by FARMAN, ANDY
By chance Pat Reed had been looking in the direction the aircraft had appeared from and he had seen the large weapons carried either side of the aircrafts centre points. The aircraft, which he had identified as Mig-31 Fulcrums, were at less than a thousand feet and punching out flares and chaff. Two Stingers chased the burning magnesium instead of the Soviet machines, which released the weapons one at a time, a small drogue parachute deploying from the base of each almost immediately.
The Guards Lieutenant Colonel hadn’t been able to understand why they were dropping so far away from his defensive positions, and then noticed the first weapon to be released had disappeared from view in a rapidly expanding cloud of vapour that seemed to originate from within itself.
The vapour ignited.
The ground shook as though a giant had run a half dozen paces, the thunder of the detonations burst the eardrums of two men in the most forward positions, and the flash of the explosions left spots before the eyes.
Pat felt as though he’d run into a wall as over-pressure sent him tumbling into the craters mire-like bottom but immediately afterwards he was gasping for air like a landed fish. Dirt and light debris were sucked from the ground, drawn toward the growing, roiling balls of flame, following in the wake of the oxygen that they were feeding on.
Bill was the first to recover enough to crawl up the crumbling sides of the shell crater; the last of the fireballs was disappearing skywards, leaving behind smoke and confusion. Stef had landed in the churned mud at the side of the track, but he had regained his wits enough to give his mate a thumbs up that he was okay. Relieved, Bill looked towards the fields over which the fuel/air weapons had detonated; large burnt areas marked the spots below where the weapons had gone off.
A myriad of fires were burning in the fields, two hedgerows were aflame, and a grey haze of smoke polluted the air. In the middle distance more flames and smoke arose, though these were from one of the Fulcrums, brought down by a Starstreak before it could egress the area.
The weapons dropped by the Fulcrums had been far smaller than those used by NATO on the besieged towns, but their power had been frightening all the same. With all the dust and smoke in the air it took a moment for him to notice the damage that had been caused by the weapons incredible pressure waves.
“Sir, I think you had better look at this.”
Pat Reed took a moment to respond, he was indulging in the resumption of an old habit, that of breathing.
Forcing his aching body into motion the half soaked officer disengaged himself from the almost freezing water and mud, dropping down beside the sniper and letting his eyes follow where Bill was pointing. At first he thought his attention was being called to the approaching enemy assault, but then his gaze fell closer to home.
“Ah.” The CO took in the numerous small craters amidst the larger ones caused by the earlier questing artillery, using a single syllable to acknowledge recognition, and two to express a full understanding of the consequences.
“Bugger.”
Rolling over he looked for the Defence Platoon sergeant and found him at the bottom of the crater, liberally daubed in mud from the same puddle that he himself had been deposited in “Sarn’t Higgins.”
“Sir?”
“Inform Zero that there are significant breaches in the minefields.”
With the dawn that morning had come sniper fire but little else to concern Colonel Lužar or the men of the 43rd Motor Rifle Regiment. The sound of distant gunfire to the west had begun several hours before, reminding them that the war had passed them by for now, but then again no one was in any particular hurry to catch up with it. Only the youngest of the newly arrived recruits wanted to be in the thick of it, the remainder, especially the veterans, were content to remain at an ever increasing distance from the fighting.
In the late afternoon Lužar had been dozing, sitting at the commander’s position whilst his gunner kept watch. He was woken by his gunner informing him that one of the infantry platoon commanders on the extreme left had reported hearing faint sounds of automatic fire from the southwest and possibly explosions, the sounds had stopped as quickly as they had begun and so the colonel instructed that the message be passed on up to division, where it was received without enthusiasm. The colonel returned to his slumbers only to awoken again a half hour later by Division ordering him to detach one infantry company to the divisional reserve for ‘security duties’. Colonel Lužar was working out which company could be despatched and cause the least upheaval to the rest of the regiment as it filled in the gap, but division called again and requested a further company in addition to the first. It seemed to the colonel that he was the subject of a Candid Camera program when having decided on which companies would go, division changed their demand to that of a battalion. With a sigh he screwed up the notes he had made for the reshuffle of the rest of the regiments positions, and ordered his first battalion to prepare to move. His regiment had only three companies of tanks and only two of those were made up of main battle tanks. First battalions tank company were his PT-76 tanks, thinly armoured, under-gunned and getting long in the tooth, but he needed his heavier armour to deal with any counter attacks. He couldn’t think that anything else would be needed by the division to guard its roads and bridges, or at least that is what he thought until he had a query about fuel re-supply from the CO of his Third Battalion. None of his regiment had been visited by a fuel truck to top off their tanks since before the river crossing, and even on idle the engines consumed diesel greedily.
He suddenly had a bad feeling that the no show by the fuel trucks and the requests for him to detach troops were linked somehow.
In just under an hour following the first order to detach troops his First Battalion moved out. A minimal screen from Second Battalion had occupied key points in First’s positions, and an hour later the regiment’s shift of positions was complete. Lužar informed division and requested an ETA on refuelling, but the reply was so lacking in real information as to be worthy of a politician.
