by Walt Gragg
• • •
Relaxing on the hospital’s hillside, Robert Jensen saw the helicopters approaching. He initially didn’t react. For a moment, he believed it was another of the endless flights of Black Hawks bringing in American wounded. Too late, his freshly seeing eyes realized their mistake.
The Hinds were drawing near.
He twisted in his wheelchair to look at Morse’s beautiful face.
“Run!” he screamed.
She didn’t understand what he was trying to tell her. She sat frozen beside him. Confusion spread across her face at his sudden panic.
“Run! Those are Russian helicopters, and they’re spraying chemical weapons! Run now! Get inside as fast as you can!”
She leaped up and reached for the wheelchair’s handles.
“It’s too late. You’ll never make it if you try to take me with you.”
“No, I can’t leave you here.”
“Forget about me. It’s too far back to the building. You’ll never get up the hill fast enough pushing this contraption. Get inside and run as far into the building as you can. Do it now! Run!”
She hesitated, but when she saw the look in his eyes, she turned and started running toward the hospital. Her flowing hair trailed after her as she raced up the gentle slope. While she ran, she looked back at him. He hadn’t taken his eyes from her.
The spraying helicopters were right on top of him.
He could feel the droplets falling onto his exposed skin. He knew it would be over soon. Still, he continued to encourage her progress.
Fifty yards from the nearest building, she stumbled and fell. She looked back. There was disappointment in Jensen’s eyes. The helicopters were on her in seconds. Their nozzles continued spraying while passing over her and heading toward the hospital complex.
Jensen pitched forward from his chair. He fell upon the damp ground. He lay with his back to her on the wet grasses. Both their bodies began to tremble and twitch uncontrollably.
Inside the hospital, the seeping gases found a further home for its lethal poisons. In another hour, over the Atlantic, most of the medevac flights would turn around and head back to America. They weren’t going to be needed. There’d be few survivors remaining to pick up.
In a brief handful of painful seconds, Robert Jensen and Elizabeth Morse twitched no more.
Above him on the small hill, the beautiful lieutenant lay. Her limbs were distorted by the severe convulsions of her sudden death. Her sweet eyes were open wide, staring out but seeing nothing. Her face, turned toward the east, was filled with an overwhelming sadness.
He lay where he’d fallen toward the bottom of the hill, with only the flock of dead snowbirds to keep him company. The old soldier, responsible for the first American victory of the great war, would also see no more.
His face was as calm as a quiet spring morning.
He’d had his final hour in the sun.
CHAPTER 63
February 2—6:00 p.m.
Delta Troop, 1st Battalion, 12th Cavalry Regiment, 3rd Brigade Combat Team (Greywolf), 1st Cavalry Division
Bitburg
In the early-evening darkness, the aircraft convoy touched down at the former American air base. With only a few widespread landing lights to guide them, one after another the fifteen planes arrived. The first to land was the Delta Airlines 767 carrying 275 soldiers. Five C-5s, sheltering tanks within their holds, were directly behind. Three FedEx and two UPS cargo planes were next. A C-17 filled with large military trucks followed. The final three in the stretching procession were also C-5s. The minute they were safely down, the landing lights were extinguished.
They were all soon moving onto the tarmac. Before their jet engines stopped, air-base ground personnel swiftly moved to support the massive fleet. As the soldiers deplaned, many joined the airmen in beginning to unload their lethal cargo. Others began assembling and arming their units’ weapons. There was frantic but controlled action everywhere. Everyone knew their role.
Fuel trucks were sliding up to the planes and beginning their task.
Within minutes, nearly a thousand hands were working as one.
Apaches and Black Hawks were being readied, their rotors and wheels hurriedly attached. In no time at all, a first was armed and moving skyward to support the air police guarding the perimeter.
M-1s with freshly loaded cannon shells, machine-gun cartridges, and full gasoline tanks were roaring to life. Humvees and hand grenades, bandages and bullets, machine guns and mortars, all left the planes. The list was nearly without end.
