by Peter Nealen
“We can be ready in ten,” I told him. The rain was starting to come down harder, and it had gotten noticeably darker. “Where’s Jankovic?”
He looked up and searched the chaos of the yard for a moment before pointing toward one of the MRAPs. “He should be at that vehicle. If you need batteries, he has them, as well.”
I nodded, then paused. “Rybàr, this is Chief Warrant Officer Warren. He’s the senior officer for the regular Army soldiers with us.”
Rybàr seemed to get a little cold as he looked Warren over, and the warrant officer seemed to shrink a little. But finally, the burly Slovak stuck out his hand, and after a moment, Warren shook it. “You were at Keystone?” Rybàr asked.
“I was,” Warren replied. His voice cracked a little, but he cleared his throat and drove on. “Which is why I don’t have much gear.”
“We can get you some,” Rybàr said grimly. “We have plenty without owners.” He stared at Warren for a moment, then looked at me. “There is some difference between your organizations,” he said. “I do not know what it is, and for now, I do not care. You Americans came to my country to enforce the rule of a corrupt and morally bankrupt government which sold our people out to Berlin, Paris, and Brussels, backed up by a foreign invasion. But you have paid the price for your trust in the French and Germans. We have had our differences, but as far as I am concerned, we are now brothers, hunted by the same people. Maybe later we can be enemies again, but for now? All that is in the past.”
“I’m…glad to hear that,” Warren replied, a decided note of relief in his voice. “This has been a bit of a shock to us all, I think.”
Rybàr nodded, then turned back to me. “Will any others of your special unit be staying with the convoy?” he asked.
There was a bit of emphasis on “special unit” when he spoke. He was still fishing, trying to figure out the lay of the land. The differences in demeanor, equipment, and display of competence between us and the regular Army soldiers were notable, and he was putting two and two together, slowly. I didn’t know if any stories about the Triarii had made it to Europe. And I wasn’t going to trot the name out until I had to. Why buy trouble? Not that Slovak Nationalists had any interest in internal American squabbles or the fragmentation and atomization that was happening over there. But it had been tamped down among the Americans as a non-issue for the moment, and I didn’t want to pick at that scab. The US Army couldn’t be counted on to be an entirely conservative organization anymore, and Warren’s worries about backlash for working with us were very real. Opening up that can of worms while we were still very much in a survival situation was a bad, bad idea.
“Yes,” I said. “Bradshaw and Draven will keep their sections with the convoy.” Rybàr hadn’t been introduced to Draven yet, but the man was keeping his boys busy and keeping an eye on things while letting Bradshaw and I handle the face-to-face. Draven wasn’t much of a people person. It was part of why he liked mortars; he rarely had to deal with the “hearts and minds” side of modern warfare.
“I would like to meet them, as well,” Rybàr said. I nodded.
“I’ll send them over,” I said. “Right now, I need to go to talk to Jankovic, and we need to get rolling.”
As I turned toward the MRAP, lighting forked across the sky and the floodgates opened, the rain pouring down in icy buckets.
Chapter 22
The storm was a Godsend.
Rain lashed the windshield hard enough that Phil had the wipers going as fast as possible, and it was still hard to see through the water spattering and sluicing across the glass. Aside from the lightning flashes, it was so dark that it looked like it was late evening, rather than midday. Not only was visibility cut way down, but the sheer volume of cold rain was going to severely degrade any thermal imaging, as well.
It worked against us a little, as well, but we were crammed into a blue VW Atlas, rather than the Alligator that I’d initially had my eye on. We wouldn’t stand out, at a distance, anyway, as anything but a family trying to move around the countryside. Meanwhile, the technicals and AMX-10s, Pumas, Jaguars, and other armored vehicles being used by militias and “peacekeepers” were going to be easier to identify, at least at checkpoints. We had the advantage of being able to spot them as a threat sooner than they could determine that we were.
