Red Metal

by Mark Greaney

  Another voice on the radio, probably the man’s gunner, could be heard yelling in the background, “Four hundred meters, sir! Engaging.” The transmission was cut short again as the sound of more 25mm cannon fire drowned out whatever the lieutenant was trying to say.

  The radio operator next to Connolly tried to sound calm. “We copy. Call off a grid. We’ll work up a fire mission and close that door behind you.”

  “Copy. I am the trail victor in my platoon. My grid . . .” There was a pause, a loud explosion, then momentary silence. Then the voice of the platoon commander came back on. “Be advised, we are hit . . . still mobile . . . trying to get south. My northing is at the two-five-six. All north of my poz is enemy.”

  The radio broke off again, and there was another long pause.

  The regimental CP was silent, all men hanging on to the one broadcast from the Marine in distress. He sounded like a younger officer, likely a second lieutenant. Connolly stared at the radio with everyone else in the HQ, trying to picture the desperate scene.

  Then there was a screech of noise and the lieutenant’s voice returned, but in a bloodcurdling scream. “We’re on fire!”

  The radio went dead.

  Connolly didn’t hesitate; he grabbed the field phone tied into the artillery batteries outside. “Patriot, fire mission. Immediate suppression. HE and WP mix. Battery Six, target location two-five-six, zero-niner-three. Lineal sheaf east to west. Over.”

  The response came back acknowledging the mission, and the firing battery read back the coordinates but told him there’d be a delay. They had to “shift trails,” or pick up the heavy howitzers’ rear legs, known as the spades, and physically rotate the weapon ninety degrees. They knew when they received an immediate suppression mission that the shit was hitting the fan and the infantry, or in this case the LAR unit, was in desperate need.

  It took time, but soon the Marine artillery began firing into the grid. A wall of flame brightened the morning sky to the north as a Marine platoon raced to the south. It came too late to save the young officer, but his dying act was slowing the Russians just enough to protect what was left of his platoon.

  A Marine tank platoon commander lay in the dirt, looking through his binos, watching the artillery fire and the flames spewing from a demolished Marine light-armored vehicle on the winding dirt road.

  Behind the young officer and down the hill, the loader on the platoon commander’s tank shouted out, “Hey, Lieutenant, the LAR guys say they are hell-for-leather with Russians on their heels! He’s a reduced platoon of three LAV Two-Fives, coming in fast. You should see them any second.”

  Sure enough, through the lieutenant’s binos, three shapes materialized in the near distance, traveling off-road now. He grabbed his map case, binos, and carbine, then scrambled back down the hill to his tank. There, he climbed onto the armor hull, donned his helmet, and leapt down the tank’s hatch, sitting down hard in the commander’s chair.

  He keyed the intercom. “Driver, into the hot position. Now!”

  The tank, two more to the left, and one more to the right, all revved up instantly and then lurched forward, driving just a dozen meters and then down into the dugout created by the Marine engineers. The gunner immediately swiveled the turret in the direction of the LAV-25s.

  The light-armored vehicles screamed past, one of them almost running into a half-buried M1A2 tank in the process.

  The four tanks’ heavy 120mm main guns then picked targets among the pursuing Russians and fired, reloaded, then repeated the process as fast as the crews could operate. Each time the tanks fired at a BTR, a haze of dust billowed around them. Their fields of fire gave the tanks the advantage as they picked off Russian armored personnel carriers one at a time.

  But the BTR crews were able to see where the fire was coming from, and their missiles were accurate. They snuffed out first one, then two of the four tanks.

  Eight Marines died with the first salvos.

  The last two American tanks continued firing until they’d taken a half dozen missile strikes in and around their positions. The near misses left their turrets damaged, but they managed to pull out of their positions in an attempt to escape, driving through preselected routes of gullies and ravines that led back to the south.

