by Mark Greaney
The Marine placed his thumb firmly on the control switch and in one quick motion pulled it back, initiating the electronic trigger.
A flash followed by a thunderous explosion, and the bridge disintegrated. Steel and wood whirled into the night sky.
The BTR platoon burned in the twisted wreckage of the bridge. The vehicles turned to red and yellow glowing heaps; then, as they lay on their sides in the shallow, muddy river, their ammunition ignited, shooting bright white flames and sparks.
The Marines fitted their NVGs back on their helmets, shouldered their rifles, and ran south into the inky darkness.
* * *
• • •
The call came into the Grizzly command center. The bridge was down and the attacking Russian regiment in the west was now split almost in half, one half trapped on the northern side of the bridge, the other half on the southern side. They would certainly figure out how to circumvent the downed bridge, but there would be a lot of confusion in the Russians’ western regiment as they sorted out the destruction and mayhem caused by the Marines and French Dragoons.
The radio operator looked up at McHale. “Sir, you’ll want to take this. Radio call incoming from 2nd Battalion in the eastern sector.”
McHale took the radio. “Warlords, this is Grizzly. Send traffic.”
“Copy, Grizzly. Our LAR platoon reports enemy vehicles coming into their zone. They don’t have good visibility in the broken terrain to the east but believe it’s more than a battalion. The enemy are coming through the eastern boundary, down route C108, moving fast. LAR is going to take some shots and retrograde. Requesting immediate air support to cover their withdrawal.”
“Understood, Warlords. Confirming now. Get ready to receive close air. I’ll check them in on station and pass them to your FAC.” Lieutenant Colonel McHale radioed over to the USS Boxer and initiated the call for close air support. They were going to have to use their air judiciously in the coming hours, but this situation definitely warranted it, as far as McHale was concerned.
* * *
• • •
Aboard the USS Boxer, the six pilots of VMFA-122, who had been waiting strapped into their F-35B Lightning II fighters, now began blasting off the deck. Just twelve minutes later they were passed to the light attack reconnaissance forward air controllers. All six made a single pass, each launching two air-to-ground attack missiles, but in the broken, hilly, and wooded terrain to the east of Mrima Hill, only a few met their marks. Four BTRs were destroyed, but many times that number continued forward.
The Russians had been waiting for the Marines to start using their aircraft. Just after the attack run, sixteen Russian ZSU-23-4 antiaircraft vehicles launched streams of Igla 9K38 missiles. The Iglas were better used on helicopters, but the Marines brought the fighters in too close in order to pick out targets in the rough terrain. Two F-35s succumbed to the fast-flying missile systems, taking direct hits and exploding in fireballs. The remaining F-35s were forced to climb to a higher altitude to stay clear, and this limited their ability to accurately support the Marines on the ground.
Losing an aircraft was an almost unimaginable event for the Marines. Before the pair of F-35s augered into the African dirt, the Marines had not lost a jet aircraft to ground fire since Vietnam.
* * *
• • •
The Cobra gunships from HMLA-267, called the “Stingers,” lined up to assist the LAR platoon withdrawing in the east. The Cobras had suffered two losses at the hands of the Russians up north at Moyale, and with only six gunships remaining, they were forced to use caution.
The quad-23mm cannons on the ZSUs sprayed a wall of bullets every time the Cobras attempted to approach, and one helo was hit within minutes of arriving on station but was able to limp out to sea and back to the Boxer. A second helicopter took a direct hit to its main rotor by an Igla missile and exploded five hundred feet above the earth. A few Cobra TOWs hit their marks, killing three Russian BTRs, but, running low on fuel and flares, the attack helos were forced to pull back.
At six a.m., 2nd Battalion, 2nd Marines, reported in. Their lead Javelin gunners were engaging approaching Russian BTRs in their sector. In the east the Russians, working their way through restrictive canyons and hills, had closed the distance to just over eleven kilometers from the mines.
* * *
• • •
Transmissions back to the Grizzly headquarters from 1st Battalion in the western sector reported that the Russians had found a bypass around the blown bridge by using a portion of the river where there was less than a meter of water and the gradient of the banks was not as sheer, and now they were less than fourteen kilometers from the Marine defensive lines.
The mood in the regimental CP seemed to change from guarded optimism to tense desperation in a matter of moments. The Russians’ incredible antiair resources had all but eliminated the effect of aircraft from the Boxer, and the enemy advance continued.
Colonel Caster and Lieutenant Colonel McHale discussed shifting 3rd Battalion to support the other two if they remained unengaged in their sector, and there was talk of bringing the Foreign Legion forces around to the northern side of the hill, but the Marines had more and superior anti-armor weapons.
McHale turned to Caster. “Sir, if the Russians attack in the north now, we will be stretched to the max.”
“Work on keeping air in the fight. Cycle them back to the flat deck as needed. Keep the battery firing. We can fly in more ammo later if needed, so direct them to use everything they’ve got.”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
* * *
• • •
Colonel General Boris Lazar sat in the command position in a BTR-82A atop Jombo Hill, looking south, toward Mrima through the vehicle’s night-vision system, scanning the lowlands that lay before him between the two hills. By the light of the predawn half-moon, he could see terrain dotted with a light growth of trees, open fields, and a few small clusters of buildings and farms.
