by Mark Greaney
Lieutenant Colonel Dan Connolly’s fires team had zip-tied two wounded Russian survivors of the attack on the Darkhorse command post. The battalion commander passed the word that India Company had taken heavy casualties, but they’d been able to wipe out the remainder of the BTRs that had crossed into the perimeter. They were still being hit by Russian 30mm cannon and 82mm mortar fire, but their own snipers, their Javelin teams, the LAVs, and the remaining tank seemed to be holding back any new attempts at a renewed attack.
This would not last long. They were almost out of Javelins: more had been transferred over from the eastern and western sectors, where the Russian contact was lighter, but the next concerted push by the Russians would use up the last of the Marines’ best anti-tank systems.
Connolly pulled out his remaining canteen and upended it into his mouth. It was dry. He looked around for any water close by, because he didn’t want to leave his position next to the radios in the slit trench for an instant.
He found a half-empty bottle and drank while he watched Navy corpsmen pick their way through the wrecked headquarters, treating the injured and carefully marking fallen Marines for later retrieval.
An air officer handed Connolly a dehydrated coffee packet. He ripped it open and swallowed the acidic dry crystals to give himself some needed energy before the next enemy wave appeared from the ripped and smoldering woods. More packets were passed out to other men nearby in the trench, and everyone took advantage of them.
The headquarters men, along with Connolly and his team, remained in the trench, eyes still fixed on the area to the north. Several here had been hurt, but they all deferred any treatment to the guys more severely wounded.
Connolly tasked a man with listening to the radio for the regimental commander and walked over to confer with the Darkhorse commander. Lieutenant Colonel Ben Dickenson stood in his trench. One of his sleeves had been ripped off, and dried blood was caked up and down his arm and across the back of his hand. He’d wrapped a field dressing around his elbow to stanch the bleeding, but it had soaked through and was now covered in dirt, leaves, and bits of splintered wood. A small pile of red-stained bandages lay stacked in front of him.
“Jesus, Ben, you need to get that arm looked after,” Connolly said, kneeling next to the trench, eyes facing to the north as if another BTR might dart into the clearing at any moment.
“I asked the old man for a platoon of tanks to sweep out front and send some long-range fires to the Russian APCs.”
Connolly noted the fact that his medical advice had been ignored, but he let it go. He understood. The commander of 1,200 men wouldn’t give a damn about his elbow with danger to his Marines all around. “Hope he gives it to you, Ben. How’s Darkhorse holding up?”
“We’re beat to shit, but still rock-solid in our defense. I’m headed out to tour the front lines to check them out in a few. Hey, Dan. When you radio back to Caster, tell him Darkhorse can’t be broken.”
Connolly smiled at his old friend. “I agree with that statement, brother, and I’ll ask him to hustle those tanks your way.”
* * *
• • •
For the next two hours the exhausted Marines of Darkhorse prepared for the next assault. Connolly wiped fatigue from his eyes and peered out into the darkness around the command post. After digging slit trenches and fighting holes, the men had now mostly gone underground. The rest of the men in Connolly’s small forward-fires liaison team were half-asleep on their feet, leaning against the dirt wall.
A commotion behind Connolly drew his attention away from the fires support maps he was trying to study. He pivoted in time to see the big French special forces officer walking toward his position with three other filthy but strong and heavily armed Dragoons.
Connolly called out in a hushed tone, “Captain Apollo, over here.”
Apollo led his men over to Connolly’s trench. “Mon col-o-nel,” he said. “Good to see you.”
“You, too. What are you doing here?”
“We are to perform reconnaissance on enemy staging locations and then attack forward of Darkhorse battalion defenses. If the Russians start their advance, I am to call artillery on them, and hit them hard.”
“Christ, Captain. We don’t really have a good bead on the Russians’ positions. Since their last attack, they are spread out all in front of Darkhorse, some six or eight kilometers wide. There’s been a pause in fighting since we hit their artillery park, but now there’s a no-man’s-land between us, a crisscross of machine-gun fire, razor wire, tank ditches, and mines.”
