Standing in the Storm (The Last Brigade Book 2)

by William Alan Webb

  “My country,” Parfist said. “That doesn’t even make sense to me. I’ve never had a country before, but so far you’ve done what you said you’d do, and my family is safe because of you. So yeah. Yeah, I’ll guide you.”

  Chapter 34

  Every soldier must know, before he goes into battle, how the little battle he is to fight fits into the larger picture, and how the success of his fighting will influence the battle as a whole.

  Field Marshal Sir Bernard Law Montgomery

  0512 hours, July 29

  Rather than using the radio, Lieutenant Tensikaya walked fifty yards to the clearing where the crew of Bulldozer One One Two were inspecting the damage to their tank. The number designation painted on the turret was 1-1-2, although the pine tree had scraped most of the 2 off the left side. He entered the pool of light thrown by the portable LED lamps connected to the battery. Squatting for a closer look at the scorch marks from the RPGs, he scooted down and knelt beside Corporal Marscal, checking out the damaged sprocket. It was obvious Joe’s Junk had been through a battle.

  “How’s it looking?” he said.

  “You don’t have a replacement sprocket, do you, Akio?” answered Morgan Randall. She lay on her back inspecting the torsion bars. Wiggling out from under the tank, she climbed to her feet. “The sprocket has some bent teeth and two treads are damaged. A couple of the wheels are going to need replacing. Some of the electronics are screwed up. Marty is running diagnostics to see if it’s just loose connections or actual damage. The weapons systems and engine are fine.”

  “Are you combat capable?”

  “We can fight, but mobility is a problem. We can move well enough, but I don’t want to throw a tread, so we need to keep it slow. What do you have in mind?”

  “Prime thinks the Chinese might be coming in force from the west, with tanks, using Highway 10. That’s the road over there, the one you turned off of to get to the high school. Follow it straight out of town and that’s where they think the Chicoms are coming. I’m taking the company out about ten miles and we’re doing to deploy there, but I can’t have a cripple if it comes to a fight. You’d be a sitting duck, so I want you to be a final block in case something gets through. There’s a big bend in the road. You set up there and stay there. I’ll leave glowsticks to mark the spot.”

  “What are my orders?”

  “If they come through, stop them.”

  0513 hours

  The coffee was hot, black, and bitter, just the way Joe Randall liked it. He blew on the steaming liquid and slurped, smacking his lips the way Bunny Carlos hated. It was his second cup of the morning, and there would be at least a third before he and Carlos took off on the day’s first sortie. The Comanche had an in-flight urinary disposal system, so he wasn’t worried about a full bladder.

  Both men sat on the bench by their lockers, pulling on their flight gear. They heard a knock.

  “Change in plans, sirs,” Sergeant Rossi said from around the corner.

  “Come in, Rossi, we’re dressed,” Carlos said.

  “Sortie time, sirs. Immediate liftoff. You’re to do a seek-and-destroy recon of a valley west of Prescott. Coordinates are locked in and orders pulled up on the display.”

  “Seek and destroy?” Randall said, wide awake. “What are we looking for?”

  “Don’t know, sir, but guess would be Chinese tanks.”

  “Just us, or is Ripsaw Two going along for the fun?”

  “Both of you, Captain.”

  “Good,” he said. “Alisa’s cranky in the morning, puts her in the mood to blow something up.”

  “If they’re committing two Comanches to this,” Carlos said, “our Fuck Meter has got to be pegged on max.”

  “Yeah,” Randall said. “No kidding.”

  “Please be careful, sirs,” she said, indicating both of them, but staring only at Carlos.

  0513 hours

  Remembering the half-smoked cigar in his front pocket, Angriff stepped outside and soon had it relit. Once you had done everything you could, when the pieces were in motion and beyond your control, the hardest part was waiting. He instinctively looked far to the west, trying to visualize where Skull Valley was and imagining he could see it.

  “You’re out there,” he said to the night. “I know it as sure as I’m standing here.”

