Red Ice

by William Dietz

  Shoulder launched missiles lanced up to chase the fighters, but the pilots were firing chaff, and that drew the Stingers off. After inflicting hundreds of casualties the 25s accelerated away. Falco searched the sky for American fighters but didn’t see any. Either they were engaged elsewhere or had been forced to flee.

  “The tanks came ashore,” Oliver announced. “And they’re headed our way. Along with more troops.”

  Falco swore. The Russians still had the initiative. Lee was monitoring a different frequency. “We have new orders, Major … We’re supposed to occupy the knoll we camped on yesterday, and prepare the laser designator. ”

  The laser designator was a device that forward observers and JTACs could use to pinpoint targets for laser guided weapons. That was a vast improvement over “walking” fire onto a target with instructions like, “up fifty, right fifty.”

  The technology had been proven in Afghanistan and other theatres. The gear was getting lighter with each successive generation, but still felt heavy. Oliver had been carrying their unit, minus the tripod, and the sacrifice was about to pay off.

  Were they going to support a field gun? No, not yet. None of the big stuff had been dropped onto Big Diomede to the best of Falco’s knowledge. The more likely possibility was one or more 120mm mortar tubes. They were large enough to not only fire “smart” munitions but put the hurts on a tank. That would require a direct hit of course, thus the need for the designator. “Okay,” Falco replied. “Let’s go. On the double.”

  Falco could see the rise where the team had spent the first night. As they began to close in on it he was reminded of how exposed the knoll was. A confusion of boot prints led up to the summit and that made sense. Any elevation, no matter how minor, would invite company commanders, observers, and stragglers to climb up and look around.

  So it wasn’t surprising to find a three-person sniper team positioned on the low-lying hill facing west. A corporal was in charge. “Welcome to Mount Evans, sir … My name is Kramer.”

  “Thanks,” Falco said, as he dumped his pack on the ground. “Mount Evans? Who is Evans?”

  “That would be me , sir,” Kramer’s spotter volunteered. “After conquering the mountain I named it after myself.”

  “What Evans means is that he happened to be on point when we walked up the slope,” Kramer explained. “However, the presence of yellow snow, and lots of candy wrappers seems to indicate that Evans wasn’t the first person to summit. ”

  Falco laughed. “A company of Russian tanks are coming this way, and we have orders to set up a laser designator here. I hope you don’t mind some company.”

  “We’ll provide what security we can,” Kramer responded. “Although we don’t have much firepower other than Big Bertha.” The weapon Kramer referred to was a .50 caliber Barrett M82 sniper rifle with a range of nearly 2,000 yards.

  “Thanks,” Falco said. “We’ll put in a request for some back-up. Who knows? Maybe we’ll get it.”

  There was another threat as well … What were the Russian fighters up to? Falco looked up. White contrails scratched the otherwise blue sky. It looked as though Parker and her people were on the job. In the meantime Oliver and Lee had been busy setting up without a tripod. The designator was resting on Lee’s pack with the power supply in a bag right next to it. “I have a mortar crew called Steel-Three on the horn,” Lee said. “They’re ready to rock ‘n roll.”

  “Where are they?”

  “About two miles that-a-way,” Lee replied, as he pointed east.

  “Good,” Falco said. “That means they can hang bombs at least a mile forward of our position.”

  “I have approximately two-zero targets eastbound at nine o’clock,” Kramer said, as she peered through her scope.

  “Okay,” Falco said. “That’s their screen … Thin ’em if you can.”

  “Roger that,” Kramer said, without breaking contact with the scope. “I suggest that you hit the dirt, sir … They have snipers too.”

  It was good advice. After dropping down onto the icy slush Falco elbowed his way up to the designator and placed his eyes against the rubber cups. The Russians seemed to jump forward, and by making adjustments to Lee’s pack, Falco could pan left and right. “They’re sending a platoon forward to provide us with security,” Oliver commented .

  “Good,” Falco replied. “The Russians are going to get real pissy when we start to drop the big BOOM-BOOMs on them. And we’re sitting in plain sight.”

