The Red Line

by Walt Gragg

  While they huddled together in the storm, taking in their leader’s pronouncement, each sneaked glances at the others in the group. Disappointment was everywhere. They were all experienced enough to know the significance of Jensen’s words.

  “Our only option is to attack. Maybe we can slow them a little.” While they listened, Jensen explained his hasty battle plan. “This road’s only wide enough for three Bradleys to fire at one time. Here’s what we’ll do. Brownie, you set up on the left. Seth, you’re in the middle. Foster, you’ve got the right. Renoir, you and Richmond line up single file far enough behind Seth that you can pull right around him. I want every shot to count. You vehicle commanders are to fire the TOWs. Brownie and Foster, take your time and pick out a couple of good targets. Fire off both your TOWs. Then have your driver back far enough off the line for Renoir or Richmond to move into your firing position. Do that before you begin reloading your missile tubes. Seth, wait until Brownie and Foster finish firing before you open up with your TOWs. Then back up to reload, making room for Brownie or Foster to fill your spot. You guys keep firing, trade positions, reloading, and firing again for as long as you can. Whatever you do, don’t fire your Bushmaster or machine gun. The muzzle flash will give our position away immediately. Has everyone got it?”

  Five soldiers nodded their understanding.

  “Let’s go get them, then,” Jensen said. Deep within his parka, an uncontrollable grin crept onto the platoon sergeant’s weathered face at the realization that this just might be his life’s end.

  The quick meeting broke up. Jensen guided Brown into position on the far left, with just enough of the Bradley’s turret peaking over the crest of the hill for Brown to select his targets and fire his TOWs. Austin’s team slid into the middle. Foster was soon in place on the right. Richmond and Renoir lined their Bradleys up twenty yards behind Austin’s. Both anxiously waited to pull forward and enter the fray.

  The Bradleys in place, Jensen crawled forward through the snows to the crest of the hill. He brought his night-vision goggles up to his face once more. The platoon sergeant located the steadily rolling lead tank. Traveling at twenty miles per hour, the lumbering ogre was a quarter mile from where the roads met. On the gentle slope, a mile above the crossroads, Jensen’s force watched the tanks crossing the final distance to the intersection. Brown and Foster selected their victims and waited for the command to fire. There was no need to hurry. With so many inviting targets from which to choose, Jensen wanted to ensure the first few shots were easy ones.

  In a handful of minutes, the small group of Americans would be wiped out. But in doing so, they would buy their countrymen a little extra time.

  Second Platoon was going to go down fighting.

  In thirty seconds, the lead tank would reach the intersection. The monstrous image was in the crosshairs on Brown’s periscope.

  While the snows fell upon them, the bloodied platoon waited. The soldiers held their breath as the eternities continued to torturously tick past.

  CHAPTER 13

  January 29—12:11 a.m.

  2nd Platoon, Delta Troop, 1st Squadron, 4th Cavalry

  On the North–South Highway a Mile from E48

  From out of nowhere, the leading tank and the two behind it suddenly exploded.

  The stark violence startled both the Russians and the American platoon. Unaware of the Apache’s change of orders, Jensen was just as confused as the enemy. The burning tanks lit up the midnight battlefield once more. A new false daylight devoured the night. Jensen threw off his night-vision goggles.

  For an instant, he believed one of his crews had panicked and fired. But that couldn’t be the answer. One TOW couldn’t destroy three tanks. And three tanks had been destroyed. Mines? It couldn’t be that either. There hadn’t been time for anyone to lay them.

  Just then, a T-80 opened up with its antiaircraft machine gun. Instantly, Jensen’s quick mind solved the puzzle. It could only be one thing—helicopters!

  Searching the low skies, Jensen caught a shadow roaring through the valley. A glimpse really. But enough to tell him that the cause of the sudden infernos had been Apaches. Jensen had seen the unmistakable silhouette of a sleek Apache Attack Helicopter.

  At night, the helicopters’ olive drab image appeared to be jet-black. After watching the Apaches on numerous night-training missions, the cavalry soldiers had anointed the squadron’s lethal avengers with an appropriate name.