  One of the big M1 Abrams tanks succumbed to its earlier hits from a fast-flanking BTR and threw a track. The Marine tankers grabbed their rifles and whatever gear they could carry, climbed out of the big, dead piece of armor, and then sprinted to the sole surviving tank. They clambered aboard and held on when it lurched forward, resuming its frantic escape from the attacking Russian forces.

  * * *

  • • •

  Twelve kilometers from the mines, 3rd Battalion’s Javelin gunners prepared to fire. Through the thermal imagers attached to the launchers, they watched the three American LAVs, then the damaged M1 with surviving tankers clinging to it, retreating in their direction.

  The Marine weapons company executive officer was in charge of the Javelin teams, and he and the company gunnery sergeant called back and forth on their radio net now, dividing up targets.

  After a signal from the XO, the first Javelin belched out from a team lying on the roof of a farmhouse. The gray puff of smoke was barely visible, and then the missile jetted from the launch tube ahead of a spear of fire.

  The instant the missile was away, the Marines grabbed their gear, jumped off the roof, and ran to their next position, a clump of trees two hundred meters back in the direction of the hill.

  The Javelin “fire-and-forget” missile continued skyward. The advanced munition would fly in an arc, level out for a second, then drop to strike the target where it was most vulnerable, on the less armored top.

  The Javelins were built to destroy tanks, so using them on the more lightly armored and less powerful BTRs was overkill, but none of the Marines gave a damn about the expense of each launch. The red trace of three other missiles now joined the first, all darting across the early-morning sky. The Russian armored personnel carriers had no way to avoid them; they could do nothing more than fire in the general direction of the launches in a last act of defiance before they were destroyed.

  The Marine missilemen crews and a crew from One Team of the French Dragoons each fired a Javelin, then fell back to another concealed position. Fire, run, get to a new location, reload the weapon, and prepare to fire again at an enemy who was gaining ground by the second.

  * * *

  • • •

  Lieutenant Colonel McHale took Connolly and Colonel Caster aside. Addressing the colonel, he said, “Sir, enemy is ten kilometers north of Darkhorse’s final defensive lines, and Darkhorse is down to his last tank in his sector.”

  “I’m tracking,” said Caster, standing over the map, watching as the small red pins were moved in closer to the mine.

  Things to the north were bad—the line seemed to be slowly but steadily collapsing—but that didn’t mean the situation in the east and west was that much better. That said, it looked like the break 1st Battalion got in splitting the Russians was playing to their favor. They still had all four of their tanks and a full LAV platoon.

  The broken terrain to the east had meant the BTRs could approach only three abreast, so 2nd Battalion was still more or less in control of their fight, though they, too, were falling back slowly.

  In Darkhorse’s zone, though, the Russians were closing in quickly.

  “What do you think, Dan?” the colonel asked.

  “Sir, I could tell you a whole lot better if you’d let me go down there and lend Darkhorse a hand.”

  “You think you can do something for them there you can’t do here?”

  “Maybe. A spare officer who knows how to call for fire might come in handy. Worst case, I’m still shooting high expert with my rifle.” Connolly smiled and hefted his carbine up.

  Colonel Caster di
dn’t return the smile. “No shit? Well, all Marines are riflemen first, regardless of rank.” He looked around. “And we might all be tested on that before this day is through.” Rubbing his stubbly gray hair, he said, “Eric, if you don’t need Dan right now, let’s send him down to Darkhorse. He can give Darkhorse Six a chance to focus on his fight and let us know how we can help them from up here.”

  McHale agreed, and Connolly was moving in under a second. He grabbed his kit and the expensive radios he’d been lugging around and slung them onto his shoulder. He pointed to Sergeant Casillas, who had been standing along the wall of the mine shaft, awaiting orders. “Let’s go, Sergeant.”

  “Yes, sir!”

  “One thing, though, Dan,” Caster called out as Connolly headed for the exit. “Darkhorse Six is the best, a top-notch officer, but if his line is cracking, he’ll be the last to admit it. He’s a real fighter. So if things look really bad and I need to shift over a company from 2nd or some tanks or LAVs from 1st Battalion, you let me know.”

