man over on his back. Rochenkov nodded. “That’s an American air force flight suit. Look at the cast on his arm and the bandage around his face. He must have been shot down.”

  “This was not his lucky week, then,” laughed the junior NCO. “Next time, stay at home, Yankee,” he said, staring at the body.

  Others gathered around, fascinated to see the dead American.

  “Look,” said the NCO. “He’s got a flask next to him.”

  “Not a bad way to go,” mumbled another. “A little drink in your gut is better than most get.”

  Major Rochenkov said, “All right, mount up in the three remaining pickups.” They all moved toward the vehicles, some still buttoning up their Polish uniforms. “We have to make it to the border before daybreak or we’ll have to lay up another day. Man the turret guns and everyone stand at the ready with your weapons.”

  The NCO added, “No sleeping. Look around you—you see what sleeping will get you.”

  The Russian soldiers climbed into the Polish vehicles and headed east toward Belarus, leaving the corpses behind in the frigid night.

  CHAPTER 73

  MRIMA HILL, KENYA

  31 DECEMBER

  Connolly had been dozing uncomfortably in a folding camping chair just inside the entrance to the horizontal shaft. He snapped awake as loud radio chatter came in, and he looked at his watch. It was four a.m. and instantly he knew he was going to have to dig deep into a reserve of energy to stay alert this early morning.

  He rubbed his stiff knees as the Force Recon radioman’s snap report echoed throughout the cavernous mine shaft.

  “Grizzly, Grizzly, Black Diamond One, over.”

  “Go, Black Diamond.”

  “Roger. SPOTREP follows.”

  “Black Diamond, go with SPOTREP.”

  “Roger. I have eyes on, time now. Be advised, enemy is approximately a regiment-sized unit of BTR-82s. Unit travels north to south along highway Charlie one-zero-six. Speed is about four-five kilo-papa-hotel, now crossing phase line ‘Chesty.’ Enemy unit is arrayed in traveling formation.”

  Lieutenant Colonel McHale was up on the net instantly. “Black Diamond, Grizzly Main. We copy all. Continue to observe and report.” He ran his finger down the map from the enemy’s position and south about eight kilometers. He looked over to Apollo Arc-Blanchette, who had been dozing while lying against a backpack. The Frenchman was on his feet in a second. “Captain, at present direction and speed, I estimate the enemy will be on your Dragoons in about ten minutes.”

  “Understood,” said Apollo. He hurried over to a table, then confirmed on his own map lying there.

  Caporal Konstantine handed Apollo the French radio handset and he transmitted to the men of Three Team. “Dragoon Three, are you copying the Marine report?”

  “Dragoon actual, this is Dragoon Three. We copy all. Ambush position set,” they responded.

  Apollo gave McHale the thumbs-up. “They’ll punch them in the nose, sir. They’ve been at it for days now, on two continents.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The half-moon glowed high in the cloudless Kenyan sky, offering plenty of light for the eight men of Dragoon Three Team. With their night optics they could easily discern the shapes of the distant Russian BTRs still driving in a traveling formation, rolling straight down the road, maximizing their speed but making themselves excellent targets for the French special forces men.

  “How many do you count?” Sergent Coronett asked his missileman, who was looking through the thermal sight system of his anti-tank Missile Moyenne Portée. The young Dragoon’s hands cupped the twin grips, slowly rotating the massive launcher on its tripod mount as he tracked the approaching Russian vehicles.

  “I count twenty.” He pulled back a bit to address his team leader. A green glow illuminated two circles around his eyes where the eyecups leaked light from his thermal sight system. “Maybe more, boss. Too many to see the back of the column. I see no tanks, just BTRs.” The man leaned back to the scope and continued tracking.

  Sergent Coronett grabbed his squad radio to talk to the rest of his missilemen. “All teams, prepare to launch on my mark.”

  The missileman with Coronett said, “Ready to fire.”