Not that we were much of a threat; five guys crammed into an SUV that really wasn’t designed for five people of our size, even given Phil’s sawed-off-runt status, much less with weapons and rucks. But then, we weren’t supposed to be a threat; that wasn’t our job at that point. Our job was to warn our people away from the actual threats.
The interior clearly hadn’t been designed with a military application in mind; the seats were probably going to rot out, and the carpeted floor was sodden with mud and water.
It smelled like a mix of wet dog and rancid sweat.
None of us were talking much. We were all exhausted, spending what little mental energy we had left on keeping awake and alert.
No one had said anything about the breakout. It seemed to be understood that something had gone wrong, but everyone had survived, so it was shelved. If anything, the rest of the team, minus Scott, who knew the truth, were inclined to blame the locals.
If I was being honest with myself, yes, I should have double-checked. On the other hand, who sets off a daisy-chain of IEDs big enough to flatten a neighborhood without checking that there aren’t friendlies around? And I had been on comms with Scott within earshot of Sýkora.
“Slow your roll,” I told Phil, squinting through the water flowing in torrents down the windshield. It didn’t quite look like a roadblock up ahead, but it did look like there might be…
There. Two boxy armored personnel carriers were sitting on the side of the road, about three quarters of a klick ahead. They were little more than dim, dark silhouettes through the rain, but they were definitely there.
I checked the map as Phil let off the gas and pulled over toward the side of the road. We were running dark, without headlights, and while it had kept our profile low, it had almost resulted in a head-on collision with a tractor a few miles back.
The plan was already going haywire. This was the third such checkpoint or laager site that we’d run across already, forcing us to go kilometers out of our way, though fortunately, we’d found routes higher into the mountains rather than pushing back west, into the open country. We were making progress, but we were definitely being pushed north, finding logging roads through the Carpathians, back trails that hopefully even the heavier vehicles could negotiate, while avoiding the enemy. There was no way we were going to get to Nitra in only seventy-five klicks.
I wasn’t getting bent out of shape about it. I’d seen enough combat to know that that was the way it went. Plans look nice on paper, but rarely play out that way in real life, simply because no one can possibly predict all the potential obstacles. Human error, enemy movements, terrain that has changed or isn’t quite what it looks like on the imagery, weather, mechanical failures…the list of things that could render a plan as written invalid was a long one.
As an old mentor of mine once said, “A plan is just a list of shit that ain’t gonna happen.”
I keyed my radio. We were getting to the point where we were really stretching the small handheld’s considerable power, but our comms were still solid. “Flat, Deacon,” I called.
“Send it, Deacon.” Bradshaw’s voice was faint and laden with static, but I could just make it out.
“Three APCs at,” I rattled off the grid coordinates. “Troops inside or under ponchos tied to the hulls.” They weren’t in a hurry to go anywhere, not in that deluge. “Alternate turnoff at,” and I rattled off another set of coordinates, about half a klick behind us. It hadn’t looked like a great road, but it was a road, and it would be outside these guys’ line of sight.
That was half of being a scout. You might not get a chance to get into the thick of it; you might be sneaking around in a civilian vehicle, trying not
to be noticed and trying really hard not to get into a firefight. It sometimes felt more like running and hiding instead of fighting, but there’s a time and a place for everything, and war isn’t all kicking doors and slaying bodies.
Sometimes, it’s just making sure that your own people don’t walk into a trap.
“Roger,” Bradshaw replied. “I’ll pass it along.”
While the Army’s comms were screwed, and the nationwide cell service had been cut off, the Slovak Nationalists had some very smart people working for them. They’d cobbled together what amounted to cloned cell towers that were mounted on the MRAPs. They didn’t have a lot of coverage, but they allowed the Nationalists to use encrypted text and voice apps on smartphones within a certain radius. It had drawbacks, but they were making it work for sending detailed information without needing to get on the radio for long periods.
Of course, we were out of range, so we couldn’t use it.