  He didn’t know why he was so positive, but on certain occasions in his life he’d seen things others had not. He had always been right, too, and this was one of those times. Some said he knew the enemy’s moves before the enemy did. For the moment, however, he could only wait and smoke. Until someone laid eyes on that strip of land, he was powerless.

  The night-draped city three thousand feet below was alive with heat signatures. Joe Randall and Bunny Carlos could see almost the entire brigade below their racing gunship, and the sight was impressive. They passed the artillery batteries spread to the northeast of Prescott, then overflew the two infantry regiments deployed to the north and northwest. The long line of trucks evacuating the hostages to a holding field on Prescott’s eastern boundary sped forward. Their headlights lit the way.

  “That can’t be good,” Joe Randall said. “Either it’s over on the ground or they’re in a big hurry.”

  “They remind me of ants running from a flood,” Carlos said.

  Banking west, within the city they saw the signatures of tanks, trucks, APCs, fires, hot craters, people, artificial lights, torches, and, on the western fringe, a line of tanks heading out of the city. One tank lagged behind but Randall had no way of knowing his wife was its commander. From positions to the north, they saw more tanks moving west.

  “I wonder where everybody’s going,” Alisa Plotz said. Randall was not a stickler for radio discipline, and radio silence was pointless since the ground units were chattering away.

  “Reminds me of Syria,” Randall said.

  “The advance or the retreat?”

  As they flew west, the dead town of Chino Valley slipped away on their right. Soon enough the heat signatures disappeared and they saw nothing but the dark of a forest. Here and there a dot appeared and then vanished, a mule deer or cougar.

  The half-light of dawn crept over the land. Details became distinguishable. They turned southwest and large hills appeared dead ahead. Those gave way to rugged desert as they approached their objective, and then they saw it.

  “Oh, fuck,” Alisa Plotz said. “Now I know where those tanks are headed.”

  “Shit,” Carlos said into the intercom.

  Randall took Tank Girl up to five thousand feet for a more panoramic view, and also to process what he saw. Moreover, he needed line of sight to headquarters.

  “Prime, this is Ripsaw Real,” he said. “Urgent! We are over target area bearing two twenty, altitude five thousand, heading two two five, speed one forty. Stand by for video feed.”

  0526 hours

  Over the large map table at the end of the Mobile Command Center was a sixty-inch super-high definition monitor. It was difficult to back up far enough to get a good perspective, but the resolution was so good it made studying the picture much easier. When the video began, it was the big picture that mattered and the details seemed unimportant.

  “Son of a bitch,” Norm Fleming said. “I should have known.”

  From the height of the helicopter, they all saw what looked like a river of hot metal flowing south. There were too many heat signatures of tanks to count, interspersed with armored personnel carriers and some trucks. The line of vehicles stretched out of sight toward the town of Skull Valley to the south. When the Comanche swung around to fly north, they saw that it ran to Highway 5, and north on that road for more than a mile.

  “I was praying that I was wrong,” Angriff said. “Damn. That’s at least a full armored division, if not a whole corps.”

  “I don’t see any artillery,” Kordibowski said. “Or mobile triple-A, although some could be Type 95s. It’s hard to tell.”

  “Type 95?” Angriff said. �
�I’m not up to speed on the PLA.”

  “Tracked triple-A. Four 25mm cannon in a turret. Sometimes have missiles, too.”

  “Like the old German Wirbelwind.”

  “If you say so.”

  “Am I wrong, Rip, or is that an armored corps I’m looking at?” Angriff said.

  “It could be a reinforced division, but yes, General, it’s probably a whole corps.”

  “Time is of the essence, people,” Angriff said. “Deploy the rest of the tank battalion here, as far north of Skull Valley the town as possible. Tell them to step on it; there’s just one company there now. Re-deploy the First Infantry Regiment along this line here, and the Second is to attack the column on Highway 89 immediately.

  “I want as much artillery on this valley as possible, as fast as possible. That means both battalions will need to move their gun tubes west, and I do not want a clusterfuck of them advancing in front of the infantry. Work it out on the front end. Get the MLRSs firing A-sap.

