by Walt Gragg
“How did they react?”
“Actually, most seemed okay with it. With no one buying tickets to fly to Europe at the moment, they’d been forced to cancel hundreds of flights. Their long-haul planes are just sitting on tarmacs around the country. They weren’t too happy about putting their crews at so great a risk by sending them into the middle of a war. But they were thrilled Military Airlift Command could put the planes to good use and would be providing some nice paychecks in doing so.”
“So the pieces are in place, Mr. President.”
“Maybe so, but it doesn’t sound like it’ll be easy. Are you sure you can pull this off?”
“The most difficult thing is the timing, sir,” General Larsen said. “We’ve got to make sure things are where they need to be when they need to be there. It makes no sense to have an F-16 arrive at Zweibrucken if no one’s waiting with jet fuel and armaments. So the ground crews need to be in place before the fighters arrive. The same is true for our ground forces. A tank appearing on the battlefield without cannon shells or machine-gun bullets isn’t going to be a big threat to the enemy. So everything needs to line up. It’s those millions of little details that we’re working on.”
“One of the concepts we’ve come up with,” the Secretary of Defense said, “is sending over self-contained flying convoys with a number of different aircraft traveling together. Each convoy, when unloaded, will have everything our soldiers must have to head directly to their defensive positions. Maybe something like six C-5s carrying tanks, a passenger 767 landing right behind them with an entire company of infantry to support the armor, some Apache and Black Hawk crews, and a few mortar teams. Seconds later, a number of FedEx or UPS planes will land carrying Humvees, helicopters, cannon shells, missiles, bullets, food, water, and whatever else is needed to support that unit for ten days. The moment the soldiers get off their plane, they and the air-base support personnel will quickly unload all of them and start getting everything ready. Within the hour, they’ll move into battle. As the soldiers leave, the refueled flying convoy will be loaded with as many dependents as we can cram onto each plane and return home. We’ve still got thousands and thousands over there who need to be removed from harm’s way just as rapidly as we can. When the convoy arrives back here, we’ll give the pilots eight hours to sleep while we reload the aircraft with the final 1st Cavalry Brigade and the entire 3rd Armored Cavalry Regiment. Then we’ll head for Germany once more to repeat the process. In four days, we’ll have twenty thousand fresh soldiers, with all of their equipment, waiting in the German woods for the Russians. Once that task is completed, we’ll have the aircraft fly to Colorado and begin the same process with the 4th Infantry.”
“Naturally, there’ll be lots of logistical issues to deal with along the way,” General Larsen added. “For example, we’ll need to stop most of the flying convoys at Dover, McGuire, or Charleston Air Bases on the East Coast to refuel them before they cross the Atlantic. And we’ll have to refuel our fighter aircraft and some of the planes while on the trans-Atlantic flight. So we’ll have to fully coordinate our huge fleet of KC-135 tanker aircraft to do midair refueling while additional tankers fly on to the new air bases to make sure we’ve ample fuel when the fighters arrive. As you no doubt recognize, the clock is our biggest enemy. There are a myriad of things to do and little time to do any of it if we’re going to get the 1st Cavalry on those planes in time.”
“Where’s the 1st Cavalry now?”
“We’ve stopped them and the 3rd Armored Cavalry Regiment halfway between Fort Hood and Galveston, where they were planning on loading onto their cargo ships to head across the Atlantic. They’re approximately fifty miles southeast of Austin. We’re planning on turning them around and having them head back to the Austin airport to meet the cargo aircraft that will transport them and their equipment to the reestablished air bases in Germany.”
“Why Austin?”
“A number of reasons, Mr. President. First, it’s the closest major airport to the division’s present position. It’s located in the southeast corner of town, away from most of the city, so we won’t have much hassle with traffic or other concerns in moving hundreds and hundreds of military vehicles to the airport. The airport’s located at one of our deactivated B-52 bases. When we shut it down some years past, the city purchased it and converted it for their use. It has some of the longest runways in the country. It can handle any plane we’ve got. And while it only has twenty-five passenger gates, because it was once an air base it has lots and lots of room in every direction to handle the controlled confusion headed its way. We’ll begin shutting it down to commercial traffic and preparing it for what’s to come in the next few hours.”
