Tin Soldiers

by Michael Farmer

  “This is Steel Six, good to be back. Guideons, Steel Six.”

  “Red Four.”

  “White One.”

  “Blue Four.”

  “Steel Five.”

  “Guideons, Steel Six. I expect we’ll be in direct fire with the enemy momentarily. I need current statuses, over.”

  After receiving a wilco from each platoon, Dillon heard Estes radioing him on task force command. Switching nets, he returned the call. “Tiger Six, Steel Six.”

  “Steel Six, Tiger Six. SITREP, over.”

  “This is Steel Six. The artillery fires you were observing shifted one minute ago. They caused us some commo problems—mostly fixed now. My elements are currently working status reports. I’ll call you when I’ve got them consolidated, over.”

  “This is Tiger Six, roger. Scouts report a brigadesize element of sixty tanks and thirty BMPs have closed within five thousand meters of your position. You now have priority of indirect fires and are cleared to engage, over.”

  “Steel Six, roger.”

  There was a pause on the other end of the radio, as if Estes was searching for something to say. “This is Tiger Six . . . Good hunting, out.”

  As Dillon gazed north, the dust continued to settle. He threw the binos to his face. Here they come. Dillon saw countless dots. He knew the ant-size figures were actually combat vehicles intent on his destruction, trailing dust clouds hundreds of feet into the air as they rapidly closed on him and his men.

  “Guideons, Steel Six. Multiple enemy vehicles on Avenues of Approach Two and Three, moving south. Vicinity TRPs Charlie-One and Charlie-Three. Do not engage until I give the order, break . . . Steel Five, Steel Six, do you have our consolidated status report? Over.”

  Mason’s voice sounded detached. “Roger, Six. Our current slant is thirteen. I say again . . . one-three, over.”

  The slant count hit Dillon in the gut like a brick. They’d had fourteen tanks before the barrage. Shit . . . Third Platoon. Who had they lost? “Roger, Steel Five, understand slant one-three. Pass it higher, along with our spot report on the enemy approach. Who . . . what vehicle . . . ?”

  Mason knew what Dillon was asking. “We lost Blue One, Over.”

  Takahashi. Dillon shook his head in denial. Not a kid he’d worked with, trained with, laughed with. Dillon inwardly lashed himself, thinking of things he could have done to change what had happened. He could have found somewhere else for the platoon to dig in . . . or kept them further back . . . or . . . or a dozen different options, any one of which could have resulted in Ben Takahashi still being alive now.

  The Steel commander abruptly ceased second-guessing himself. He knew that if he had it all to do over, he’d make the same decisions given the same tactical situation. But he didn’t have to feel good about it.

  “Roger, Steel Five, pass the report up . . . Guideons, continue to observe your sectors. Each platoon stay in your hide positions. As rehearsed, I want a company volley fire at twenty-five hundred meters when the enemy hits the obstacle belt. Until then, I don’t want anyone pulling up to engage and giving away our position. Acknowledge.”

  Each platoon answered in turn. They were as ready as they were going to be.

  The friendly artillery picked up again after having been silent for ten minutes. The guns must have been moving. After the field artillery fired their missions, survival for them meant displacing quickly to a new firing position before the enemy pinpointed their location. Utilizing radar, both sides could track the trajectory of incoming shells and trace them back to their point of origin—the firing batteries. It wasn’t a good idea to hang around too long after shooting a mission.

  The duet now playing out between the friendly artillery and advancing enemy force was strangely fascinating to observe. The overhead whistling opened the card. This was followed by an eruption in the face of the earth thousands of meters to the Americans’ front. The enemy vehicles in the vicinity of the impact would jerk right or left, slow down or speed up, or simply keep coming. It all depended on the discipline of their crews. Except for the sound of the rounds as they passed overhead, the entire ballet was in silence until a few seconds after impact, at which time the sound finally carried back to the Steel soldiers, a dull, rumbling roar.

  “Bick . . .”

  “Yeah, boss.”

  “Your station good?”

  “Roger, sir. We’re ready to rock and roll. And, sir . . . sorry about Lieutenant Takahashi. He was a good man.”

  Dillon swallowed hard and continued focusing on the approaching swarm of armored vehicles to the north. “Roger.”

  As he watched the horde moving south, a T-72 attracted the attention of one of the downrange WAMs. A sublet could just be discerned as it flew in a trajectory over the Iraqi tank after the unfortunate vehicle had activated one of the mine detectors. Moments later the sublet’s IR sensor, detecting the tank, fired an explosively formed penetrator that streaked into the top of the T-72’s thin top armor. This process repeated itself a couple of times as Dillon watched. Finally the Iraqis, recognizing the cause of these top-down attacks, began giving the WAMs they could see a wide birth.

