The operations sergeant approached. Stanev turned.
“I will need to go with them, Steglyr. They still have much to learn, and I still need to know more about the Americans if we are to succeed.”
“It is a good way to get yourself killed.”
“I will be careful.”
“At least take off your insignia of rank. You will be less conspicuous, Captain.”
Stanev nodded and slid the chevrons off his epaulets. Steglyr handed him a rifle and pointed to Stanev’s officer’s pistol. Slinging the rifle over his shoulder, Stanev unbuckled the belt and handed it to his NCO. Then he walked off to join Second Company.
Steglyr turned away, thinking that he had lost too many good officers already.
Chapter Thirteen
Crisis Management Center
The White House
Washington, DC
“So it boils down to who we believe,” said the President, “the President of the Russian Federation or a US Special Operations colonel.”
“If that actually is our colonel,” Bretnor said.
“That’s Wolfe,” Cachoris said.
“No doubt about it,” Ambrose added.
“Are we prepared,” Bretnor asked, “to risk an international incident because of what some maverick officer is telling us looks like is happening? The Russians are our allies against Al-Qaeda. You’d think that if they told us one of our commanders has gone over the edge, we’d trust them.”
“I thought you couldn’t stand the Russians,” said Cachoris.
“I can’t,” Bretnor said, “but somebody has to play devil’s advocate.”
Cachoris gave Bretnor a hard look. “The consequences of dispatching relief to Infernesk are politically embarrassing if we are wrong. If we are right, the consequences of not doing so are political suicide—and we write off eighty-plus US lives.”
The President nodded. “Do it.”
“I’ll call the Russians—we’ll need to work out the air space issue,” Bretnor said.
“Don’t. It’s take care of,” said Ambrose. “We’ll tell ‘em we’re using an existing agreement later…when they won’t have a chance to renege.”
“Already done? How’d you manage that?”
“Just thank a man in who is on his way to Utah.”
Warehouse building 16A
Infernesk Munitions Depot
Val stood scowling, hands on her hips.
Entering the heart of the MP detachment’s defense area, she’d come through an unguarded, un-barricaded door to be greeted by snores. Three meters in front of her, two soldiers slouched against a thin wall of lumpy sandbags just below an open, unboarded window. Their rifles were propped upright between them, like umbrellas on a sunny day.
Behind Val RTO runners Scott Hite and Carrie Elmore tried to tell what was going on.
“She thinking?” whispered Hite.
“Nah,” Elmore, replied softly. “She’s counting.”
Val backed up and turned to Elmore. “Do you have some lipstick you don’t care about on you?”
“Yes, Ma’am.”
“May I have it, please?”
Carrie Elmore fished in a pocket and pulled out a gold-tone tube. “Sure, Ma’am, but…?”
She held a finger to her lips for Elmore to be quiet, took the lipstick, and softly padded over to the two sleeping soldiers. A minute later she pulled away, then motioned for her runners to follow her into the next room. As they left, Scott Hite glanced over his shoulder, squinting at the two still-snoozing soldiers to see what Val had done. “You got caught sleeping” was painted on their helmet covers. Hite clapped his hand over his mouth to keep from laughing out loud, then followed Elmore and his commander.
As they went from room to room, Val took mental notes of the status of the MP section’s preparations. In the corner of one room an unoccupied alternate position, while far enough back from the exterior wall to hide a weapon’s muzzle flash, had only one layer of sandbags for protection. A bundle of empty sandbags lay nearby. Access doors had been barricaded, but only one or two flimsy 2x4’s held them shut. Fire buckets—to be filled with loose earth or water to extinguish building fires—stood half-filled or stacked together, empty.
They entered a larger, open bay area, once used for storage or maintenance. Ten feet inside, two rows of strung concertina wire barred their way. Val stopped, scowled even deeper, then hooked the front sight post of her M16 around a strand of the wire and jerked. The flimsy obstacle came tumbling down.