“When will you begin actually implementing your plan?” the President asked.
“We’ll start the communication vans over as soon as you give us the okay, Mr. President,” General Larsen answered. “They’re the first thing we’ll need to get into place. We’re going to wait, however, before beginning to send the 1st Cavalry to Germany until we’re certain we’ve made significant progress on setting up the command and control system. We’ll also need time to thoroughly assess the damage we inflict with ‘The Final Ace.’ We may require up to twenty-four hours to determine whether we’ve succeeded in creating an equal enough playing field for it to make sense risking our best division. During that time, we’ll gather all the aircraft from every source. Most we’ll send to Austin to begin loading our soldiers and their equipment. Others will be dispatched around the country to pick up the airmen needed to reestablish the four air bases. During that time, we’ll also get Dover, McGuire, and Charleston ready to receive the endless streams of refueling aircraft headed their way and prepare the KC-135s to support our Atlantic crossings.”
“So the skeleton of the plan’s ready, Mr. President,” the Secretary of Defense said. “We know such a monumental effort’s going to be total chaos. But we believe it’ll be organized chaos. We’re determined to handle every problem smoothly and efficiently as it arises. We’re convinced we can get the entire 1st Cavalry and 4th Infantry Divisions along with six hundred fighter aircraft to Germany in the next ten days. What we need is you to give us the go-ahead. Once you do, our path to victory will have taken its first big step.”
“If I give you the okay, when do you plan to use ‘The Final Ace’?”
“We’ll need a few hours to get everything ready, Mr. President,” General Larsen said. “So probably late this afternoon here, middle of the night in Germany.”
“All right,” the President said reluctantly, “you have my authority to do so.”
• • •
The Americans’ daring plan was about to begin. Whether it would turn out to be a truly viable one depended greatly on whether their desperate forces inside Germany could delay the Russians long enough to get everything in place.
CHAPTER 55
January 31—11:27 p.m.
1st Platoon, Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion, 69th Armor, 3rd Heavy Brigade Combat Team, 3rd Infantry Division
On the Edge of a Meadow, Six Miles West of Autobahn A7
Jamie Pierson screamed into the intercom. “Tony! Get that big bastard that’s right on top of us! If you don’t, we’re all dead!”
“Relax, Jamie, I’ve got him all the way.”
Warrick fired the M-1’s main gun at a T-72 charging across the meadow straight for them. The Russian tank exploded, further illuminating the nightmarish battle. In the three hundred yards of open ground in front of the Americans, the scorched hulls of more than two dozen tanks lay smoldering in the snows. Nine ravaged BMPs sat silently at their countrymen’s sides. The persistent fires of the frantic struggle also illuminated the bloated bodies of hundreds of dead Russian infantry. Many of the lifeless forms had been lying on the ground for nearly thirty hours. Mangled enemy corpses were absolutely everywhere the eye surveyed.
On Richardson�
��s left, the skeletal remains of the demolished American tank sat in its fighting hole. Staff Sergeant Greene’s charred body, unsuccessful in its desperate attempt to escape, was sprawled half-in, half-out the commander’s hatch. Twenty-four hours earlier, a BMP’s Spandrel missile had penetrated the tank’s exposed turret. It had destroyed the M-1 and ended the lives of those inside.
On Richardson’s right, Lieutenant Mallory’s tank was still ablaze three hours after its destruction by a Russian attack helicopter. The Abrams burned on throughout the frightful night.
To Richardson’s rear, there was little organized resistance. For the past three hours, only the quartet of soldiers in the platoon’s final M-1 had stopped the Russians from breaking through for a nearly unfettered dash to Heidelberg and, beyond that, the Rhine. Richardson hadn’t heard a single shot fired in at least that long from either of the 3rd Infantry platoons stretching out to his left and right. He’d no idea if the American soldiers were all dead or if the survivors had decided they’d no choice but to disengage and withdraw. Either way, his hard-pressed crew was on their own as they struggled to hold the critical highway.