  The easternmost Iraqi tanks passed one of Team Mech’s TRPs. Set out at thirty-seven hundred meters, the markers let Nelson Bowers’s men know that enemy vehicles in the vicinity of the panels were within range of his team’s TOW missiles. Nothing yet. Dillon continued to observe. Suddenly blurs could be seen streaking from the Team Mech position. They all terminated in the vicinity of the approaching armor. Multiple explosions followed.

  The men in the Steel battle position closely tracked the tanks and BMPs as the forefront of the Republican Guard attack headed their way. Because of dust and distance, they didn’t notice as a company of BMP- 2’s pulled out of the main axis of attack, each armed with AT-5 antitank missiles capable of outdistancing the Team Mech TOWs by over 200 meters. Nelson Bowers’s gunners, because of the rolling terrain, also did not see the threat arraying itself against them. The Mech gunners were so focused on whittling down the numbers attacking towards Steel that the small puffs of smoke signifying AT-5 launches went unnoticed until four of the Bradleys were hit.

  Dillon looked east towards Bowers’s position at the first explosion. As he watched, the nearest Bradley’s rear door flew open. Two soldiers, both in flames, staggered out of the deathtrap. The question of whether they lived or died was settled when a TOW missile in the vehicle detonated, causing a series of sympathetic explosions in the rear of the vehicle that disintegrated the Bradley and everything in its immediate vicinity.

  Searching for the culprits, Dillon could barely see the BMPs as the Iraqi commander backed his firing line down to prepare for a second volley. “Mech Six, Mech Six, you’ve got a company of BMPs at your two o’clock! I say again, two o’clock!”

  Some of the Team Mech crews, realizing the threat, had already retreated into their fighting positions to get out of the AT-5s’ reach. The rest of the team quickly followed their lead.

  “Tiger Six, Mech Six,” Bowers called over the task force command net. “My slant is now four and six. Four Mike-Twos destroyed by AT-5 fire. . . .

  “Break . . . my FSO is calling an immediate suppression mission on the enemy location, but until it goes in, we’re going to have to hunker down, over.”

  “Roger, Mech Six. Tiger Six out.” Estes agreed, knowing he’d have to conserve as much combat power as he could for the fighting in the days to come. Vehicles he could eventually replace, the trained crews were much tougher to come by.

  The unmistakable crack of an M1A1 cannon split the stillness to Dillon’s left. What the fuck! He’d have somebody’s balls for this.

  “White, Steel Six. Who’s engaging?”

  Doc’s voice was surprisingly steady under the circumstances. “Six, White One. That’s not us. The fires are coming from Anvil, over.”

  A mental picture of Malloy flashed through Dillon’s mind. The stupid son of a bitch.

  “Ro
ger. Steel, continue to hold your fire. Going higher.”

  Dillon tried to remember the yoga exercises he’d learned last year. Maybe they would calm him before what was sure to be an ugly radio confrontation with Malloy. After two seconds of effort he decided it just wasn’t his day to become one with the universe. Fucking Major Barnett. He should have known better than to listen to the operations officer’s new age drivel. Worse, he’d paid good money for the instruction.

  “Anvil Six, Steel Six, over.”

  Dillon could now see large numbers of 120mm projectiles flying north from Anvil’s position. So far as he could tell, they’d hit nothing.

  He tried again. “Anvil Six, Steel Six, over.”

  A voice shaking with excitement finally answered Dillon’s call. “Steel Six, Anvil Six. If you haven’t noticed, I’m a little busy.”

  Dillon rolled his eyes and tried to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “Anvil Six, Steel Six. I noticed. You’re wasting ammo and giving away your position. Hold your fire until they close.”

  “Steel Six, Anvil Six. I don’t intend to let them get that close. You worry about your sector, I’ll worry—”

  Estes, monitoring the exchange between his subordinates, cut them off. “Anvil Six, Tiger Six. What range are you engaging at, over?”

  After a short pause, Malloy answered. “Four thousand meters, over.”

  “Anvil Six, Tiger Six. You will hold fire until the enemy closes to at least three thousand meters. Acknowledge.”

  “Tiger Six, our M1A1s are capable of hitting targets well past—”

  “Acknowledge, over.” The fury in Estes’s voice dripped across the net.

  “This is Anvil Six. WILCO. Hold fire until the enemy closes to three thousand meters.”

  Thank God, thought Dillon. “This is Steel Six, returning to company command push, out.”