  The sound of the rifle shot was like a period at the end of Falco’s sentence. “Target down,” Evans said coolly.

  Except for the dead man, who fell over backwards, the rest of the Russians went face down in the slush. But there wasn’t any cover to speak of so they were vulnerable. “Nail the guy on the left,” Evans instructed. “The one with the binoculars.”

  Kramer fired. Thanks to the magnification provided by the designator Falco witnessed the way the huge slug destroyed the officer’s binoculars and his face. And that, Falco knew, could have been him . Which was to say any officer who was scanning the battlefield.

  “Target down,” Evans said emotionlessly. “They’re getting up … Wait for it. Shoot the guy with the LMG. Hit him in the leg if you can.”

  Another shot rang out. The machine gunner fell. A medic responded and Kramer shot him too. “Two targets down,” Evans said. “You are shit hot, girl! That’ll teach the bastards.”

  But it didn’t teach the bastards. Falco saw a flash of light, heard the sharp crack of a tank gun going off, and felt the ground shake as a round landed twenty yards in front of him. The Russian tanks were visible by then. They were lined up four abreast—and coming on strong. “They’re PT-76s,” Oliver said, as he eyed the vehicles through a pair of binoculars. “The ‘76’ stands for the 76.2mm guns they carry.”

  Falco was impressed by the extent of Oliver’s knowledge, but mainly concerned with the fact that the oncoming machines could kill him and the platoon of white clad soldiers who were taking up positions around “Mount” Evans. It was tempting to call on the mortars. But Falco preferred to let the targets get a bit closer. “Contact Bomber-Three … Ask them how many smart rounds they have.”

  Lee made the call, listened to the reply, and turned to Falco. “They have twenty smart rounds, sir. And that’s all.”

  Falco did the math. Three hovercraft carrying four tanks each meant a force of twelve tanks. So with only twenty mortar bombs to call upon, there wasn’t much margin for error. But, since they were smart weapons, there wouldn’t be much wastage. Another shell exploded and threw a gout of icy mud up into the air. The time had come.

  The PT-76 had the slightly retro appearance of machines designed in the fifties. Falco watched with considerable interest as the XM395 Guided Munition landed five yards away from the tank and exploded. A miss! Shit.

  Falco was about to put another round on the target when Oliver stopped him. “They lost a track … Mobility kill.”

  And sure enough … When Falco took a second look he saw that the 76 had slewed around and been forced to stop. That did nothing to prevent the turret and cannon from swinging around to point his way however. The 76 fired and the other tanks loosed a salvo as well. Four rounds fell within seconds of each other. One of them obliterated a three person fireteam. Body parts flew through the air, and a red rain stained the white snow.

  Falco brought another bomb in on the first tank, shifted left, and selected another machine for destruction. He was pleased to see a direct hit. “Two down, and two to go!” Lee shouted enthusiastically.

  That was good. But it wasn’t good enough, and Falco knew it. The remaining tanks were boring in, and another rank of machines was visible in the distance. It was a race. If Falco failed to kill the lead vehicles before they reached the knoll everyone would die. And the Russian reinforcements were firing. Shells landed on the east side of Mount Evans, and exploded without causing casualties.

  Falco struggled to maintain focus. He scored a hit
on one of the lead 76 which exploded. But the next bomb was a near miss. It caused some damage but that’s all. Smoke trailed behind the tank as it churned upslope. When it fired the sniper team disappeared.

  Shit, shit, shit! The damned thing was so close that a near miss could kill everyone on the knoll. Falco pointed the laser and called for another round. Then he closed his eyes. There was a thunderous explosion, followed by a blast wave, and cheering. Falco opened his eyes. The 76 was a burning hulk … And he was alive.

  There was no time in which to celebrate. The second rank of killing machines was closing in. Their engines roared, and clouds of black smoke billowed around them, as the Russian tank commanders sought to hide their vehicles from the smart bombs.

  Falco swiveled from target-to-target, marking each, and the rounds continued to fall. Some missed. But most were close enough to inflict damage, and give the platoon’s AT4 team a chance to fire anti-tank rockets at the faltering machines.