“Oui, that is why we will plot in all the Russian staging areas so you can fire artillery upon them. We have instructions to link up with a squad from India Company. They will proceed with us as guides and security.”
“Okay, I can coordinate with India. I’ll tell them to have a squad of their best waiting for you.”
The French captain asked, “Do you have any intelligence as to why the Russians paused the attack?”
“Not really, but we grabbed a couple of prisoners. They told us there is a battalion-sized element of paratroopers waiting to be sent forward into the attack.” Connolly looked down at his watch. “Don’t know if they’ll be in the next wave or not, but I’m guessing the attack will come around dawn, less than eight hours from now. Watch your ass, Captain, and don’t get caught out there in no-man’s-land when their final assault comes. I can pretty much guarantee Darkhorse will hammer the area with everything they’ve got.”
“Always careful, Col-o-nel.” Apollo signaled back to the rest of his platoon, who emerged from the dark wood line.
Including Apollo and the three men with him, there were fifty-six able-bodied Dragoons remaining in the unit. Connolly saw AT-4 rockets, heavy machine guns, and light weapons on display. They would be a formidible force for a recon element, especially when augmented with a Marine rifle squad.
Connolly added, “If you’re able to get the locations of each of their staging areas—if you spot the infantry, fuel trucks, ammunition stores, and such—I’ll fire a ‘shake-and-bake’ strike.”
Apollo gave a smile, barely visible in the darkness, understanding the military phrase. If Apollo succeeded in the reconnaissance portion of his mission, Connolly would hit the Russian infantry with a mix of high-explosive and white phosphorus artillery shells before they could step off in their final push against Darkhorse. The high-explosive shells, coupled with the burning phosphorus, were a cruel mix of indirect fires to use against troops. If successful, the shock and destruction could stop infantry and light vehicles caught in the hellish mix of razor-sharp shrapnel and the inferno of phosphorous fires that burned at over 5,000 degrees Fahrenheit.
Connolly watched Apollo and his men disappear into the broken foliage in front of the Darkhorse command post area and shook his head, recognizing anew that this venture might just become a tragedy of epic proportions.
Who knows? It might actually work. He tried to think positively, although he found optimism to be damn difficult to come by at the moment.
CHAPTER 80
MRIMA HILL, KENYA
2 JANUARY
Captain Apollo Arc-Blanchette and his men made their way down the hill, past the Darkhorse staging areas, and out to India Company’s lines. Along the way they paused to ask permission to pass through each layer of the defense, and they waited until each senior officer directed them to proceed farther.
Finally, the French Dragoons found themselves with the forwardmost fireteam in the forwardmost squad in the forwardmost platoon of the Marine lines. The landscape changed dramatically, from heavy woods and thickets in the rear to earth pockmarked from heavy artillery and rockets closer to the front; burned and broken trees and brush and a mix of derelict and abandoned U.S. and Russian vehicles. Some still smoldered as burning gas, oil, or tires gave off thick black smoke into the night above flames sputtering like a dying man�
�s last breaths. The apocalyptic war zone served as a gruesome reminder of the ever-present possibility of death to everyone here at the front.
Apollo and his men crouched with a young lieutenant in a trench just twenty-five yards from the razor wire signifying the extent of the Marines’ control, with the shredded jungle just beyond. Movement to their left turned heads as a short, wiry Marine sergeant climbed down into the trench. In seconds the rest of the sergeant’s thirteen-man squad climbed down with him, making the already tight space almost claustrophobic.
The lieutenant grabbed a thick wad of chewing tobacco from a pouch and stuck it in his cheek. He brushed off his hands and said, “Captain, meet Sergeant Cruz,” slapping one of the dirt- and sweat-covered young men on the shoulder. “He’s my best squad leader . . . Fuck, he’s my last squad leader alive, so bring him back in one piece. He and his men will lead you through our minefield, help you with your recon, and then kick ass alongside you on your raid. Then they’ll lead you back up here.”