His own reconnaissance forces had successfully jammed the Force Recon Marines’ radios as they slipped quietly up Jombo, fully expecting to find Americans hiding there. His special reconnaissance men then attacked the Marines, killing four and driving the others off after a frantic, close-in firefight.
Lazar now held this high ground, and he visualized the chaos inside the 5th Marines’ regimental headquarters as he tightened the noose encircling their defenses.
It was to be expected that he’d lose men and machines fighting in this manner. He, too, had divided his forces, and the Marines had been careful in their preparations. But he watched as his forces in both the west and the east peeled back each layer of the Marine defenses. He knew this would mean a quickening pace in the Marine headquarters. The Americans’ tasking of their aircraft, their use of artillery—their reactions in general—were becoming slightly more sluggish now as Lazar’s predictions unfolded.
Kir was able to learn this himself in the headquarters tent as reports came in from individual sections and he checked over the map. But Lazar just felt it by instinct, his mind carefully absorbing all the information coming in and then picturing the battle space in his mind.
He could almost hear the increasingly anxious combat reports, the casualty figures mounting, the tension heightening as the Marine commander tried to send forces to react to each new Russian attack. The American was placing his fingers in a leaky dam, and he didn’t have many fingers left.
Lazar, a colonel general, was equivalent to an American three-star general. He was fighting against a simple colonel, and although the American had likely seen combat in Iraq and Afghanistan, he was already demonstrating his lack of practice at dealing with the higher orders of battle Lazar was throwing at him now. The Marine colonel’s experience chasing the Taliban, tracking how many goats each mountain village had, and combating poppy cultivation would provide him no great advantage toda
y, the general thought to himself.
And now it was time for Lazar’s third attack. This onslaught, he’d calculated, would grossly overextend the Marine regiment’s ability to command and control and provide fire support. And without coordinated artillery fire, the Marines were outnumbered against an organized system of combat power.
He expected that the Marine battalion defending to the north of the mine would fight hard, since they had not yet taken enemy contact. But he would watch carefully for a slower response from their regiment. He had told Colonels Kir and Glatsky to look for a slackening or heavily reduced response in artillery. This would be the first test to see if he was right.
Lazar confidently ordered Kir to unleash a massed heavy artillery barrage onto the hapless Marine battalion defending the north side of Mrima Hill.
* * *
• • •
An hour later the first hues of dawn broke, and Boris Lazar could finally see the valley below him. The battle in the west raged on. He observed rockets and missile launches every few minutes, with return fire from the Americans. The Marines were fighting with everything they had. A few of 1st Regiment’s BTRs had been hit by the deadly American Javelins; Lazar watched the flashes of light and listened to the delayed sounds of explosions as his young men in the distance died fiery deaths.
The Javelin was an accursedly accurate weapon, but the general knew it’d be in limited supply.
Simply put, Lazar had more boys and armor than the Marines had missiles.
He had told Colonel Nishkin to make all haste, bypass any small pockets of Marines, and put pressure on their center. The latest report from Nishkin was that they had successfully broken past the demolished bridge and were advancing at a good clip. Red tracer fire from 30mm cannons and 7.62mm machine guns continued in heavy bursts, cascading across the landscape in long beads, ricochets launching up into the early-morning sky. The thumping from twenty or thirty weapons firing cyclic remained virtually constant now as 1st Regiment broke through the smaller French and U.S. forces.
In the east, Russia’s 3rd Regiment was still being harassed by a few Marine helicopters, though in limited numbers. Colonel Klava was using the ZSUs to good effect, hiding them carefully, then launching massive barrages of fire once the Marine helos tried to approach.
As Lazar watched now, four Cobras moved forward again in the distance. They launched missiles at Russian armor; then the attack helicopters began circling, firing their 20mm Gatling guns at long range.
The answer from Klava came swiftly. Igla missiles were launched in unison, followed by the heavy chatter of 23mm cannon fire. The air was alight with green tracers, a deadly fireworks show that enraptured the sixty-four-year-old general.
Two American helos were hit almost simultaneously. Lazar saw the bursts of yellow-orange and watched while they spun back down to earth, their fuel burning out of control.
Both aircraft crashed into the hillside.
Bravo, Klava, he thought.
Lazar looked over his maps and conferred with Colonel Kir over the radio back at his command post. Then he turned and signaled to his second regimental commander that he was now clear to attack.
Lazar would watch this for a few more minutes; then he would personally accompany 3rd Regiment in their assault on the enemy’s northern battalion.
CHAPTER 74
SOUTHWEST OF MINSK, BELARUS
1 JANUARY
The frigid weather made the image in General Sabaneyev’s binoculars stand out crisply and clearly. He drew in a deep breath, the cold air filling his lungs, then held the breath to steady the binoculars. He rolled the dial with his forefinger, trying to make out any sign of the enemy.