Behind the remnants of the 3rd Infantry, there remained three armored brigades. All three had arrived in Germany in the past four days. With the tanks and weapons they’d drawn from the Kaiserslautern depot, a five-thousand-man brigade from the 24th Infantry Division waited in front of Frankfurt. A second brigade from the same division braced for battle a few miles east of Stuttgart. The American brigade was preparing to meet the ten Russian divisions that had smashed the Allied forces in the southern portion of the country. The final brigade from the 24th was spread across a hundred-mile front between the two cities. The lightly armed 82nd Airborne continued to hold the critical assets to the rear and, wherever possible, plug the 24th Infantry’s lines.
Twenty thousand readied themselves to meet a force seventy times their number. The American soldiers waiting in the steadily melting snows of Germany knew they faced an impossible task. Not one had the vaguest inkling that if they could hold on for just a few days, more help would be on the way. For all they knew, they were all alone.
“Tony, how many rounds do you have left?” Richardson asked.
“Nothing for my machine gun,” Warrick said. He glanced at Vincent.
The tank’s loader answered without being asked. “About fifteen shells for the main gun.”
Fifteen rounds out of the forty-two they’d left Wurzburg with three days earlier.
In the forward portion of the tank, directly beneath the main gun, Jamie Pierson peered out through the periscope in front of his driver’s chair. “Aw, shit, there’s another infantry squad trying to flank us. Tim, you can’t let them find a place to ford that stream and get around behind us.”
Inside the fully buttoned-up tank, Richardson stared at the killing grounds of the broad meadow. He’d been watching the Russian squad as it desperately searched for a place to cross the icy currents. His voice was detached and strangely matter-of-fact. “I know, I know. Relax. I’ve had them the whole way. Just wanted to wait for a little better shot. If it’ll make the three of you feel better, I’ll kill them right now.”
After the destruction of the platoon’s other tanks, his crew had noticed how oddly Richardson was acting. It was almost as if their tank’s commander had accepted the inevitable and given up hope.
With the loss of the lieutenant’s tank, Richardson had come to realize that his own death was grinningly waiting for him on the dark night. His jealousy of Pierson and Warrick had spewed forth and seized his fragile soul. The members of his crew had a strong, supportive family back home. Families who’d grieve greatly at their demise. But the young tank commander had no one. He’d never known his father. And he hadn’t spoken to his alcoholic mother in eight years. Not since she, in a drunken rage, had kicked him out at the age of fifteen.
There was no one else.
Richardson knew there’d be no one to mourn his passing.
He whirled the machine gun to the right. For the past ten minutes, the Russian infantry had been working its way through the thick trees along the edge of the wide meadow. The squad had just begun moving across a small clearing near the swiftly flowing stream. Without warning, the tank commander’s machine gun pounded away at the exposed soldiers. Richardson aimed at the pair of Russians carrying antitank missiles. Four of the eight soldiers fell beneath the withering gunfire of the sudden attack. The antitank missiles dropped into the open meadow, along with the soldiers who’d carried them.
The remaining infantrymen dove into the trees. They returned the tank’s fire with their rifles. Each shot at the Abrams while waiting for one of the others to run into the glade to retrieve the antitank weapons. None was as yet so stupid, or so brave. The rifle bullets bounced harmlessly off the foot-thick armor plating on the front of the M-1. Richardson laughed at the feeble efforts. In his deeply protective world, no bullet was going to reach him. The infantry soldiers were wasting their time.
Unlike Richardson, Warrick and Pierson hadn’t given up hope.
“Tim, we’ve got to get out of here,” Warrick said. “If we don’t make a run for it soon, we’ve got no chance.”
“Yeah, Tony, I know. But battalion ordered us to hold this position no matter what.”