The whizz and pop of parachute flares overhead turned most of the men’s eyes to the sky. They watched quietly while the illumination devices drifted over no-man’s-land. Apollo took the opportunity to get a look at his newest troops. The Marines appeared war-weary, like everyone on Mrima Hill, but alert enough.
He also saw that Sergeant Cruz had a four-inch scar from the crease in his lip to his cheekbone. It had been badly stitched and it oozed blood.
These are the right kind of men for this mission, thought Apollo.
Sergeant Cruz spoke in an aggressive, heavy Bronx accent over the sound of a machine gun a few hundred yards away. “So, what are we supposed to call you, sir?”
“Captain Apollo is fine.”
“Right. Now, what the hell is the plan . . . Captain Apollo?”
“We are going down the hill to fight the Russians before they come to us.”
One of the squad said, “Fuck yeah,” and another added, “’Bout fuckin’ time,” and then Apollo briefed them on their mission.
* * *
• • •
Fifteen minutes later the men walked cautiously through the darkened, torn jungle, past the barbed-wire entanglements. Then Cruz skillfully maneuvered both his squad and the fifty-six Frenchmen around a network of claymore mines and booby traps.
Infiltration of the Russian lines by the Dragoons and the Marines was only possible because the Russians were there to attack, not to defend. The nearly seventy-man force sneaking through the shredded jungle was able to take advantage of the Russian plan to crack the American lines with everything they had as quickly as possible. The Russians had been sending their forces in pounding waves, and had not erected defenses like their adversaries. While the Marines held their desperate line with barbed wire, anti-tank ditches, and machine-gun slit trenches, the Russians followed offensive doctrine and intentionally guarded only their most rearward areas from conventional assaults, leaving more forces with which to attack. The tactic, of course, was not about seizing or holding terrain but about crushing the static Marines.
It was working in that regard, and the Russians were supremely confident that the defenders of the mine didn’t have the forces to engage in any sort of meaningful counterattack, but this confidence left them vulnerable to smaller infiltrations.
Colonel Caster had banked on this when he sent Apollo and his men forward, and Apollo’s slow, careful, and stealthy infiltration of the enemy lines was effected like a thing of beauty.
* * *
• • •
At the first gray of dawn, Apollo sat exhausted in waist-high elephant grass, kneeling back on his haunches so only his head was exposed. A group of panting Marines and French special forces was positioned loosely around him, their weapons pointed outboard in a 360-degree defense. Throughout the night, the sixty-eight men had crept in and around and through the Russian front lines with great skill, remaining undetected as they identified several fuel and ammunition stockpiles, all stored under infrared-concealing camouflage to protect them from any Marine Corps aerial detection. These were clearly staging areas for the upcoming attack. Apollo found them lightly defended but he recognized them for what they were, and knew they would soon fill with troops and armor.
The Marines gridded in the locations on maps and radioed the coordinates to Lieutenant Colonel Connolly.
Apollo was under no illusion that they had found all of the hidden positions, but they had found all they could before the dawn without exposing themselves.
Apollo brought his leaders and the Marine sergeant close enough to whisper, “Men, we’ve done our night’s work; now we must prepare, with whatever darkness is left, for our final task.” Apollo pointed with the infrared laser pointer on his carbine to a spot of level terrain about three hundred meters away. “There is a road network right here that leads to the easternmost Russian staging areas. So that is where the Russian right flank will pass.”
The men sat in silence, staring at their new leader.
Sergeant Cruz said, “And you want to hit that when the troops move into staging.”
“Oui.”
“We’re almost totally exposed,” said Sergeant Cruz.
Sergent-Chef Dariel said, “Mon capitaine, I must agree with the sergeant: this location, it is virtually suicide.”
“I see no better concealment than this tall grass. It will provide no cover itself, but we can use the time we have to quietly dig in.”