“Get Thunderbolt on the radio,” she ordered Elmore, “and tell him to get over here ASAP. I want him to directly supervise getting this place squared away—before someone else does it for us.”
Building 4
Infernesk Munitions Depot
Stanev carefully studied the closest American-held building for thirty minutes before initiating the attack. This was the last element he had prepared, and his uniform was sweated through. It was also torn in two places where the Americans’ bullets had come entirely too close for comfort as he had dashed between positions.
“Their firing positions are along the base of the objective,” he told the two machine gun teams he’d brought forward. “And there are at least two on the second story. Ignore the windows, they will not be so foolish as to silhouette themselves deliberately, although you may find a target if they grow careless.”
One by one he brought the support and assault element leaders up to show them where to concentrate their fires and where to break into the building. Stanev had each leader—in front of their troops so that all soldiers would know what actions were to be taken—brief back to him the attack plan and sequence of events. He made them lay their hands on the smoke grenades they were to throw, and watched as the soldiers pointed out to their leaders where they were to shoot and where they were to go. Only one reinforced platoon had been able to infiltrate forward, and cramped into the small rooms checking ammunition and equipment was difficult. The remainder of their company, Stanev told the sergeants in charge, would follow once the attack was begun, but to send them across the open area now would be to draw all the Americans’ fire.
Satisfied with their understanding of the plan and their preparations, he found a staircase, and taking two soldiers with him for security, climbed to the building’s second story. A few moments’ inspection found an abandoned American fighting position that would serve as his observation post. A quick radio transmission to Steglyr, relayed to the companies, and Stanev settled in to watch the troops’ attack and the Americans’ reaction. He did not have to wait long.
~*~
“This is Watchdog Two-Four. Activity in Building 6. It looks like they’re knocking holes in the wall or something.”
In separate buildings, Val and Denight both reached for their radio’s handsets. In mid-motion they both heard the sound of gunfire, all of it incoming.
~*~
The bullet stream bit into the mortar of the building’s outside walls, chewed off jagged hunks, and sent them slicing into the sandbags protecting Mary Parker. She ducked involuntarily, then peered through the dust and flying debris.
“Phillips, get up here, we got bad guys comin’!”
Susan Phillips tossed the last of her rifle’s cleaning equipment back into its green nylon case and hastily shoved the bolt back into her M16. On her hands and knees she crawled up next to Mary and took up a prone firing position. Russian fire played back and forth across the building’s face.
“You think they’ve spotted us?”
“Not yet, they’re hitting all over the whole place.”
“Damn dust. I can’t see shit.”
Through a hole in the dust Mary saw a Russian squad dashing forward. “I can.” She tucked her rifle in tight to her shoulder and squeezed off four rounds. An attacker fell, but the suppressive fire against the building picked up. Bullets came through their firing ports and thumped menacingly against the sandbags. Parker and Phillips fired back on semi-automatic
. More Russians fell, but still more advanced. Another Russian machine gun added to the din. Below them she heard the enemy trying to break into the building, hand grenades detonating, and then alternating staccato bursts of Russian and American automatic fire.
They’re close in, maybe inside, Mary thought, or will be in a minute. Got to back out of here real soon. Through her firing port she saw figures in the dust and smoke. Three quick shots scattered them, but brought a too-accurate spattering of counterfire. A grenade burst short.
“Call the Sergeant Major,” Mary yelled over the firefight’s roar, ejecting an empty magazine and locking a full one into its place. “And tell him the shit’s just hit the fan.”
Infernesk Munitions Depot
“Lightfoot this is Watchdog One-Three. I count six, correction, eight, squads leaving the woods’ edge and heading towards the fence.”
Christine snapped out of her half-sleep and grabbed the radio. A quick call confirmed that her teams, reorganized but several soldiers lighter after evacuating the morning’s casualties, were hustling off to their prearranged positions.
