“This is Zulu Three, over.”
“Send one of your vehicles to investigate Zulu Two Five’s position and report their status immediately, over.”
“This is Zulu Two actual. We’re trying to raise radio contact with Zulu Two Five, but suspect communications gear issues or possible atmospheric interference, over.”
Odenko swiped the handset from the young lieutenant and responded. “This is Alpha Zulu actual. You need to quit suspecting every reason under the sun for their failure to follow orders and get someone over there to confirm what happened. I want a report within ten minutes, out.”
He heard the communications net key a few times, as the lieutenant on the other end of the line debated whether to respond. He’d closed the loop on any response by ending his transmission with “out,” which he hoped ended the conversation.
“If he says one word, I’ll call an airstrike down on his position,” Odenko said.
“Do we have air assets on station, sir?” the lieutenant asked.
His battalion master sergeant snickered from the front passenger seat as Odenko stared at the lieutenant in disbelief. “Did any air assets check in with you tonight?”
“Negative. There are no air assets. I answered my own question,” the officer said, clearly intimidated by his plum assignment to the battalion command vehicle.
“Next time answer it before you ask it!” Odenko said, noting that the master sergeant had not stopped his muffled laugh.
“Don’t laugh, Master Sergeant. It only makes me more irritable,” Odenko said.
Given the level of dysfunction he had witnessed so far, he’d have to schedule more night training for the battalion. The battalion barely received enough fuel to conduct basic daytime maneuvers, but he didn’t care if they just sat in a field and counted the stars. Mobilizing the battalion out of a deep sleep had been a painful experience he did not care to repeat. He could foresee many emergency recall drills in the upcoming months. Twelve minutes later, the radio came to life.
“Alpha Zulu, this is Zulu Two actual. Zulu Two Four reports that Two Five is not at the checkpoint, over.”
“What do you mean they are not at the checkpoint?” Odenko said, well past using proper radio protocol.
“They’re missing, sir.”
“Well, you need to find them!”
“This is Zulu Two. I’ll shift vehicles and start a search of the area, over.”
“I’m coming myself. We’re less than fifteen kilometers away. Out,” Odenko said.
This was a regular clusterfuck. He didn’t know who had screwed up at this point. Was Zulu Two Four looking in the wrong place? Or was Zulu Two Five sitting in the wrong spot, oblivious to their error…and apparently the radio? He’d soon find out.
“Kamarov, let the other vehicle know that we’re headed to Two Five’s checkpoint location,” Odenko said.
Eight minutes later, Odenko spotted a lone vehicle on the road through his night vision goggles, crushing any hopes of finding Zulu Two Five along the road. According to his handheld GPS, they were less than a kilometer from the assigned checkpoint location, so the lone vehicle had to be Zulu Two Four. Now he started to worry. He couldn’t think of any reason why they would be off the highway. He lowered himself into the hatch, out of the 65 mile per hour wind buffeting him.
“Can you confirm that’s Two Four up ahead?”
“Wait one, sir!” the lieutenant replied.
Odenko climbed back up and gripped the Pecheneg machine gun for stability against the gale-force wind created by the Tiger’s speed along the highway. A few seconds after that, Odenko saw the vehicle’s headlights flash twice.
“It’s Two Four, sir. They just flashed their lights!” the lieutenant said through the hatch.
“Got it!” he replied.
Not good. Two of his Tigers, carrying eight of his men, had vanished into thin air, either leaving their checkpoint without authorization or never arriving. He started to climb down into the vehicle to talk with the Tiger on the road, when his night vision goggles flashed bright white, effectively blinding him. He immediately raised the goggles attached to his helmet and tried to pierce the darkness with his degraded sight. The deep sound of an explosion reached him seconds later, just as his vision had cleared enough for him to determine that a fireball had erupted behind a line of trees to the east of the highway. He pulled back on the Pecheneg’s charging handle and swiveled the mount in the direction of the dissipating flame. He felt someone climbing through the hatch and looked back to see Private Second Class Marakev squeezing through.