  The area west of the knoll was littered with burning tanks by then. One of them rocked from side-to-side as a ready round cooked in the turret. Some crew members had survived. They spilled out of their machines, only to be cut down by soldiers armed with assault weapons.

  Falco was just dimly aware of those events however. More Russian troops had arrived by then, and a furious gun battle was underway, as they elbowed their way through the slush. American troops fired down on them with LMGs while the Russians fired RPGs uphill.

  Meanwhile the officer commanding the 76s was using the smoke produced by the burning hulks for cover as his machines crawled between them. The strategy worked for a while because Falco couldn’t target things he couldn’t see. But the moment a tank came into view a smart bomb landed on or near it. Two 76s were destroyed in quick succession.

  Falco felt a sense of elation, and was about to target the remaining tanks, when Oliver shouted in his ear. “That was your last round, sir … Steel-Three is empty.”

  Falco swore. “What about regular munitions?”

  “I asked,” Oliver replied. “They don’t have any.”

  Falco stood. The last two tanks were swerving back and forth as they threaded their way between the wrecks that littered the battlefield. The Russian tankers had every reason to believe that a laser guided weapon was going to fall on them at any moment, but they kept coming anyway. Falco had to respect their courage.

  “Follow me!” Falco shouted, as he ran forward. And that was a stupid thing to do since he didn’t have a plan. But attacking was better than waiting, or so it seemed to Falco, as he fired short bursts from the MP7. A Russian soldier staggered and fell. Another fired and Falco felt a bullet tug at his cap. Lee was there to shoot the man in the face.

  By that time it was clear that the tankers had been taken by surprise. A machine gun was mounted on the turret of each tank. But the gunners were still inside their machines. And, as the American troops surged around the tanks, their cannons were useless.

  That gave the soldiers an unexpected opportunity. Most of the Americans were carrying grenades including some thermite grenades. One enterprising sergeant took it upon himself to deliver his in a unique way. First he scrambled up onto the rear deck of a 76. Then he approached the turret, lifted the hatch, and dropped a grenade inside.

  At that point the noncom should have jumped clear. But, fearing that a tanker might toss the grenade back out, he sat on the hatch. No one could see what took place inside the machine .

  But it didn’t take a genius to figure out that the intense heat generated by the thermite grenade was responsible for detonating one or more 76mm shells. The sergeant was thrown clear when the force of the internal explosion blew the turret up off the tank’s hull and dumped it onto the ground.

  That left a single tank and the six Russian soldiers who were trying to protect it. They fell one after another. Then, as the last 76 rolled over the supine body of a private named Cory Trenton, he attached a block of C-4 to the machine’s belly. Once Trenton could see the sky he pressed a button on his hand held remote. The results were everything Trenton had hoped for.

  The charge blew a hole in the tank’s hull, and detonated every shell that remained in storage. The resulting BOOM was heard miles away. That battle, one of many taking place on Big D, was over.

  Colonel Waya appeared on the battlefield an hour later. Medevac helicopters had arrived and departed by then, but smoke continued to dribble out of a Russian tank, and the sounds of fighting could be heard to the north. Waya was riding a Russian ATV, and accompanied by green berets on identical machines. Falco was still the senior officer on the scene, and went over to greet Waya. “Major Falco, sir … Welcome to Mount Evans.”

  “Mount Evans?” Waya inquired, as he got off the ATV. “It looks like a hill to me.”

  “Private Evans named it after himself. He was killed by a tank shell.”

  Waya winced. He looked tired. “I’m sorry,” he said. “A lot of good people died today. Falco? Are you the one they call Wombat?”

  “Some do, sir … Wombat seems to follow me around.”

  Waya grinned. “Call signs do that.” He looked around. “I heard about what you accomplished here, Major. And it’s nothing short of amazing! Maybe I’ve been too hard on the air force in the past.”

  Falco smiled. “I had lots of help, sir … From my JTACs and your soldiers. That includes a mortar team called Steel-Three.”

  Waya nodded. “Thanks for mentioning them … I’ll make sure that they get some recognition.”

  “How are we doing, sir? Do we own this island yet?”