Phil had stopped altogether, as another fork of lightning split the sky, followed a few seconds later by an earsplitting crack of thunder. The APCs were gray shapes in the dark and the rain, and nothing moved near them as he hastily backed up until they disappeared into the gray sheets of falling water. Only then did he start to turn around, heading back toward that road we’d spotted. Some of the leading elements of the Nationalist convoy might beat us to it, but Phil had gotten pretty good at maneuvering the Atlas around obstacles. He’d get us back up front quickly.
Then we’d do what we’d been doing for the last couple of hours, ranging ahead and looking for the enemy and alternate routes around the enemy, while the rest of the Nationalists and Killian’s—no, Warren’s, now—unit followed, traveling in ones and twos.
I just hoped that the storm held, at least until dark.
***
It didn’t. Neither did our luck.
The storm died away to scattered showers about mid-afternoon, leaving big breaks in the cloud cover and bathing the countryside in a patchwork of sunlight and shadow. It was pretty, but it wasn’t welcome when it came to trying to get the better part of a battalion-strength element to Nitra undetected.
Especially when one of the MRAPs got bogged down in the fields south of Kovarce.
It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. MRAPs weren’t built for cross-country driving, or even much in the way of unimproved roads. They had been designed for the Main Supply Routes in Iraq, back when convoys on those MSRs were regularly being hit by increasingly large IEDs. On rougher terrain, they fared quite poorly, which had led to their replacement by MATVs long before I enlisted.
We got called back to hold security on the stricken vehicle. About a dozen vehicles were backed up behind it and couldn’t move forward; the big vehicle was blocking the narrow dirt road. Some of the others could move around, but the problem was that there weren’t many alternate routes around that spot. We were shielded by hedgerows from ground observation, but that wasn’t going to last much longer with the weather clearing. The EDC had to know that we’d broken out of Vrbovè, and the hunt was going to be on.
From what I had observed so far, they weren’t going to be eager to come to grips with us, either. They were going to try to spot us and hit us from the air. We had to get moving. I hoped Nitra had some serious air defenses. Rybàr’s people had about six SA-18s left, and that was about it, barring the .50s. And they could be useful against helicopters, but not fast movers at altitude.
We were out of the vehicles, spread out along the hedgerow, watching down the road toward the red roofs of Sùlovice, while trying to scan the sky for drones, helicopters, or, worse, fast movers. Behind us, some of Bradshaw’s men and a few of Killian’s mech infantry soldiers tried to help the Slovaks get the MRAP unstuck. Draven’s section was on security in the hedgerows. Glancing back, I saw clods of mud fly from shovels, while cardboard and plywood got wedged under the wheels.
We still had about twenty klicks to go to get to Nitra. And at the rate this convoy was moving, we might get there by midnight. If we were lucky. I scanned the sky again.
“Feels a bit like being a bug on a plate, don’t it?” Phil muttered.
“A bit,” I agreed. I was striving for British understatement. I felt exposed as all hell.
“You think they’re going to send ground forces, or air?” Greg asked.
“You mean if they spot us?” I asked. “Probably fast movers, like they almost nailed us with up in the mountains.”
“I don’t think they want to get up close and personal, after the mauling they got in Vrbovè,” Jordan said, echoing my own thoughts. “These guys don’t seem very hard core.”
“No, they don’t,” I replied. “Which was about what Intel said, based on recent events and the Kosovo thing. Most of ‘em don’t have the stomach for heavy combat. The EDC countries have been relying heavily on conscription for the last few years. Conscripts don’t usually make badass fighters. And, heavy casualties don’t play well back home, not when you’ve already got riots on the streets on a regular basis.”
“And where they really need some savagery, they send the ‘immigrants,’” Dwight grumbled.
“Meaning the black and brown guys,” Jordan said. I felt myself stiffening a little, hearing the edge in his voice. Of all the times…
“Yeah, most of the time,” Dwight replied bluntly. “Tells you something about them, don’t it? Or were you gonna say it says something about me because I called a spade a spade?”