  “Black death” had arrived on the battlefield.

  The nine two-man tank-killer teams had thundered out of Camp Kinney within minutes of the squadron commander giving the order. It was a scene right out of Star Wars. Each crew was sealed in its futuristic cockpit. In the helicopters, the target-acquisition officer sat in front of and below the pilot. Their sophisticated night-vision equipment was positioned over their passionless faces. Their instrument panels were aglow from a multitude of dials and gauges. At treetop level, in the middle of the night, in the middle of a blizzard, at 180 miles per hour, they rushed toward the border.

  When they neared the target area, the attackers split into three groups. At full speed, the first group roared straight down the valley a few feet above the ground. They found the Russians exactly where they’d anticipated. While they continued to hurtle toward the huge formation, each locked onto one of the leading tanks. Nearly as one, they unleashed a Hellfire missile from beneath their obscene helicopter. The missile rocketed out. With the target-acquisition officers’ guidance, the Hellfires smashed into their targets. A trio of tanks was instantly destroyed.

  The victorious helicopters veered sharply to the right. A single T-80 commander figured out what had happened. He fired a handful of belated rounds from his antiaircraft machine gun in their general direction. The Apaches disappeared over the tree line.

  With the Russians’ attention turned southward toward the fleeing helicopters, a second group of tank killers roared in from the north. This group fired long bursts from their 30mm chain guns at a jumbled mass of BMPs a quarter mile back in the column. The thinly armored upper skins of six BMPs were ripped to shreds. The BMPs started to smolder, then to burn brightly. But the second group of Apaches wasn’t done yet. Each fired a Hellfire missile. A T-72, then another, followed by a third, were soon blazing.

  A few more feeble antiaircraft shots were fired at the attackers. The helicopters passed over the trees untouched. In the wake of this attack, the final group of Apaches zoomed directly down the valley floor. Taking the same path for their second run, the original trio was ten seconds behind them.

  Hellfire missiles rained down upon the column once again. This time the six Apaches ran straight down the roadway, staying over the target significantly longer than during the first two runs. As the leading group veered left into the forest, and the second disappeared to the right, a dozen armored vehicles exploded. Heaven-searing flames erupted everywhere.

  The Russians were stopped dead in their tracks.

  It was like watching a highly skilled cat play with a terrified mouse.

  This mouse, however, wasn’t defenseless. For this was a mouse with very sharp teeth. In this game, a careless cat could soon find himself the mouse’s meal.

  The cat formed up for another run.

  • • •

  From the snowy hilltop, Jensen and his Bradley crews watched as the Apaches tore into the column. When the Russians faltered and began to retreat, the platoon sergeant saw his opening. He leaped up and ran to Jelewski’s position in the rear of Austin’s Bradley.

  “Jewels, get me on the Apaches’ net as fast as you can!”

  Jelewski reached over and adjusted the radio dials. He handed the handset to Jensen.

  “What’s today’s call sign for the Apaches?”

  “Vulture,” Jelewski said.

  Jensen put the handset to his parched mouth. “Vulture-One, Vulture-One, this is Del
ta-Two-Five. Say again, this is Delta-Two-Five.”

  From the cockpit of the lead helicopter came the response in the officious voice all pilots seem to use. “Roger, Delta-Two-Five. This is Vulture-One. Go ahead.”

  “Vulture, have five Bradleys on north–south highway, one mile north of your position. During your next run, we’re going to join in on the attack. After we fire, we’ll try to escape west in the confusion. Don’t fire on us. Repeat, we are friendlies, don’t fire on us.”

  “Roger, Delta-Two-Five. We copy. Welcome to the party.”

  “Roger, Vulture, good luck.”

  Jensen hurried back to the crest of the hill to verify the tank column was still withdrawing.

  “Ramirez! Steele! Get all the scouts in as fast as you can. We’re getting the hell out of here.”

  The pair ran off in different directions.