  After a few seconds Coronett patted him on the back. “Fire.”

  The Dragoon flipped off the thumb safety and squeezed the trigger on the butterfly grip.

  There was a loud, hollow pop as the missile ejected six feet from the launch tube; then a massive whoosh filled the quiet night as the rocket motor kicked in, jetting the missile hundreds of meters into the air.

  To Sergent Coronett’s left and right, six other missilemen took their cue and fired their Moyennes.

  In just under four seconds, five of seven tandem HEAT warheads blasted into the lead BTRs. The missiles peeled open the tops like tin cans, destroying the vehicles and the occupants instantly.

  Without a word, all seven crews collapsed their missile launchers and gear, hefted everything onto their backs, and sprinted fifty meters back to their waiting pickups.

  Four kilometers to the north the Russian lead battalion quickly fanned out into combat formation and began firing wildly, clearly shocked by the impact of losing most of a platoon without warning, this far north of Mrima Hill. By the time some semblance of fighting order had been established in the Russian ranks, the Dragoons were racing south at full speed.

  * * *

  • • •

  At the regimental command post, the radio crackled. “Dragoon Six, this is Dragoon Three. Five enemy BTRs KIA. We are executing bump, back to our next anti-armor ambush position.”

  Apollo keyed his radio. “Good work, Three Team. Reload and get ready for another salvo.” He looked over at Lieutenant Colonel McHale to see if he was tracking. McHale was talking on another radio but signaled that he was following the successful French first hits with a thumbs-up.

  Apollo finished his transmission to Three Team. “The southern Marine Force Recon team is set and wants you to make haste driving through their positions at the bridge.”

  A few minutes later a whispering voice came over the Marine radio. “Grizzly Three, Grizzly Three, this is Black Diamond. I have the lead unit of the Russians passing me now. We estimate six minutes until the center of the regiment.”

  “Copy. I show all friendly forces south of your position. You are clear to demo the bridge on your timeline.”

  “Black Diamond copies all. Out.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Sixteen kilometers from the command post, the Force team now lay in wait, watching Russian BTRs stream past. Five detonators, five lines of det cord, and five wires led to their concealed positions in the dry riverbed east of the heavy bridge on the C106. Camou
flaged by cut foliage, their faces painted, the team leader counted vehicles quietly while the assaultman, a specially trained demolitions expert, made a final check on the explosive initiators.

  The radio operator inched up to his team leader and whispered into his ear. “Sir, word from Grizzly Main. We’re clear to initiate.”

  The Force Recon team leader, a Marine Corps staff sergeant with eleven years’ experience, just nodded.

  He felt for the handset of his squad radio without pulling his eyes from the night optic he used to track the approaching forces. He pressed the button and spoke softly. “Spotter, you have eyes on?”

  The whispered response came back. “Affirm. Center mass of the regiment is two-zero-zero meters. One platoon . . . They’re slowing. They’re gonna inspect the bridge.”

  The Force Recon staff sergeant responded with a calm that belied the danger he was in. “Copy.” He put the handset down and reached over, tapping the assaultman’s back with his free hand. “Safety off. I’ll give the signal. On my mark.” He kept his eyes in the night optic, watching while a row of BTRs closed on the bridge.

  “Understood,” came the hushed response, and the assaultman connected the wires to his detonator. He folded the plastic cover back and held his thumb above the trigger switch.

  Two of the big Russian armored personnel carriers drove over to the south side of the bridge while the other two remained on the north side. In their night-vision goggles the Marines could see Russian soldiers pouring out of the backs of the BTRs. They immediately fanned out and began looking around. A dozen men climbed over the metal railing and began moving down the spans.

  He could tell by their speed and haste that they had been ordered to proceed as fast as possible. Even while the soldiers were still below the span, another platoon of BTRs began rolling over it.

  He watched the Russian soldiers crawl around the spans. After another platoon of BTRs started to cross the top of the bridge, the team leader tapped his assaultman.