Following the airstrike’s the last remaining elements of 23rd Czech MRR had enjoyed a few kilometres of relatively trouble free motoring. Gator mines had halted a further five of their number but the aircraft had not returned and NATO artillery had left them alone, choosing to fire counter battery missions.
The ranks of armour were doing it differently this time; advancing in half companies whilst the remainder of that particular rank were in whatever cover was available, and ready to provide gunfire support.
2 Troop had the senior troop commander and he had been liaising with 3 Troop plus the surviving Apache and Lynx helicopters, dividing up the visible targets. When the leading enemy rank came within 3000m he depressed his radios send switch.
“Fire!”
The tank lurched as it sent a sabot round downrange and the extractors hummed, clearing the fumes of spent propellant that emitted from the breach as it reopen to accepted a fresh round and bag charges.
2 Troops commander had his eyes pressed against the rubber eyepiece of the commanders sight and when the gun smoke cleared from outside of his Chieftain he was gratified to see six clear victims, four tanks blowing themselves apart with the force of internal explosions, and two other tanks, a T-80 and a T-90 were stopped in their tracks with crewmen bailing out. The tank rounds had a far greater velocity than the helicopters TOW and Hellfire II missiles, so as he watched the glow of a missiles motor cut across his line of sight to strike a T-72, which vanished from view in the smoke and flame that accompanies a catastrophic kill.
By agreement they were only targeting the tanks, the enemy infantry fighting vehicles could be left for the time being, and it was only these lighter armoured vehicles of this half company that remained to go to ground and cover their comrades.
The second half company began leaving cover and many of its vehicles activated their smoke dischargers in an effort to remain hidden from the defenders.
2 Troops commander watched his own target disappe
ar from view behind a smoke screen generated by white phosphorus. His eyes remained pressed to the sight as he switched to the thermal imaging facility and the T-72 reappeared in his sights, it’s hot and warm surfaces picking out the main battle tanks shape.
The Chieftain lurched once more but he did not have to wait for the smoke outside to clear this time, the thermal sight showed the shape of the T-72s turret replaced by a bright shapeless flare of light. He looked for another target and indicated it to his gunner, so caught up in the excitement of the action was the young lieutenant that it took a call on the intercom from his driver to remind him it was time to relocate to another firing position. The intended target received a stay of execution as the Chieftain reversed out of its firing position and headed for the next.
This position was in sight of another firing position for armour, one that a 3 Troop Challenger was just entering. The 2 Troop Chieftain was moved into place with practiced ease by its driver and immediately acquired another target, but before they opened fire the Chieftains turret was struck by something on the left rear, where no enemy was supposed to be.
The troop commander looked through the viewing blocks and saw debris still falling to the earth but it did not originate from them. Smoke shrouded their neighbour; the Challenger was missing two drive wheels and the track on the right side was hanging off, so whatever had struck his Chieftain had been in all probability an integral part of the 3 Troop vehicle. As he watched he could see the turret moving, the main gun following the movements of a target so the crew were apparently fine. The Challenger fired and then a second later it simply blew up.
“Shit…”
“Are we hit sir?” The gunner had removed his eyes from the sight to make the enquiry.
He ignored the question for a second, puzzling over what had destroyed the Challenger and reasoning that as the enemy tanks were not yet in range then a missile had to have been responsible, but their current opposition were thought to have nothing more advanced than the AT-3 Sagger and AT-4 Spiggot, both of which had a range of only 2000m.
“Look for missile launches.” He told his gunner. “Either on the ground or from a helicop…”
“Got it!” Cut off by his gunner he awaited the target indication, it followed a few heartbeats later once the laser rangefinder had locked down the distance to target.
“Target BMP-3, three thousand five hundred metres, extreme right hand burning tank…”
The troop commander saw the tank but not the BMP, so further indication must follow.
“Seen.”
“Go One o’clock from burning tank, a small clump of trees…”
He increased the magnification on the sight, seeing only natural foliage at first but then he saw it close to the left hand edge, hull down and half in shadow so how his gunner had seen it simply amazed him. He stopped the gunners target I.D with a simple.
“Identified!”
A sabot already sat inside the 120mm main gun and he ordered a reload with HESH because the heavy tungsten steel round didn’t have the range of the shaped charge round.
As he watched, the BMP launched a further AT-15 beam-riding missile at another NATO vehicle that its infrared laser was illuminating.
“Firing!” Again the jolt as the main gun fired.
The BMPs gunner had not had the benefit of any live firing practice and it had taken two of the precious missiles to destroy the first Challenger, he was now determinedly keeping the cross hairs on a second Challenger but the arrival of the HESH round ruined his aim.
“Shit…ineffective hit, reload HESH!” something had carried the round just slightly off target to strike the top of the BMP a glancing blow and ricochet off.
The AT-15 that was in flight continued to follow the guidance of the infrared beam, flying into the hillside where the cross hairs had ended up when the gunner flinched.
Angered at having missed, the BMPs commander did not do the sensible thing in bugging out, but looked instead for their attacker. The gun smoke was still apparent and the muzzle of the older Chieftain was a black hole that in his magnified sight seemed to be pointing right between his eyes, tendrils of smoke still leaching from it in the breeze.