As each aircraft was emptied, dependents were being led out and loaded onto them without delay. Given what had happened to those waiting at Ramstein yesterday for the chance to return home, not one complained about being crammed onto the unyielding floor of a C-5 for the very long, torturous ride to safety.
As the airmen and soldiers worked, six F-16s landed.
Crews hurriedly went about the process of refueling and arming the fighter aircraft.
• • •
Minutes later, a second aerial circus landed at Hahn, with two companies of Bradley Fighting Vehicles.
A quarter hour after that, Zweibrucken received its first soaring fleet.
The process was soon completed at each location.
• • •
The tank company, its supporting infantry, mortar teams, and helicopters headed east from Bitburg toward the Rhine.
As they did, the patchwork airborne convoy returned to the runway filled with anxious souls headed for home. In less than two days, these same planes would return anew filled with another critical load.
It was a scene that would be repeated over and over in the coming hours.
The Americans were on the move.
• • •
As the newly arriving cavalry soldiers steeled themselves for battle, little could they know that this ill-fated war was going to end much sooner than any of them could ever have imagined.
CHAPTER 64
February 2—11:14 p.m.
Inside the Kremlin
Moscow
Valexi Yovanovich stood before Cheninko’s desk. A few steps behind the Director of Operations waited the highly talented general’s second-in-command, Antonin Zulin. The Russian Premier, his impatience showing, glared at them.
None was aware that fresh American armored forces had been reaching the Rhine for the past few hours. Or that many more were on the way. They’d no idea their every move in the venomous game had been countered by their apt adversary. In many ways, with what Yovanovich had planned on this evening, it really didn’t matter.
Cheninko remained ruthlessly certain that on this night he’d have his final revenge on the Germans. He continued to believe that the annihilation of Germany and their domination over it for decades to come was all but assured. Despite what Yovanovich had told him, even if the Americans counterattacked in the coming weeks, Mother Russia would prevail.
“Why hasn’t the second wave of bridging equipment arrived at the Rhine, Yovanovich?” There was unmistakable malice in Cheninko’s voice. “Are you intentionally delaying the construction of the bridges and the crossing of the river? Because if you are, Comrade General, you’ll leave me with just one choice. Your actions can only lead to a place you do not wish to see.”
Cheninko looked toward the window where he’d stood witnessing countless executions. There could be no mistaking his meaning.
“Comrade Premier,” Yovanovich said, “we thought we’d have little problem breaching the river. With Ramstein destroyed, we hadn’t anticipated our enemy’s mounting such an aggressive defense. Despite our MiGs’ efforts to support them, nearly every attempt we’ve made to complete the spans and begin our crossings has been met by a brutal aerial assault. And much to our surprise, the handfuls of units that have reached the other side have
found determined ground forces waiting for them. It’s as if the Americans know exactly what we are doing. The new bridging equipment is on the way. Our combat engineers are, however, facing severe difficulties. There are few remaining roads on our side of the Rhine, and each of those is littered with untold obstacles. Even so, there will be enough equipment at each of the fording points to construct multiple crossings within the next twelve hours. We’re going to commit every fighter aircraft we have to making sure we succeed.”
George O’Neill’s plan to use the fully functioning AWACS ground stations to provide instantaneous data to every level of American forces over the highly functioning command and control system had worked to perfection. The Russians had been thwarted at the Rhine long enough for the Americans to implement their deft actions and eventually emerge victorious. General Yovanovich didn’t know how or why, but he had been checkmated.
“Twelve hours, Yovanovich? We won’t cross the Rhine for another twelve hours? Such is beyond comprehension. I don’t wish to wait even five minutes more before we begin the final stages of our glorious victory. This war is to reach its conclusion now.”