“Team One, Team Two,” Christine transmitted, “it’s showtime. Stand by for a repeat performance.” So confident was Christine that she paused to pull out her canteen and take a drink. Eight squads, Christine thought as she screwed the plastic cap back on and snapped the canteen back into its carrier. An overstrength platoon. No sweat. We busted up a company pretty good this morning.
“One, Two, this is Watchdog One-Three. The squads on your outside flanks are through the fence and spreading out about six bunkers down. Lightfoot, there are three squads in the center. They are through the fence and moving forward.”
Christine jumped up, startled at the report. “Let’s go people,” she barked suddenly at the members of her headquarters section. “Off your asses, let’s move!”
“Where are we going, Ma’am?”
Her mind raced. Where indeed? How did they get through the fence so quickly? Why were their flank squads spreading so far out?
“Lightfoot, Watchdog One-Three. The center Russians look like they’re holding up at the end of the first set of bunkers. The guys on the flanks are sending out four or five people at a time to the outside. They’re leapfrogging.”
Christine keyed the radio. “Team One, can you engage?”
“This is One, negative. They’re still out of range, and if they go much wider they’ll swing around outside us and still be out of range.”
“Lightfoot, Team Two. Same here. Do you want me to engage to hold them back?”
She thought for a moment. “Negative, don’t tip them off that they’re safe where they are. Stand by for orders.”
“Lightfoot, Watchdog One-Three. Enemy squads in the center area are bounding forward. They’ve cleared the second row of bunkers in.”
They’re coming too fast, thought Christine, and coming too wide. Now what do I do?
~*~
The firing coming from other parts of the depot had put military police Pfc. Marti Grubbs and Pvt. Donald Lei of OP Mike Papa—MP, for Military Police—Four on their guard. When the Russian squad rose four hundred meters to their front and began their dash forward toward the outlying buildings of the American-held warehouse, Grubbs and Lei both had their fingers on their rifles’ triggers. The pair tracked the Russians until they crossed the American “trigger line,” an imaginary line on the ground that gave Lei and Grubbs permission to shoot. Of the six attackers, three fell to the soldiers’ gunfire. The others sprinted faster, cutting left and right like pursued wide receivers. Lei fired again, and a Russian soldier tumbled, clutching his leg.
The surviving two Russians were caught in the interlocking, flanking fire from OP MP Five, but the Russian support element, having earlier held its fire, took immediate revenge. In both MP positions, the firing M16s were set back less than six inches from the warehouse’s thin outside wall. The muzzle flashes from the American weapons were plainly visible to the three Russians detailed to do nothing but use binoculars watch for them. One heavy machine gun bore down on Grubbs and Lei, and two guns concentrated their fires against the Americans in MP Five.
~*~
Pressed by five different attacks in five different places, Val could do little more than wait and see how the situation developed. As reports came in she felt the pull to send the Hornets first one way, then another. She was tempted, too, to dispatch a squad here and another one there. Instead, she followed her intuition and held her counterattack force in reserve. She felt the self-doubts of any commander, the maddening specter of being branded indecisive. And her soldiers’ calls for help tugged hard.
“Watchdog Two-Four. Two light whiskies in my element. Pulling back to secondary positions. Watchdog Two-Five, did you monitor? I need you to cover us.”
“Two-Four, Two-Five, hold where you are for three minutes while we get to where we can back you up.”
“This is Two-Four, we need to go now, we got ‘em all over us!”
“Watchdog Three-Three. Under attack by at least one platoon and two light MGs. They’re inside the building downstairs. We’re falling back to the next position.”
“Watchdog One-Three. Lightfoot element engaging at least two platoons advancing along a line roughly from Bunkers 224 to 370. Enemy continues to bound forward.”