If there was one guy on the team who wouldn’t put up with Jordan’s touchiness, it was Dwight. And after a week of combat, forced movement, and a hell of a lot of sleep deprivation, this was the last thing we needed.
But Jordan didn’t go on a tear this time. He had in the past. But this time, he just paused for a while. “Yeah,” he said finally. “I guess it does.”
I blew out a breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. I didn’t have to chew any ass or even just tell them to quiet down.
“Besides, what are you getting bent out of shape over these Muslim bastards for?” Dwight asked. “They’re no different from the fucking Kosovars and Chechnyans.”
Damn it, Dwight. Just let it drop, will you? We’d escaped a Jordan tirade, but it might have only been a brief respite, if Dwight kept pushing. And when Dwight got a burr under his saddle, he pushed.
“I already said you were right, Teddy,” Jordan growled. “Don’t push it, or you’ll stop being right.”
Dwight snorted. But before he could get a head of steam going, Scott interrupted. “Looks like they’re getting it out,” he said.
I glanced back, thankful for the reprieve. Everybody was strung out and punchy. And with this bunch, strung out and punchy meant they were looking for a fight. Without the EDC and the militias obliging, the next step was internecine strife.
I had to crack down on it. I didn’t like to have to, especially since I didn’t have half the experience that a guy like Dwight did. Which didn’t mean I wouldn’t. It was my job. I’d crack heads if need be; I’d had to do it before.
The fact that Phil and Jordan still talked to me was a good sign that I’d done it right.
With a growl of engines, the MRAP surged up out of the hole that it had dug itself into, sending globs of mud flying from its wheels into the air. Hopefully we could get it back on a track that wouldn’t bury it to the doors in the mud again.
Though as I looked around, that possibility looked a little slim. The only such route would be down the 593, and there were almost guaranteed to be roadblocks there. Unless the Nationalists had extended their reach farther north than we thought in the last twenty-four hours.
A runner came up, a young kid in mismatched camouflage fatigues, with an old vz. 58 slung over his shoulder. I watched him approach, wondering just how this was going to go, with no Slovak terp.
The kid got to us and looked around, confusion on his face. He was probably looking for rank insignia, and we weren’t wearing any. I didn’t really speak more than a few phras
es in Slovak, so I just asked him, “What is it, kid?”
“I am looking for Team Leader Bowen,” he said, in heavily accented but passable English. I suddenly felt a little ashamed, remembering some of Hartrick’s stories about getting into Iraq and finding that some of the Iraqi kids spoke better English than the Marines had.
“I’m Bowen,” I said. “What is it?”
“Generàlporučik Rybàr wants to see you, sir,” the kid said.
That raised an eyebrow. I’d gathered that Rybàr had been military, and probably an officer, but while the specific rank was unfamiliar—I hadn’t exactly memorized Slovak Army ranks before insert—it sure sounded important.
Of course, if he was with the Nationalist resistance, that rank probably didn’t mean much to the Slovak Army anymore. But it told me something about the man that I hadn’t known before.
I got up, my joints protesting from the beating they’d gotten over the last week, followed by long hours in a car, followed by crouching down on a knee in a hedgerow for the last hour and a half. “Let’s go, then,” I said. “Don’t leave without me,” I muttered as I passed Scott.
“I’ll give you an extra ten minutes,” he said. “Don’t miss extract.”
I glared at him, but he kept his eyes on his sector, a faint smile curling the corner of his mouth. Scott’s ancestry was telling; he had a few wisps of filthy facial hair at the corners of his mouth and his chin, but that was about it, even after over a week.
The kid and I slogged through the muddy field toward the Alligator that was sitting about three vehicles back from the MRAP, which was now forging toward firmer ground, the driver twisting the wheel whenever it seemed to be bogging down. It took longer than it should have to cross the distance; the furrows made for treacherous footing, even more so after the soaking from the morning storm.
Rybàr was out of the vehicle, his own Bren 805 in his hands, scanning the sky as we approached. I followed suit. It was weirding me out that we hadn’t seen any aircraft, or even drones.