  “Aye, sir.” Connolly and Casillas raced out the door.

  * * *

  • • •

  Sergeant Casillas directed his LAV’s driver down to Darkhorse Battalion’s position along a steep, winding stretch of mining road that had a thick jungle canopy covering it. During the few times they could catch a view to the north, however, they watched tracer fire and missiles streaking across the battlefield in the darkness. The sounds of booming artillery and tank main gun fire had become a constant orchestra of low, rumbling explosions, higher-pitched pops, and whizzes racing overhead.

  The light-armored vehicle passed the two artillery batteries, which had by now moved to a new firing position. Called a “survivability move,” the relocation was an admission that the Russians would soon be inside the range where they could pound the source of the artillery that had been pounding them. It would be assumed that the location of the big Marine guns had been approximated by the enemy, so moving them a few hundred meters away, though arduous and time-consuming, was the only way to keep them in the fight.

  The cannoneers had reset their weapons, and the guns were once again firing furiously: grabbing the heavy, nearly hundred-pound shells by hand, hoisting them onto the sled, ramrodding them into the breech, and then packing powder bags in behind. As his vehicle raced past, Connolly watched one of the split batteries in the morning light as the men closed the breeches and yanked the lanyards all in unison. He also saw that they were now divided into thirds; just four M777 artillery pieces covered each of the cardinal directions.

  Less concentrated fire. Much less, he thought.

  Soon there would likely be a gunfight between the two sides’ artillery forces, since the Russians would probably creep their big 152s in behind the infantry. It was an old tactic, but Connolly figured if anyone was going to use it, it would be the crafty old general.

  Penetrate and obliterate, Connolly said to himself.

  CHAPTER 75

  MRIMA HILL, KENYA

  1 JANUARY

  Casillas’s LAV made it to the Darkhorse command post. Connolly climbed out of the back hatch and ran toward the tent, which was well protected in a small natural gully reinforced with timber and sandbags.

  When he entered the CP, he could feel the tension instantly. A few red lights were hung up here and there, but they barely illuminated the dim interior. Marines ran in and out carrying messages to and from company defensive positions.

  Maps and command boards hung on the tent walls, and men huddled around them; radio sets, just like back at regimental command, broadcast a constant traffic of voices of men in combat.

  The CP was a hive of activity, but activity conducted in whispers and low light.

  All but one of the Darkhorse Javelin teams had made it back from their forward positions, married up with their companies, and were now integrated into the final defensive lines. The one surviving tank had been given a spot near Kilo Company, where the engineers had prepared another firing position for it. The tankers and the infantrymen there knew the M1 was now a fixed part of the lines; there was nowhere farther to fall back to.

  Connolly stepped over to speak with the commander, a short but thickly built lieutenant colonel with a big wad of chewing tobacco puffing out his lower left cheek. As had been the case with McHale, Connolly and Dickenson knew each other from way back.

  The lieutenant colonel turned and saw Connolly. “You here to support me or to relieve me?”

  “Here to work for you if you can use me, Ben. Put me in, coach.”

  A smile broke out on the man’s chapped lips and tanned face. “Can you work my fires?”

  “If your men will take me.”

  “Shit yeah, they’ll be happy to have you. I had to send my weapons company CO down to help his boys lay in new positions for the .50-cals once the Javelin teams came in.” He spit tobacco juice onto the ground with a scowl. “Honestly, I didn’t think they’d be on us so quick. We’ve been hitting them hard, but the fuckers broke through the LAR screen like butter and waved my fucking tanks aside.”

  Connolly said, “Boris Lazar’s got a lifetime of combat experience. He’s not going to roll over. We have to destroy his ability to advance.”

  Dickenson turned to grab a radio handset from a communications sergeant; then, covering the mic, he turned back to Connolly. “Wait. Did the old man tell you to watch over me in case I got in too deep?”