Colonel Smirnov stepped up next to him. “Colonel General, Moscow has sent a digital combat message response to your last transmission. They said to continue with all haste to the Russian border.”
Sabaneyev listened but held still. He took another deep breath of the freezing air, remaining sighted in on a small speck on the highway in the distance. It could easily be just another commercial tractor trailer, except for the fact that the Belarusian government had halted all civilian traffic earlier in the morning.
Then he saw another speck, and then another. They were definitely large vehicles and definitely moving in his direction. With his eyes still pressed firmly into the binos he said, “Did Command say anything about Belarusian military coming to our aid?”
More vehicles approached.
“He did not, sir. He gave us assurances the Kremlin was negotiating, but Belarus had their hands tied. He said NATO had given them an ultimatum to stay neutral and at the moment Minsk seems to be complying with it.”
“Damn it,” Sabaneyev hissed to himself, vapor clouds rising around him. “It’s just one lone tank brigade that’s on our tail. The rest of the NATO forces are hours behind us and well to the north. We’ve beaten this attacking brigade and battered it and certainly forced it to expend most of its ammunition. The Belarusian forces could coordinate with me, and we’d slaughter them in an hour.”
“Command gave no further guidance, General,” said Smirnov, wrapping his greatcoat around his face. The Belarusian plains were colder than the Russian hills and wooded countryside. Open and wind whipped, the country was probably nice in summer, but now there was hardly a tree to shield them and everything south of Minsk they’d passed had been open farmland.
Sabaneyev slewed the binos to the left of the specks that were growing in his vision to compare their size with a few buildings. They were nearing the off-ramp, where the rearguard would intercept them if they were, in fact, American tanks.
“Any word from 3rd Battalion?”
“They are on the radio now giving a report, but I thought you would want to hear the message from Moscow.”
“To hell with Moscow. Go and listen to 3rd. I need to know if this new traffic I see is the Americans continuing to advance from the west.”
The sun warmed the pavement, causing heat lines to blur his image of the distant vehicles.
He shifted his gaze nearer, and now he could see the Bumerangs of the 3rd Battalion staged on his side of the overpass, just over a kilometer away. They were in the process of rotating their turrets around in the direction of the approaching vehicles.
Explosions of flame and dirt kicked up around 3rd Battalion before Sabaneyev’s eyes.
American guns were firing on them.
Sabaneyev said, “This tank commander—he’s clearly insane, out of his mind with rage, desperate for revenge.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Doesn’t he see this is just war? Why is this so fucking important to him?”
“I don’t know, sir,” said Smirnov. “It’s madness.”
Eduard Sabaneyev watched the fight a few moments more. The Bumerangs were no match for the heavier M1 tanks with their longer-range guns. Several Kornet missiles were launched by the Russians, and some struck their targets, but soon the surviving Bumerangs of 3rd Battalion were in full retreat, racing down the E30 highway toward Sabaneyev and the headquarters group.
The general released his iron grip on the binos, wiping cold sweat from his brow. Now, as he relaxed his concentration, he felt the wind whipping his face again and the chill settling into his bones.
The Americans and the Germans were still coming.
He walked down to his vehicle and gave the signal for the unit to move out.
In his memoirs he’d have to justify running from the small but seemingly unstoppable force of NATO tanks, but, he told himself, that was a problem for another day.
For now it was all about staying alive.
* * *
• • •
MRIMA HILL, KENYA
1 JANUARY
A deafening roar echoed through the mine, and dust and small stones fell from the ceiling. Everyone in the HQ looked up nervousl
y, worried the damn roof would collapse. This wasn’t incoming but rather outgoing artillery, fired in desperate support of 1st and 2nd Battalions in both the east and west. Connolly heard urgent requests for fire over the radio every few minutes; then the gun line would calculate the trajectories and the artillery boys would go to work.
Lieutenant Colonel McHale’s response to the attack on two fronts had been to split the firing batteries. Caster had been out of the mine shaft checking on his troops, but as soon as he returned he agreed with McHale. This lessened the firepower in either direction, but there was no alternative anyone could see.
Despite the limited number of artillery pieces, the sounds of booming 155mm M777 howitzers ripping out into the early morning were comforting to Connolly and the men with him. But while it was good for the Marines to hear outbound fire, it also signaled that the enemy was within artillery range now, and that meant the Russians were closing in.
Marine radio operators fought to be understood as well as to understand the incoming transmissions. Pressing their handsets tight against their ears, they spoke between the terrific sounds of the nearby guns.
“Apache Red One, say again your last!” shouted a radio operator when there was a brief respite in the artillery fire.
The response was immediate and the tone urgent. “Roger. I say again, Force Recon, north of my position, has been overrun on Jombo Hill.” There was a pause. The call sign identified the transmitter as an LAR platoon commander, a lieutenant, fighting to get his transmission back as he bounced over the terrain. “We have extracted the remnant of the Force team.” He was interrupted by the sounds of cannon fire on the radio, then the pounding of machine-gun fire close to the radio handset. “We’re withdrawing south. Let Darkhorse Battalion know we’re coming in hot. The Russians are six hundred meters back, right on our ass!”