  Jensen spoke into his headset. “Change of plans guys. Here’s what we’re going to do. The Russians are falling back, but they’re still within range. Next time the Apaches attack, we’re going to open fire. With any luck, the bastards will never figure out that there’s firing coming from a second position. Take your time selecting your targets. Let’s make every TOW count. Once your missile tubes are empty, rather than backing up to reload, head straight down the hill as fast as you can toward E48. We’ll try to get away before the Russians spot us. Whatever you do, don’t look back. Just keep going. Form up in that big apple orchard just this side of Schirnding. Any questions?”

  There were none.

  While three Apaches commenced another run, this time from the south, the first pair of scouts returned.

  “Into Brown’s Bradley,” Jensen said.

  The scouts hurried into the Bradley’s rear compartment.

  The Apaches pounded the disorganized column with Hellfires and chain guns. Hades’ fires grew in the valley below. Thunder roared and lightning flashed with each new explosion.

  Brown locked onto a fleeing tank near what had been the front of the column. He released his first TOW. While it flew toward its target, its fins popped out and a light appeared on the missile’s rear. Using his periscope to guide it, Brown adjusted its flight toward the struggling Russian tank. In seconds, the missile covered the mile and a half. The TOW slammed into the armored vehicle with tremendous force. Half-ton pieces of flaming metal spewed into the snowy air.

  Three T-72 commanders had guessed right. Each had been waiting for the next helicopter attack to come from the south. They opened up with their tanks’ antiaircraft guns and main cannons. A cannon shell ripped through the center of a soaring black helicopter. Spinning wildly out of control, the shattered remains of the Apache smashed into the woods north of the roadway.

  The firing of the T-72s attracted the attention of Foster and Brown. A pair of TOWs swept from their tubes. Each began the process of homing in on its target. While the TOWs were in flight, another group of Apaches raced over the treetops. As the TOWs destroyed two more tanks, the Apaches opened up with Hellfire missiles once more.

  “I’m out of here,” Brown, his missile tubes empty, yelled into the radio. And down the final mile of the north–south roadway, the first Bradley raced.

  While Richmond moved forward to take Brown’s position, a second set of scouts ran up and entered the rear of Foster’s Bradley.

  Austin had been tracking what he believed to be a command tank a mile back in the column. The moment Brown cleared the hilltop, Austin fired. It was a long shot. More than two miles. But it was still within the TOW’s range. The missile’s flight seemed to take forever. Austin, however, never faltered. The TOW ran true. In a blinding explosion, the lead battalion’s commanding officer died. The confusion at the head of the accursed column was now complete.

  Foster launched against the final of the three T-72s involved in downing the Apache. Just as his missile neared the stationary tank, its commander decided to start his retreat. At the last possible instant, unaware that certain death was bearing down upon it, the T-72 moved. The TOW missed by inches. It passed in front of the tank and smashed into a snowbank near the tree line.

  “Shit! I missed the son of a bitch. I’m out of here, too.” And with that, Foster’s Bradley charged over the hill. Following Brown’s lead, it disappeared down the snow-clogged path leading to E48. Austin fired his second TOW toward a scurrying BMP. Within its walls, ten Russians died the instant the missile’s powerful nose struck. One more funeral pyre was added to the multitudes in the flaming valley below.

  As Austin’s second missile rammed home, Brown’s team turned west onto E48. At thirty-five miles per hour, the Bradley hastened to escape.

  Two more scouts arrived and scurried up the open ramp at the rear of Richmond’s Bradley. The hatch closed behind them. Renoir moved the final Bradley into position.

  It was Austin’s turn to try his luck on the highway. “We’re gone!” he yelled. The third Bradley crested the hill and raced to slip the hangman’s noose.

  The disorganized Russian column, filled with fire and death, continued to withdraw. With Austin out of the way, Richmond hurled a TOW at a T-80. The sergeant led the speeding armored vehicle by too much and missed the inviting target. As the last sprinting scouts appeared through the storm with Ramirez and Steele, Renoir fired the first of his missiles. Another BMP’s crew didn’t have long to live.