“Even with the delays, Comrade Premier, I promise you it will draw to a close shortly. Once the bridges are in place, we’ll be able to move multiple divisions to the far bank in no time. We’ll then attack with everything we’ve got. Our actions will be swift and decisive. There’ll be scant resistance when we reach the western shore. The remaining Americans are few in number and widely scattered. They’ll be not much more than a trifling annoyance. We’ll brush them away with relative ease. By this time tomorrow, all of Germany will be in our hands.”
“This time tomorrow? You’re asking me to wait for another day, Yovanovich? Impossible . . . just impossible. Your five days is up. Do as I order, or the consequences will be exacted swiftly and without mercy. What I want isn’t open for further consideration. There’ll be no more excuses. We’ll finish our conquest directly. This will end well before the sun rises. Am I making myself clear?”
“Quite clear. But how do you propose we accomplish such an unachievable undertaking?”
“Swim our armored vehicles across the Rhine. Attack with everything we’ve got within the hour. Finish off the Americans. We’ll control all of Germany before the day breaks, or you’ll bear the burden for your failure.”
“But Comrade Premier, the river’s quite wide and its icy flows unforgiving. It’s the middle of the night in the middle of winter. The frigid waters will swamp our tanks as they struggle against the brutal currents. Our men will stand no chance of surviving such intolerable conditions in total darkness. Their deaths will be agonizingly swift and certain. The bitter elements will devour them. Thousands will die. We’ll lose over 60 percent of our attacking force before we reach the far embankments.”
“Then send those who are dying of radiation poisoning. They’re of no use to us anyway. After they gain a foothold and the chaos lessens, swim the remainder of our units to the western side.”
Yovanovich hesitated ever so slightly. The die, however, had been forever cast. There was no other option. He would most certainly not follow such an outrageous command.
There could be no turning back. It was time to put an end to the madness.
“No, Comrade Premier. I’ll do no such thing.”
For the briefest of moments, Cheninko took in Yovanovich’s pronouncement. He looked at his general with utter disbelief. A fraction of a second later, he leaped from his chair. Rage filled every measure of his being. His anger knew no bounds. The Russian dictator’s face turned a bright shade of red. His clenched hands visibly trembled. He slammed his fist against the desktop. Not once had anyone said no to him in the past six years. And he’d every intention of making sure it never happened again.
“What did you say, Comrade General?”
Yovanovich stood his ground. “I’ll not issue such a contemptible order. I won’t needlessly send men to their deaths in the Rhine’s foreboding waters.”
Cheninko could scarcely contain himself. “Do you understand what you’ve done?”
“I understand quite well, Comrade Premier. Even so, I’ll never give our soldiers such a vile command. I’ll not further blacken my soul.”
“Then you leave me no choice. Colonel Zulin, go out into the hallway and get my bodyguards. Tell them they’re to arrest General Yovanovich and prepare the courtyard for immediate use. Once you finish, you are to communicate my directive for our forward units to begin crossing the Rhine at once. Tell them to send those who are dying first.”
“Yes, Comrade Premier.”
Zulin turned and headed out the doorway. It closed behind him.
Ten . . . fifteen . . . twenty interminable seconds passed. The powerful Yovanovich could have reached across the desk and easily snapped Cheninko’s feckless neck if he’d so wanted. But that wasn’t part of the plan.
The door reopened. Colonel Zulin entered with his pistol drawn. Behind him were six soldiers, each with weapons at the ready.
Zulin stopped in the middle of the room. The armed men spread out behind him.
“The men of the firing squad are present, Comrade Premier. I’ll conduct the execution personally.”
Cheninko looked at the soldiers. “Where are my guards?” He instantly recognized the Director of Operations symbol on the soldiers’ uniforms.
“These men have volunteered to carry out the sentence,” Zulin said.
A smile came to Cheninko’s face. “I thought your men loved you, Yovanovich. But obviously I was mistaken. Here they are, standing with their weapons at the ready, eager to participate in your demise.”