  “All air assets are to concentrate on this tank corps. Block Highway 5 north of the city with one Marine company, then position the rest of the battalion to back up Bulldozer. One company can’t hold for long. Let’s move, hit ’em hard, and make ’em think.”

  “Do we withdraw the other two Marine companies off the left flank?”

  “No, not yet. We have to have something out there.”

  “What about Ripsaw, General? Attack now or wait for reinforcements?”

  “Ripsaw? That’s Randall, isn’t it?”

  “It is, sir,” said Walling.

  Angriff hesitated for only a moment. “Doesn’t matter. Attack immediately.”

  0531 hours

  “Ripsaw Two, wait two minutes, then hit the rear of the column. I’m heading south to its head. When you finish your pass, I’ll make mine the other way. After that, fire on targets of opportunity.”

  “Roger that, Ripsaw Real. You’re buying the first round.”

  “I’ll buy the first two rounds. Be on guard for triple-A and missiles; you can bet they’re down there. Good luck, Alisa, and good hunting.” Into the intercom mike, he said, “You shoot, I’ll fly. Make it count, Bunny. We might not get a second pass.”

  “Just don’t get us hit by our own ordnance.”

  The head of the column was five miles south. Randall pushed his speed up to 170 knots, losing altitude as Tank Girl thundered through the growing morning light. After bringing the nose around to the right, he was half a mile from the convoy when something exploded in the distance. Ripsaw Two had started her run. He continued banking and dropped to less than one hundred feet.

  “Damn, Joe,” Carlos said. “I mean, damn! They’re lined up for miles. I’ve never seen anything like this before.”

  “And you’ll never see it again. I hope.”

  As Tank Girl straightened out for her initial attack run, Carlos targeted an APC that was in the lead. At three hundred yards, he opened fire and watched his explosive rounds tear it apart.

  0532 hours

  The pine tree had damaged her hatch, fifty-caliber machine gun, and periscopes. Morgan Randall had no choice but to expose herself to see what was happening around her. Joe’s Junk lurched for the spot marked by Lieutenant Tensikaya, a shoulder of Highway 10 covering a wide bend where it turned toward Skull Valley. The Marine recon companies had rolled past and her own tank company was long gone, and it pissed her off that Joe’s Junk had to sit this one out. Her place was beside her comrades in the thick of the fighting.

  High above, she heard the unmistakable sound of an AH-72 Comanche, flying fast and heading south. Her breath caught for just a moment… could that be Joe? Within two minutes of the gunship passing overhead, she heard the zipping buzz of a Gatling gun followed by a large explosion. Then more explosions, and the distant tree line was backlit by a red glow. Something streaked through the sky and blew up, without doubt a surface-to-air missile. The action was close, no more than two miles away.

  Joe Ootoi stood in the gunner’s hatch, took in the sights and sounds, then whistled. “Somebody’s mad at somebody.”

  “Yeah,” she said. “They’re close, Joe. If we could just move a mile, we’d be in it.”

  “Look at the bright side, boss,” he said. “If the Chicoms break through, we’ll have all the targets we want.”

  Map Copyright © 2017 Google

  Chapter 35

  If any of you cry at my funeral, I’ll never speak to you again.

  Stan Laurel

  As dawn lightened the eastern sky, the 7th Cavalry was in motion. Gunships raced for Skull Valley and swarmed the Chinese armored column like red wasps defending their nest against a centipede. At first stunned by the air attacks, the Chinese recovered and fought back. The Chinese were veterans of a hundred fights in California and Mexico. Their weapons were modern and they knew how to use them.

  Sunlight crept over the treetops and brightened the valley. The battle became a duel between the helicopters and the mobile Chinese anti-aircraft vehicles. All were Type 95s SPAAAs, self-propelled anti-aircraft artillery. Fully tracked, like a tank, the Type 95 was a deadly vehicle. They mounted dual 25mm cannon on each side of the turret, with two QW-2 infrared homing missiles above each cannon, for a total of four missiles. Unfortunately for the Chinese, years of fighting had reduced the supply of QW-2s to a minimum. Since they hadn’t been expecting air attacks, few were actually on hand that morning.