“I got this, sir!” the private said.
Odenko grabbed his shoulder. “Scan three hundred and sixty degrees. We have no idea what we’re dealing with!” He struggled to yell over the wind.
Private Marakev lowered his night vision and squeezed by to take charge of the machine gun, relieving Odenko of his duty to protect the command vehicle from immediate threat. Odenko dropped into the rear compartment of the Tiger and took the handset from his lieutenant.
“Two Four, this is Alpha Zulu actual. What is your status? Over.”
“This is Two Four. I sent two men on foot to investigate Tiger tracks heading toward the river. They had just reported finding one of the Tigers when the explosion occurred. I’ve lost contact!” the sergeant said frantically.
“Sergeant, take a deep breath, and get a hold of yourself. My unit will investigate the explosion and bring back your men. Stay alert and watch the road. This could be a diversion of some sort. Out.”
“Master Sergeant, get us over to the explosion. Lieutenant, I need you topside with your rifle.”
He popped back through the hatch just as their Tiger started to slow to make the turn at the checkpoint. Through the pitch-dark night, he could make out the shapes of both soldiers on top of Two Four’s Tiger. His driver gingerly dropped them onto the shoulder and pointed the Tiger in the direction of the treeline. Odenko lowered his night vision goggles and immediately saw the bright green glow of a burning vehicle through the trees. The Tiger moved forward slowly.
“Watch your targets. We have two friendlies in the immediate vicinity of the explosion,” Odenko said.
“Yes, sir,” the private replied, scanning the darkness with the machine gun.
Odenko lowered himself into the vehicle just as the lieutenant arrived at the hatch, tightly gripping an AK-74.
“You cover any direction Marakev isn’t watching,” he said, adjusting the young officer’s night vision goggles and patting him on the shoulder.
He had no idea what they were headed into behind the rapidly approaching tree line, but as a reconnaissance battalion, scouting the unknown was their primary mission, and he was excited to finally do what he had trained a lifetime to do. He just hadn’t expected his vehicle to lead the way on the battalion’s first combat reconnaissance mission since he’d taken command two years earlier. If he’d known this ahead of time, he would have put a few more experienced soldiers on the guns of his Tiger.
Chapter 60
2:55 AM
82 miles from Kazakhstan border
Russian Federation
Farrington stared intensely through the night vision goggles at the featureless green road ahead of them. The chilly night air blasted his face through the missing windshield, pelting his cheeks and neck with stinging pebbles. A small price to pay for a better off road vehicle and armor that could stop most small arms fire. He strained to see as far ahead as possible and make what little sense he could of the deeply rutted dirt road.
Travelling at thirty-five miles per hour along this confusing jumble of jeep trails for the past twenty minutes had put them into the trees twice, costing them precious time. He desperately wanted to avoid any more involuntary off-road trips, but he had no intention of slowing down any further. He needed to close the distance to the border while they were alone on the roads. Once they started to attract company, travel would become perilous and require more caution, which was why they had detou
red slightly from his original plan twenty minutes earlier and found themselves on these miserable trails.
They had just completed a shortcut through a small hamlet of dirt roads and corrugated tin huts called Verkh Payva, in an attempt to link up with a road that could support another high-speed run. They hadn’t seen a single light in the village as they sped through at seventy miles per hour. Every small settlement they’d encountered west of Highway 380 had been the same—eerily quiet and dark, just the way he liked it.
His original plan had been to travel north of the town and continue on what had turned out to be a reliable jeep trail, but he had become hopelessly addicted to travelling at seventy miles per hour. They’d already made up the time lost at the checkpoint and gained a few minutes on their exfiltration deadline. The road they sought through the thick trees and washed-out trails ran for fifty miles to the town of Znamenka, on the northern tip of Lake Kulunda. If he could hit sixty miles per hour on the road ahead, he could gain more time. Based on Sanderson’s last report, elements of the 21st Motor Rifle Division had started to set up roadblock positions in the towns closest to the border. Znamenka was thirty miles from the border, so he didn’t anticipate anything more than local law enforcement.