“Oh, they’re not here for me, Comrade Premier,” Yovanovich said after pausing for effect.
This time it was the general who smiled.
It took little more than a fleeting breath for Cheninko to recognize the implications of the fateful pronouncement. The shock on his face was sudden and complete.
“Take him to the courtyard,” Zulin said, the loathing in his words quite evident.
He motioned for his men to seize Cheninko. A pair of soldiers hurriedly crossed the room. Strong hands grasped the ruthless dictator and began dragging his struggling form toward the doorway. Another pair moved to take up positions in front of them. The final two settled in behind.
Cheninko, his resistance against those who held him futile, started yelling at the top of his lungs. “Guards! Guards! Stop them. Kill them all.”
Yet no one appeared to defend the country’s maniacal tyrant.
“Get him ready,” Zulin said. “I’ll meet you in the courtyard shortly.”
The six nodded their understanding.
When they reached the hallway, Cheninko expected to find his bodyguards preparing to counterattack those attempting such a heinous crime. But the guard positions had been abandoned. No one appeared in the empty corridor to challenge Yovanovich’s men as they dragged their stunned captive toward the courtyard.
The instant Cheninko left the office, the new Russian leader was born. Valexi Yovanovich settled in behind the Premier’s desk. He looked up at Colonel Zulin. “Be quick about it before the Kremlin guards have a change of heart. Once you’re finished, you need to return immediately. Issue the order for all of our forces to conduct a unilateral cease-fire. They’re only to return fire if fired upon. After that, I want you to prepare a communiqué under my signature for the American President. Inform him that Comrade Cheninko’s dead, and I’ve taken charge of the Russian military and the Russian people. Let him know that if he accepts our terms, the killing is at an end.”
“Yes, Comrade Premier,” Zulin said. “What is it we wish from the Americans?”
“Our conditions are simple. Join us in the cease-fire at once. Allow us to withdraw without interference and promise not to cross the fences when they reach the eastern edge of Germany. If t
hey’re willing to comply with what we ask, this war is over.”
“It will be done, Comrade Premier.”
“Then take care of our unfinished business in the courtyard, and let’s put a stop to this. When they’re through with Cheninko, I want our men to scrub the wall clean. There are to be no reminders of the perversions that occurred there during the past six years.”
Colonel Zulin came to attention, saluted, and hurriedly left the Premier’s office.
Unlike Cheninko before him, Yovanovich took no pleasure in ending a life. Even if it was a life as corrupt as this one. He wouldn’t demean himself by standing at the window. Instead, he immediately focused his attention on the myriad problems his country now faced.
Minutes later, the sound of automatic gunfire echoed in the yard below. Yovanovich scarcely paused as the ringing sound sang out.
This would be the last execution the courtyard would ever see.
• • •
For over three decades, Valexi Yovanovich would rule his nation. He would make plenty of mistakes along the way. Yet compared to those who’d led Russia before him, his reign would be one filled with enlightenment and hope for his people. He’d seen the corruption of absolute power, and he wouldn’t allow its sweet allure to entice him.
Far in the future, he would die a quiet death while sleeping in his bed.
His Deputy Premier, Antonin Zulin, having learned much from the man he followed, would continue to bring peace and prosperity to his country for many years after Yovanovich’s passing.
CHAPTER 65
February 9—9:14 a.m.
3rd Platoon, Delta Troop, 1st Battalion, 12th Cavalry Regiment, 3rd Brigade Combat Team (Greywolf), 1st Cavalry Division
The Rhine River
As agreed, the Americans allowed seven days for the invaders to leave Germany.
The entire 1st Cavalry and most of the arriving 4th Infantry waited on the western side of the Rhine for the cease-fire to end. Even with the truce, the Americans had no idea if they could trust the new Russian Premier to keep his word. With a million of his soldiers inside Germany at the war’s end, the Americans had continued with their frenetic pace to bring both divisions to the battlefield.