“I understand, but that was two hours ago. Why don’t you talk to them again?”
Richardson rubbed his tired eyes. None of the M-1’s crew had slept more than scant minutes in the past three days. And they hadn’t closed their eyes for a single moment in more than a day and a half.
“All right, all right, let me see what I can do.” He spoke into the radio. “Echo-Yankee-One, this is Sierra-Kilo-One-Two.”
“Roger, Sierra-Kilo-One-Two. Go ahead.”
“Echo-Yankee-One, we’re greatly outnumbered. Our position has become untenable. Request we be allowed to retract and retreat.”
“Understood, Sierra-Kilo-One-Two. Wait one.”
Richardson fired at the first of the infantrymen foolhardy enough to attempt to retrieve the missiles. The Russian dropped like a stone at the edge of the glen. He fell into the wide brook. As the soldier’s blood was added to the stream, its swirling, frigid waters turned an ever-deepening shade of red.
The battalion radio operator returned. “Sierra-Kilo-One-Two, be advised, we need you to remain in place a little longer. The battalion’s going to conduct an organized retreat in approximately thirty minutes. Until then, you must hold Highway 19. If the Russians break through your position, the entire battalion’s going to be trapped.”
Not that there was much of a battalion left. After thirty hours of ruthless battle, eleven of forty-five tanks fought on. Only five of the unit’s Bradleys were still in the fray.
“Roger, Echo-Yankee-One. But you need to understand, we’re in severe distress. It’s highly unlikely we can hold out that long. We’re running out of machine-gun ammunition, and the enemy’s advances are growing bolder by the second. We’re going to be dead in the next ten minutes if required to remain in our present position.”
“Okay, Sierra-Kilo-One-Two, let me see what I can do.”
A BMP moved to the tree line on the far side of the meadow. The armored vehicle opened its rear door to discharge its infantry. Warrick started targeting the personnel carrier.
The soldiers inside the Abrams held their breath and waited. They knew their lives were going to end quite soon if the battalion commander insisted on their holding this impossible defensive position.
“Whoosh!” The mighty sound reverberated throughout the frightening night as Warrick fired at the BMP. The BMP erupted in roaring fires reaching into the highest treetops. The Americans watched two dreadful figures emerge from the rear of the defeated personnel carrier. Each was fully engulfed in flames. The fiery forms staggered into the snows and fell. Three hundred yards away, the Americans couldn’t hear the
anguished screams of the blazing humans.
Just to remind the survivors of the infantry squad that he hadn’t forgotten about them, Richardson fired a quick burst in their direction.
There was nothing but silence over the radio. The tension in the tank’s confined spaces grew heavy.
Warrick’s patience was spent. “Where the hell’s battalion?” he said.
“Relax,” Richardson said, “it’s probably time for their coffee break.”
No one was in any mood to laugh.
The radio suddenly crackled to life. “Sierra-Kilo-One-Two, Six,” the radio operator said, using the slang for the battalion commander, “says you’re to hold your position at all costs. If you don’t, the battalion’s retreat will be cut off.”
“Roger, we understand. Hold at all cost.”
“Hang in there, Sierra-Kilo-One-Two. Six just released his last two Apaches to assist you. They’re on the way. They should be there in three minutes.”
“Roger. Hanging in there.”
A roller coaster of emotions roared through Richardson. As the fearsome Russian assault had gone on minute after minute, hour after hour, he’d watched his friends die on his left and right. For the past few hours, he’d grown to accept his own impending end. At this point, he saw no reason to let his hopes get too high. The lone American tank was in an extremely dire position. But with the promised Apaches soon to be overhead, there was a growing chance the Abrams’s crew might actually live to see the sunrise. For the first time since Lieutenant Mallory’s death, Richardson allowed the slimmest glimmer of hope to enter his anguished mind.
It would be the longest three minutes in any of their young lives. Within seconds of the battalion’s message, three T-72s moved to the edge of the trees on the eastern end of the meadow.