It was a race and the Czech vehicle still had two missiles sat on turret-mounted rails before they had to reload.
“Hesh loaded!”
“Firing…!” The recoil threw the big guns breach back into the interior where it opened to accept another round.
2 Troops commander blinked to clear sweat that had run down his forehead and into his eyes, when they refocused he saw the Czech had already launched, the missiles exhaust fogged the sight picture.
“Driver, reverse!”
The Czech BMP commander cursed as he saw the British tank start to move backwards, but then the missile struck and the tank juddered to a halt. The Czech officer punched the air.
It was the last conscious act he ever made.
Through his binoculars 23rd MRRs commander saw the BMP being struck by the British tanks round and disintegrate in one catastrophic explosion. That particular BMP-3 had been with a Russian unit originally but had been knocked out during one of the abortive attempts to force a crossing of the Elbe. A sabot had gone through the front armour decapitating the driver and passing below the turret, where having then taken off the commander’s legs it had travelled down the length of the troop compartment and exited by punching a hole in the rear troop door. A small electrical fire had been started in the driver’s instrument panel through which it had passed; filling the vehicle with acrid smoke and the survivors had abandoned the vehicle fearing an explosion was imminent. The fire had petered out and for whatever reason the Russians had not recovered it, but a Czech armoured recovery vehicle had, towing it back to their own mobile repair shop where it had been patched up. The BMP-3s AT-15 Khrizantema missile system had been far in advance of anything on the Czech inventory, so the vehicles identifying numbers had been changed on the off chance someone may recognise it and ask for it back.
No more of the advanced and long range beam riding missile systems remained on 23rd MRRs strength, but the regimental commander allowed that in this attack they had at least trimmed the defending tanks numbers, something his recent predecessor had failed to do.
The British tanks had been concentrating on his own MBTs as they were the greater threat, but that had allowed the APCs and Infantry Fighting Vehicles to close to a range where they could use their wire guided anti-tank weapons to support the outclassed tanks. AT-3 Sagger and AT-4 Spiggot’s were leaving their launch rails and forcing the defenders to change firing positions after each shot, this in turn was allowing the tanks to close to a point where the covering half companies had a sporting chance at actually hitting something. Greater artillery and close air support would not have gone amiss but both had become haphazard and he was getting the run around when he asked why.
Chobham armour had not been used in the protection of the Chieftain family of main battle tanks, and the AT-15 carried not just one shaped charge warhead, but two set in tandem. It was designed to defeat armour 1000mm thick even if plates of ERA, explosive reactive armour for deflecting the blast, covered the steel. The missile had struck the 56-ton vehicle in the last moment before the troop commanders Chieftain could have reversed from view. The impact and detonation lifted both gunner and commander from their seats, and only the loaders helmet saved him from a fractured skull when he was slammed upwards into the roof of the turret. A wave of stifling heat accompanied the darkness as all electrical power failed and thick smoke poured through a rent in the bulkhead between the drivers and main crew’s compartments. The troop commander couldn’t breathe in the choking atmosphere and it was terrifying how quickly hot gasses had replaced the oxygen.
He fought against panic as he used touch to find the hatch, groping his way upwards and forcing his jaws to remain closed unless his mouth fill with soot as his nose already had. He threw open his hatch and crawled out into the open, his exposed
skin turned dark grey by just that short exposure to the smoke. That same smoke was pouring from the open hatch as if it was chimney, but allowing himself just one deep breath he leant back inside, reaching around until his hand found his gunner and locked onto a bicep, assisting him upwards. As he helped him out of the commander’s hatch, the loaders hatch opened and the trooper who had fulfilled that function rolled from it and slid off the turret. The first sign of an interior fire announced itself as glowing embers within the smoke plumes issuing from both hatches. The driver’s hatch had been blown out of its mountings by the missile and flames were already leaping from the opening. There was no chance at all that the driver could still be alive and so the survivors scrambled clear before the fire found the stacked bag charges in the storage bins.
Major Venables sat atop the turret of the damaged Challenger IIE, the radio jack plugged into his helmet so he could listen in on the battle. News of the loss of two of his tanks and five of his men were borne without a visible flicker, but a heavy hand had laid itself on his heart. War fighting was not war gaming, the dead were just dead and there had been little that was glorious in the manner of their passing, but they were his men and they had stood their ground when lesser men would have run, they deserved a better outcome.
A REME fitter with an acetylene torch and another with a pry bar were close to freeing the turret but once that was achieved they still had to take on a full load of ammunition before returning to the fray.
They weren’t the only heavy armour unit using this workshop; Mark could see two other MBTs being worked on beneath camouflage netting. One was a Mk 10 Chieftain from the mothball facility, and the other was a Challenger but it too was a battlefield replacement. It lacked the boxy armoured barbette housing for the thermal imaging unit above the main gun, and the turret was lopsided, higher on the commander’s side than the loaders which typed it as a Mk 1. Its original owners had been the 17th/21st Lancers; another proud regiment consigned to the history books.