When no one replied to this, Apollo said, “Look, men, we have to attack. If the artillery can focus on the other five staging areas, we can batter this one. If we need support, we will call it in.” He looked at the sky. “Sometime in the next half hour a force of Russian infantry will fill up that clearing. If we don’t hit them here, then they and their mates will overrun Darkhorse. We have to give our defenses a chance.”
“What happens if we don’t? I mean, what happens if they just barrel over us?” Sergeant Cruz asked.
Apollo’s voice slowed and deepened in pitch, to the point of anger. “Then we die, Marine. We will die the most ghastly death an infantryman can imagine, ground to meat under the tracks and wheels of the advancing enemy.” He stared into Sergeant Cruz’s now-visible eyes and saw his slashed cheek glistening with blood, as the wound had reopened. “Is that what you are wanting to hear, Sergeant Cruz?”
After a pause, Cruz said, “Yeah, Cap. That’s all you had to say, sir. We Marines just like to know the odds. Tell us straight. And as long as we get to pop a bunch of those Russkies, death ain’t but a thing.
“Let me go brief the boys,” Cruz added, and then he was off to gather his men.
“Weren’t you laying into him a bit, mon capitaine?” said Sergent-Chef Dariel.
“Yes, but that’s what Marines want from their officers. They push back on everything and then listen for certainty from their leaders. Lie to them about the odds, and they won’t believe another thing you say, but tell them they are going to die in a hail of glory, and they will advance toward hell.”
“I am beginning to like these Marines, mon capitaine,” said the sergent-chef.
“Me, too. Now, get the men digging in, and go ensure that all the rockets are prepped. Our first volley must count, because we may not get a second.”
The men took what little time they had to prepare their ambush. They spread out in a loose line from north to south, oriented to the west, covering about 150 yards, and dug shallow pits hidden in the high grass.
Apollo would have liked another fifteen minutes to better coordinate the action to come, but the rumble of engines starting up reached their position from the north, and this told him the enemy would appear en masse sooner than he hoped.
Apollo chanced one last spot check, sprinting in a low crouch up and down the ambush line. The northern sector was led by Sergent-Chef Dariel, the southern sector by Sergeant Cruz. He checked to see that
each of the dozen men charged with firing the AT-4s had two anti-tank rockets laid out, the shipping safeties off. He made sure each of the dozen or so machine gunners had four or five belts of ammunition neatly organized so he could grab the tail of a belt and feed it rapidly into his gun.
He then returned to his position in the center of the ambush and leapt into the foot-deep trench next to the Marine radio operator, who whispered into his headset, listened to the radio a moment, and then turned to the French captain.
“Artillery all set?” Apollo asked.
“Yes, sir. Grizzly fires has the five locations you asked for plotted. He says there is little chance he can get any air for us, and he did say our drones confirmed a dozen Russian vehicles are coming down the road now.”
“Good. Get ready. Keep low.”
“Aye, sir.” The radioman put his headset back to his ear.
* * *
• • •
The men lay there for ten minutes, staring through binos and riflescopes at the staging area in the distance, where they could see a small cluster of BTRs, tents, ammo crates, and fuel bladders. A dozen men worked feverishly now around the area, making it clear to Apollo that the attack was imminent.
And then the sound of racing engines increased. The first wave of Russian troop transports dashed into view: six BTRs with one tracked ZSU-23-4 “Shilka” antiaircraft gun.
“Hold it,” Apollo ordered through his headset.
Two trucks followed the first group; these were both open-topped and full of troops, some paratroopers hanging off the sides.
“Wait,” said Apollo softly.
Six more BTRs appeared on the road, then followed the others into the clearing, where the staging area was ready to receive them.
When they were clustered together as tightly as he had hoped, Apollo yelled, “Fire!”
Eight AT-4 gunners rose to their knees and launched eight rockets, their weapons’ backblasts thundering. The munitions streaked through the blue-gray light, across the high grass, and toward the staging area off the dirt track three hundred meters away.