  Waya’s expression was bleak. “No, Major, we don’t. The Russians have a firm grip on roughly seventy percent of it. And they’re making good progress on the bridge despite our best efforts to destroy it. Some sonofabitch loaded Buk surface-to-air missile launchers onto barges. They’re moored next to the bridge. The Buks are so effective our fighters haven’t been able to close in. The first span will be complete in a couple of days. Once that occurs the Russkies will send heavy tanks and a battalion of troops across. That’s when we’ll pull back.”

  Falco felt his spirits sink. “We aren’t going to receive any reinforcements?”

  Waya shook his head. “None are available. Our orders are to hold for as long as we can. Who knows? Maybe we’ll catch a break.”

  “Shit.”

  “That sums it up,” Waya agreed. “Keep up the good work. I won’t forget what you did.” And with that Waya was gone.

  Chapter Ten

  Moscow, Russia

  T he seemingly endless flight from Petropavlovsk to Brastic, to Tomsk, and from there to Moscow left General Anatoly Baranov feeling tired and cranky. Knowing it would be easy to set him off, Major Valery Gotov, and TASS correspondent Boris Dudin were silent as they followed Baranov off the plane.

  It was dark, and made even more so by the official blackout. A precaution that most Muscovites regarded with considerable cynicism. What fool would believe that NATO forces didn’t know where Moscow was? Or where the most important targets were? All of which was summed up in a popular meme: Chinovniki boleye opasny, chem amerikantsy . (The bureaucrats are more dangerous than the Americans.)

  The Chkalovsky Military Airport was located about twenty miles northeast of Moscow. It served as an air force base and a training center for the Russian Space Program. That included learning how to murder fellow crew members aboard the International Space Station. And they had. Now the habitat was called the Soviet Space Station. And the station was being controlled by the Main Intelligence Agency (GRU). A ZIL limo was waiting for Baranov and his party. “Take us to the Savoy,” Baranov ordered as he slid into the back seat. “And don’t dawdle. ”

  Moscow traffic was widely considered to be the worst in the world, and only slightly better at night. But, thanks to the limo’s flashing blue lights, the car made the twenty minute trip in thirty. I shall give them oil , Baranov thought. Oil from Alaska. Which they will waste while driving around Moscow
. But that doesn’t matter. Russia will be whole again … And that is worth fighting for.

  The Savoy Hotel looked dark and gloomy without the wash of white light that normally lit the façade. Baranov left Gotov to deal with the limo driver as he got out of the car and went inside. The night manager recognized Baranov immediately, and came forward to greet him. “Welcome back Comrade General! Your suite is waiting. A courier left this for you.”

  Baranov accepted the envelope and tore it open. The note was from Marshal of the Soviet Union Shoygun. “Dear Anatoly please join me in my office as 0900.” It was signed “Oleg.”

  The “please,” as well as the use of Shoygun’s given name, signaled that while the marshal outranked Baranov the men were friends. And they had been since attending the General Staff Academy together fifteen years earlier.

  Did the appointment have something to do with the summons that had brought Baranov clear across Russia, even as his forces battled the Americans? Of course it did. And if anyone knew why Baranov had been called to Moscow it was Oleg.

  Baranov tucked the card away, said goodnight to Gotov, and chose to ignore the look on Dudin’s face. The only thing worse than telling subordinates too little, was divulging too much. The manager took Baranov to a suite located on the top floor. It reeked of opulence. A style Baranov associated with the oligarchs who, in his opinion, were a cancer on the body politic. But the king sized bed beckoned, and Baranov fell asleep thirty minutes later.

  Baranov woke feeling groggy, ordered breakfast from room service, and placed a call to Gotov. The major answered on the first ring. “Gotov. ”

  “Good morning, Valery. How’s it going?”

  Gotov knew what “it” was without asking. “Our forces control 82% of Big Diomede, General … And Colonel Yakimov believes he can drive the Americans off the island within the next 24 hours.”

  “And the bridge?”

  “The first span is nearly complete. I understand the pontoons have proven to be unwieldy, but the navy is muscling them into place.”