The Tiger’s chassis crunched and shook as they hit a sizable washout along the road, seriously testing the vehicle’s supposedly undefeatable suspension system. He wasn’t sure how many times they could plow over a downed tree or crash through a washout at forty-five miles per hour before they threw an axle or bent a pin, disabling the vehicle permanently.
“You can slow down if you see stuff like that,” Farrington said, “no point in walking the rest of the way.”
“I was hoping you’d say that. I’m not sure how much more this thing can take,” Misha said from behind the wheel.
Farrington’s satellite phone rang, and he plugged it into his communications rig.
“What are we looking at?” Farrington answered.
“I noticed you took a little detour,” Sanderson said.
“I’m going to make up some time on the road between Verkh Sayva and Znamenka,” Farrington said.
“Just be careful. The 121st Recon battalion started moving west a few minutes ago, which means they found the ambushed Tiger. You bought some extra time with the booby traps, but they know you’re headed west. High-profile roads might not be the best idea. The 21st Motor Rifle Division will respond accordingly and likely expand east from the border area. We can’t track all of these units.”
“I understand. Has the 21st shown any movement?”
“Negative, but it won’t be long, and you have a Border Guard barracks in the area. They know the area better than you do. If there’s a quick way to get to that road you’re taking, they’ll show the 21st the way. We’ll keep a close eye on Znamenka.”
“That’s all we can do. Two hours and this is over,” Farrington said.
“And there’s no wiggle room. Berg is worried that the White House might yank the helos early if things get too hot. We still have a few cards to play, but I don’t have a trump card this time,” Sanderson said.
“Understood. Is Black Rain still online?”
“Affirmative. ETA 0425 over Lake Kulunda. We’ll track your progress and adjust accordingly. It looks like you’ll be past the lake by 0425, so we might head it straight to your position. That should shave a few minutes off the ETA.”
“I think that’s the best plan. I’d send it to Slavgorod,” Farrington said.
“You’re not punching through Slavgorod.”
“I’m not planning on that, but I estimate that we’ll be somewhere northwest of Slavgorod at that point. At least I hope so. If not, we’re fucked.”
Slavgorod was fifteen miles from the border, but not directly connected to Kazakhstan by a major road. Hundreds of jeep trails and unmarked dirt roads snaked west into the fields and rolling hills, crisscrossing and emptying directly into Kazakhstan. They anticipated a sizable military presence in Slavgorod, so the plan was to run well north of the city through the myriad trails winding through trees, streams and mild gradients. Once they reached a point less than a mile from the border, they would turn due west and take the Tiger on a true off-road journey, relying on Berg and Sanderson to avoid any final patrols. If they hadn’t swung past Slavgorod by 4:25, they were unlikely to reach the border in time for pickup, especially travelling north of the city.
“All right. I’ll reroute Black Rain to Slavgorod. How is Sasha holding up?” Sanderson said.
“He’s holding up better in the Tiger. We have him lying down, strapped to one of the troop benches. His vitals are stable, but we have him fully drugged up on morphine. The road would have killed him,” Farrington said.
“And Seva?”
“Severe concussion from what we can tell. His vision seems fine, and he’s one hundred percent mission-capable, but he’s started to vomit frequently. I’ll be glad to get these two on a bird heading home.”
“I want all of you on a bird heading home. Be careful on that road,” Sanderson said, ending the call.
“I think this is our road,” Misha said, slowing the Tiger down to a crawl.
Farrington grabbed the RPDA and activated the screen, scrolling to a tighter view of the digital map. Examining the map for several seconds, he agreed. “I concur. Viktor’s people ran this road at sixty miles per hour during the day, so what do you say we try fifty?”
“That’s all?” Misha said.
“Feel free to push it if you can keep us on the road,” Farrington said, feeling the Tiger accelerate onto the wide dirt road.