  With ridges, mountains, hills, and dense stands of trees to hide behind, the gunships had a huge advantage. Once they targeted a particular vehicle, the pilot ducked behind cover and re-emerged to strike from a different spot. This didn’t give the Type 95s a chance to track their new position.

  By the time the first gunship sortie ran low on ammunition, most of the SPAAAs were flaming wreckage. Burning vehicles littered the valley, but compared to the numbers of the Chinese juggernaut, the losses were minimal.

  As the climbing sun brightened the day, details of the battlefield became clear. It was ideal tank country. Most of the valley itself was flat, with some low hills and scrub vegetation. Some lines of sight were long and clear, but the rolling topography obscured other approaches. Danger could come from any angle. The possibility of cresting a hill and finding an enemy tank, waiting on the other side for a point-blank kill shot, was real.

  The Chinese rolled forward and their objective became clear. They weren’t heading for Skull Valley but Highway 10, which led to Prescott from the west. Lieutenant Tensikaya and the rest of First Platoon deployed forward to defend the highway. A small road crossed a ridgeline and bypassed the need to enter the town of Skull Valley itself. Without Joe’s Junk, he only had 13 Abrams to cover a mile of ground.

  But they had a secret weapon: each tank carried five EXACTO rounds. There had been a hot debate about issuing the precious can’t-miss shells so early in the brigade’s operational history. They were irreplaceable, but the unknown scope of the crisis overrode all other concerns.

  The three Marine recon companies provided cover against Chinese infantry and light vehicles. But they were nothing more than targets against the Chinese Type 98 and 99 main battle tanks filling the valley.

  With the coming of daylight, targets became clearer. The din of battle vibrated the cool early morning air. The crack of cannons, screech of shells, and the reverberating explosions from tanks that had taken mortal hits, all drowned out the screams of wounded men. Chinese infantry poured from armored personnel carriers and moved over the hills and gulleys.

  Guided by Richard Parfist’s knowledge of the terrain, the Americans deployed far forward to prevent the Chinese from flanking them on the east. In the process they blocked Highway 10 as it headed for Prescott. The town of Skull Valley had no tactical importance, except the highway passed through it and ran northeast toward Prescott.

  Chinese pressure forced the Americans back to the west, uncovering the cross-country route to the highway. Task Force Bulldozer had no choice but to retreat, being both
outnumbered and outgunned. This prevented them from stopping the Chinese advance down Highway 10. That left two Marine companies, deployed along a low ridge on the east side of the valley, as the last blocking force until reinforcements arrived. They had no choice but to hold as long as possible. Hull-down on the opposite side, with only the small turret exposed, the Marine LAV-25s were a difficult target to hit with the 125mm main gun of a Type 98 tank. The Marines fielded 50 LAVs of all types lined up in less than a mile, or one about every 35 feet.

  But Marine light reconnaissance units were not intended for pitched battles. Their greatest asset was mobility, with a strong punch from the 25mm chain gun giving them a deadly edge. Standing and fighting was a last ditch resort, especially against scores of main battle tanks, where chain guns had limited effect.

  0658 hours, July 29

  Morgan Randall stood on the turret of Joe’s Junk. She braced her right foot against the twisted hatch and scanned the area to the south and west. The sounds of heavy combat were clear and close. Dense palls of smoke spiraled above the trees, with an occasional tongue of flame spewing into the black columns rising to the sky. For the past two hours the sounds of battle had been coming closer. In the gunner’s hatch next to her, Joe Ootoi stood guard with an M16, watching the underbrush for infiltrators.

  “Where the hell is the rest of the battalion?” he said. “I feel like the staked goat in Jurassic Park, with velociraptors running around in the bushes.”

  “It was a T-Rex,” she said. “The velociraptors got a cow.”

  “Well, that makes me feel better.”