  Connolly gave a half shrug. “Yeah, something like that. He’s ready to send you a company or tanks from 1st and 2nd if you need ’em.”

  “I’d ask for them now, but it’d be more trouble than help trying to set them with everything else going on. If it gets to that, we’ll make the call together.”

  Connolly nodded as Dickenson pulled out another big wad of tobacco and stuck it on top of the first one.

  Seeing his old buddy deep in the fray and hearing firsthand that the Russians were bearing down were unsettling, but Connolly was glad to be closer to the fight. The dark mine shaft was not where he needed to be.

  He moved over to confer with his new team: the air officer, the artillery liaison officer, and the mortar team leader. Together, they made up the battalion’s fire support section.

  Connolly was in his element now; he was an expert in the use of combined-arms fire, a system of mathematics and maps, of trajectories and timing, of calculating depth, and, most of all, of combat intuition. It was a balance of estimating the risks and weighing the needs and urgency of each unit in the fight based on a best estimate of the enemy situation now, a minute from now, ten minutes from now, and beyond.

  A new transmission on the Darkhorse net from the front lines reported the sounds of loud buzzing in the sky. The infantrymen were unsure what they were hearing.

  But Connolly knew instantly. It would be the Russian drones, judging from the observation that the noise was like that of multiple lawn mowers. He had seen them at Mount Kenya and knew the three-meter-wingspan UAVs had pinpointed the Americans’ positions.

  Immediately, reports came in from frontline companies confirming his suspicion. They had seen them flying over their heads.

  Connolly said, “The companies there can expect incoming artillery soon.”

  He gave directions to his fires coordination cell, or fires team, to call back to the artillery battery. If those drones really did presage a Russian artillery attack, he wanted to make sure the Marine counter-battery radar was up and searching to the north. If the radar could catch the trajectory of the incoming rounds, they could triangulate the back azimuths, letting Connolly know where the Russian batteries were firing from.

  In less than five minutes the whizzing sounds of incoming artillery filled the air. At first it sounded like a kid’s whistle, then more like a symphony of whistles, but immediately the explosions began, slamming into the hill to the southeast of Connolly’s position. Either t
he battalion command post hadn’t been spotted, or else it had simply been spared the first barrage.

  But within a minute it was clear that rounds were falling closer.

  A radio officer looked up at Connolly. “Sir, counter-battery radar has a fix on the artillery. It’s not certain, but it might be enough.”

  Connolly grabbed a slip of paper from the radio operator and checked the coordinates on his map. He carefully plotted the location. It was a thick jungle area about fifteen kilometers from his current position.

  “What do you think, guys?” he asked his fires team.

  The artillery liaison was the first to respond. “If it were me I’d fire from there. Looks to be a good location we wouldn’t be able to spot from higher up on the hill behind us.”

  The rest of the team agreed.

  Connolly said, “Work up a fire mission. Call it up to the guns. Let’s hit that target now. If my guess is right, the really heavy stuff hasn’t come yet.”

  The fires team went to work, calling the data over to the artillery fire direction center. In minutes they heard the Marine Corps’ big guns on top of the hill thumping out return fire. It wasn’t a large amount of outgoing, maybe ten or twelve rounds, but Connolly guessed the batteries were now trying to conserve ammunition for targets that were more certain than the speculative fix they’d gotten from the counter-battery radar.

  Still, the incoming Russian artillery stopped almost immediately.

  Just as the men began congratulating themselves, word came in near simultaneously from the three rifle companies on the defensive lines. The enemy had been spotted five kilometers from the leading edge of the battle space.

  And they were advancing in swarms.

  Connolly leaned into the radios to listen to every broadcast. The companies were engaging at their maximum effective range. SMAW anti-tank rockets could be heard going out in earsplitting cracks. Browning M2 .50-cals cracked automatic fire, loud even here in the HQ.