~*~
With Claire Horowitz in charge of the Hornets, Staff Sergeant Patricia Choi had moved up to oversee the admin section’s defense of its assigned sector. From her command post on the roof of a long-abandoned maintenance building, Choi felt fairly good about her section’s performance. To her front about thirty Russians were squirming, trying to force their way forward. While the enemy’s supporting weapons raked the buildings around her, that fire didn’t hit home. Choi’s people moved along preplanned, covered routes from position to position. Choi was convinced that with accurate rifle fire coming at them first from the left, then the right, then the center, the Russians must believe that they were stacked up against a full combat platoon, not a dozen clerks.
Every thirty or forty seconds, just to add to the enemy’s worries, Choi would squeeze off a couple of shots herself at particularly obvious targets. The range was long and her shots missed, but the random, sharp crack of her bullets overhead, or the dull thwack as her other rounds chewed up dirt around them, kept Choi’s enemies nervous, confused, and hugging the damp ground.
Her fire was enough to make Stanev decide to back his troops off and press the attack in another sector; two buildings where the American positions seemed the easiest to locate and destroy, buildings that had “Warehouse 16A” and “Warehouse 16B” stenciled on their corrugated metal sides.
~*~
“Lightfoot, Watchdog One-Three. You’ve stopped them on the right, but the center and left wing are bounding forward again.”
Christine Tampier stopped to catch her breath and down a quick swallow from her canteen. Panting from the dash from one side of her sector to the other, she looked over her shoulder at the soldiers of Team Three and other members of her command element. Their faces were as red and their uniforms as sweat-soaked as hers, and in their eyes Christine read the question Do you know what you are doing?
She took a deep breath. “Okay, that’ll hold them over there for a while. Now let’s hit the left side again.”
“Okay, Ma’am, sure,” Pfc. Annie Stiller, her M60 gunner, wheezed, “but this damn thing is getting heavy.” Stiller wrestled with the M60’s shoulder strap in a futile effort to make the weight more comfortable.
“You’re just going to have to keep up. That gun is our firepower.”
“Ma’am, we gotta come up with something better,” Sgt. Willa Cato said between gulps for air. “We’re all running out of steam. We run to the left and shoot them up, run to the right and shoot them up, and every time we have to circle around behind the buildings to stay out of sight. It’s flat kicking my butt, the Russians aren’t working half as hard, and they’re still coming. And w
e’re burning up ammo too fast. At this rate we may slow them down, but we’ll be throwing rocks by the time they get here.”
“Lightfoot, this is One-Three. Right flank element has resumed movement.”
“This is Team Two. We’re engaging, but they’re spread out pretty wide.”
Christine’s dash from one side of her sector to the other had mimicked the actions of her two flank teams, who were scurrying between bunkers, trying to slow the oncoming Russian tide. We’re too weak to defend, thought Christine, we can’t hold this much ground. And we can’t retreat; if we break contact they’ll pursue. We need help. She reached for the radio.
“Lightfoot, this is Leprechaun. Contain enemy in your sector for a minimum of another two-zero minutes; Hornet element is committed on another mission. Leprechaun out.”
“Shit and be damned,” Christine swore loudly. With the sounds of gunfire filling the air, the soldiers of her headquarters element stopped and stared at the ordinarily reserved young officer. In her frustration Christine lashed out at Cato. “If we can’t fucking defend and we can’t fucking retreat,” she snarled as she yanked her canteen from its carrier, drained it, and then angrily shoved it back into the pouch, “then just what the hell do they expect us to do? Attack?”
“Sounds good to me, Ma’am,” said her sweating M60 gunner. “I’d like to lay down the law.”
Christine slowly turned her head to look at the young woman. A wry smile worked its way onto Christine’s face. “That’s exactly what we’ll do.”
“Ma’am?”
Christine took the radio and issued orders. Two acknowledgments later she turned to her soldiers.
“Now listen up. Team Two is going to backpedal, split, and cover both the center and the left. We’re going to double back to where we cached the rest of the ammo and the LAWs, then link up with Team One on the left. When the enemy hits that drainage ditch between bunker rows 17 and 18, we’re going to hit them on the flank. Then, and only then, will I break contact and move us back inside the built-up area.”
The Best Defense Page 22