“You up for sixty, Seva?” Misha asked.
“I might get some splash back from my own puke at sixty. Ten would be nice,” Seva said, eliciting a laugh from the team.
“Might get some splash back? I’m already getting a taste up here. Maybe you could aim lower?” Gosha said from the gun turret.
“I’ll send the next batch right up your way. Sixty it is,” Seva said.
“Fucking great,” Gosha said.
Once the Tiger stabilized on the road, Misha rocketed them forward at a speed that brought a smile to Farrington. He leaned over to examine the speedometer. Sixty-three miles per hour. At this speed, they’d cruise through Znamenka before any of the 21st’s vehicles could mobilize.
Chapter 61
4:01 AM
Outskirts of Znamenka
Russian Federation
Farrington didn’t have time to further articulate his decision to run the blockade. Their Tiger was rapidly approaching the maximum effective range of the weapons likely to be mounted on the vehicles at Znamenka, and he didn’t have much time to coordinate a strategy before 30mm grenades started raining down on them.
“We’re running it. I’ll call you once were through, out,” he said, jamming the satellite radio into the center console.
“Gosha! Anything yet?” he said.
“Nothing. I don’t see shit!”
Sanderson reported the sudden appearance of three vehicles on the edge of Znamenka. Two Tigers with multiple weapons mounts and one Ural 4320, heavy off-road trucks capable of transporting an infantry platoon. All of this was supposedly in the open, but nobody in his Tiger had been able to spot the blockade force through their night vision goggles. Still more than two kilometers away, the unmagnified NVGs couldn’t provide a crisp enough image to pick them out of the background. He also wondered if the rolling hills didn’t play a major role. If the vehicles were situated in a small depression outside of town, they might not see them until the last second. He wanted to believe that the Russians would have the same problem, but he knew better.
“Seva, take over for Gosha on the gun. Gosha, try to pick them up on your thermal scope,” Farrington said.
“Got it,” Gosha replied.
The maximum effective range for an AGS-30 automatic grenade launcher was 1700 meters, but he didn’t expect the Russians to engage his Tiger that far out. The 30mm grenades fi
red by the system travelled at 183 meters per second and would take an eternity to arc down onto target at that range, rendering impossible the task of adjusting fire on a fast-moving target. The automatic grenade launcher was designed to engage static or slow-moving targets with overwhelming firepower, so he anticipated a strategy better suited to the weapon starting at 1000 meters.
Tactically, the best way to stop an approaching vehicle with an area weapon like the AGS-30 was to create a wall of fragmentation and high-explosive detonations at a fixed point in front of the vehicle and let it sail through. He planned to exploit this tactic to get their lone vehicle past the initial grenade threat unscathed. After that, it would come down to speed and firepower, as it always did in open combat.
“Slow it down to fifty miles per hour, Misha,” Farrington said.
The Tiger immediately decelerated, launching him forward against his seat belt.
“Shouldn’t we be speeding up?” Misha said.
“Not yet. I just had an idea. Be ready to floor it.”
***
Gosha sat on the back lip of the hatch and peered through the thermal scope at the bouncing purple image. He was thankful they had slowed down because the jolting and bumping at seventy miles per hour would have made this task impossible. He had changed the digital scope’s settings from black-and-white to color, in order give him the best chance of picking up warm engine blocks, hot exhaust pipes and personnel in the open. Thermal returns would appear in the orange to yellow range, with yellow signifying the hottest sources. He expected to see the Ural’s exhaust pipe first, since it was located high above the cabin, followed by the gunners manning the weapons on the Tigers. His scope showed nothing but a sea of purple.
“Negative on the thermal scope. They must be masked by a hill,” Gosha said.
Seva sat on the right side of the open hatch, trying to remain clear of Gosha’s view. He swayed on the edge, which made Gosha nervous. Seva had vomited at least five times in the past hour, yielding little more than the water he was trying desperately to force down to stay hydrated. He lowered the scope for a moment to grab Seva’s vest and pull him closer.
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