  “Load up! Load up!” Jensen screamed at the top of his lungs. He could barely be heard over the tumultuous sounds in the valley below.

  The final scouts raced to the rear of Renoir’s Bradley. Out of breath, Ramirez and Steele ran to the Humvee.

  The third group of Apaches, again running right down the flaming valley floor, attacked the retreating column. Death poured from the heavens in the form of Hellfire missiles and 30mm chain-gun fire. This time, however, the cat was far too greedy and spent too much time feasting on the mouse. While the Apaches roared down the length of the endless column, fifteen tanks opened fire. A curtain of deadly fire closed in on the Americans.

  The trailing Apache’s rotor was crushed by a pair of direct hits. The low-flying helicopter smashed into the flaming wreckage of one of its earlier victims. One hundred yards farther into the valley, the lead Apache was struck by no fewer than ten antiaircraft shells. Its pilot attempted a steep turn to the right, away from the line of fire. The Apache exploded in midair. The middle Apache banked sharply to the left to avoid the sudden explosion of its brother. It somehow survived its scrape with death, disappearing over the treetops.

  Foster’s Bradley turned onto E48 and plowed west through the storm.

  Jensen was on his headset once again. “Forget about firing your TOWs. Let’s get out of here while we still can!”

  The words still ringing in his ears, Richmond’s Bradley tore from the platoon’s hiding place. It leaped over the hill and was gone. Renoir followed a few seconds behind. The Humvee trailed what remained of the platoon.

  The Americans would still need some luck. After the mauling they’d taken, the Russians were furiously pulling back from the battle site. Should they spot the fleeing mosquitoes, however, they were still easily within range to quickly end all of the cavalrymen’s lives. Fortunately, the panicked enemy was much too busy searching for death from above to concern themselves with anything else.

  With the Russians watching the dagger-filled skies for the next attack, Jensen’s men slipped away, one vehicle at a time. Each raced west to escape the valley floor. When they slid around the corner onto E48, the three soldiers in the Humvee could feel the intense heat from the tangle of burning giants a quarter mile away. Every few seconds, more rounds would cook off, exploding in the raging fires. With each new burst, the Humvee’s crew would involuntarily duck. They understood the next explosion they heard could be from the 125mm cannon of an alert enemy tank that had spotted the fleeing Humvee. Although Jensen knew if that happened, they would never h
ear the sound of the detonating shell before it killed them all.

  Both sides had had enough.

  Licking their wounds, the six surviving Apaches turned and headed for home. Behind them, scores of ravaged armored vehicles lay burning in the snows. An impassable wall of death and destruction reached from tree line to tree line.

  The Apaches, with a helping hand from Jensen’s platoon, had blocked E48.

  The Humvee rounded a final forest curve and disappeared.

  CHAPTER 14

  January 29—12:25 a.m.

  2nd Platoon, Delta Troop, 1st Squadron, 4th Cavalry

  Outside the Town of Schirnding

  At the end of the burning valley, the forest gave way to an area of small farms and modest villages. Two miles ahead lay the town of Schirnding. On its eastern edge, an ancient apple orchard dominated both sides of the highway.

  The magnificent orchard was a beautiful sight during the platoon’s drives to the border in April, when the trees were beginning to bloom, and again in July, when the apples were ripening. The orchard was pretty in a different sort of way in October, when autumn’s vivid hues tumbled down in torrents upon the passing soldiers.

  During the platoon’s drives to the border in January, however, there was nothing attractive about the ghostly trees that hung still and lifeless in a cold gray world.

  The platoon began assembling along the roadway in the bleak orchard. First, Brown and his men arrived, driving through the trees and stopping near the edge of the quaint town. Foster and his crew were a mile behind.

  With the continual explosions, it was impossible to know what had happened to those they’d left behind. Each new arrival quickly got out of his Bradley to peer back down the snowbound roadway to see if anyone else had survived. One by one, the lumbering fighting vehicles arrived safe and sound. And when the Humvee was spotted in the distance, there was actually a feeble cheer from the spent platoon.