  Colonel Hassan Abdulamir watched his battalions attack from an elevated position to the north. He’d seen the easternmost battalion being engaged by antitank missiles. While the battalion suffered a few losses, they had inflicted more on the enemy forces. The American TOWs were out of the fight for now. Abdulamir nodded to himself. The Americans, outnumbered, could not afford to continue suffering such losses.

  Unfortunately, the recon effort in this sector hadn’t been as effective as it had been farther west. He scanned to the west for the Bradleys they had been engaging. Nothing. Wait . . . tank fires. Yes, definitely tank main guns, but the infidels were hitting nothing. And he now knew where the next company in the Yankee line was.

  Looking between the company positions, the colonel made his decision. Reaching for his radio, Abdulamir called his battalion commanders. After he had them all on the radio, he issued their final orders. There was a large gap in the American line between their mixed team in the east and the tanks in the west. No one was perfect. Unfortunately, every commander at some point was tasked to cover more terrain than he effectively could. When it happened, the commander had to overextend his forces to carry out his mission. This left gaps. Such was the case with the Americans in their current battle position—obviously a case of too much ground and too few forces.

  Colonel Abdulamir had identified the gap, a seam between American forces, and now his brigade would make the division’s penetration through it. As he looked closer at the area, he could see the obstacle belt his recon elements had reported. Wire and mines. That would slow their momentum temporarily, but not for too long. He began arranging for the smoke that would be necessary to mask their breaching effort, and called his engineers to prepare them to come forward once the smokescreen was built sufficiently. Between his artillery, tanks, and BMPs, his forces would keep the American units occupied long enough to exploit the weak point in their defense and make the penetration. After all, without combat power facing them across the obstacle, it really wasn’t an obstacle, was it?

  Dillon saw the majority of the Republican Guard brigade shift its attack, heading straight south toward his position. The lead vehicles were thirty-five hundred meters out. He couldn’t engage the vehicles yet, not with the lethal mass and shock effect that he wanted. They’d continue to wait, letting the Iraqis move nearer, and then hit them when they closed within optimum main gun range.

  “Bick . . . range.”

  The gunner kept his sight on the lead vehicle in the closest pack of Iraqi vehicles and thumbed the laser range finder. The green LCD figure that appeared in his sight picture refreshed itself to reflect the current distance between C-66 and the tank in its sights. “Three thousand meters.”

  “Count it down every hundred meters from here out.”

  “Roger.”

  Hearing the pneumatic swoosh of the ammunition door, Dillon looked across the turret at Hunter. The loader was conducting one last check of his 120mm rounds, ensuring he had his main gun ammunition exactly where and how he wanted it. Satisfied, Hunter moved his knee away from the door’s activation switch, allowing it to close. He looked at Dillon and gave a thumbs-up.

  Dillon nodded. Good. He was on the ball and didn’t look too stressed out. Hopefully he himself looked as calm.

  “Twenty-nine hundred,” called Bickel.

  Colonel Hassan Abdulamir watched his supporting force approach the enemy obstacle. The artillery-delivered smoke had landed successfully between each of the identified enemy forces and the point in the obstacle belt where he intended to breach. With no enemy eyes able to see them, his forces would quickly clear a way through the wire and mines.

  It was Steel’s fight. Both Team Mech and Anvil were severely hampered by the smokescreen, despite the thermal systems that were supposed to cut through such obscurants. Hopefully the sun and rising heat would dissipate the smoke quickly, but as Dillon often preached to his lieutenants, “Hope in one hand, shit in the other . . . see which one fills up first.” They would have to carry out the defense themselves for now.

  “Twenty-seven hundred meters, sir.” The timber of Bickel’s voice was rising.

  “Roger.” Sweat ran traces down Dillon’s forehead, cutting rivulets into the dust coating his face. As he watched the enemy formation continue to close on their position, he hoped that the company’s tanks were dug in well enough to blend with the desert floor. It was the little things that could give away their position—a tank whose crew had forgotten to tie down their antennas; excess sand piled around a fighting position; a pair of goggles on top of a CVC helmet reflecting the morning sun into an alert Iraqi vehicle commander’s eyes. Any one of these things could tip their hand. Just a little closer . . .

  “Twenty-six hundred!”

  Dillon saw roughly sixty vehicles pulling into support-by-fire positions to watch over the Iraqi engineers as they prepared to breach the obstacle belt. Four to one against them. But the enemy didn’t know they were here, so surprise would be on their side. And once they closed, there was nowhere for the Iraqis to hide. There was nothing but open desert around them.

  “I have over a platoon of tanks at twenty-five hundred meters, Avenue of Approach One, vicinity TRP Charlie-One. More vehicles approaching TRPs Charlie-Two and Charlie-Three. There’s a buttload of the fuckers out there, sir.”

  Time to buy the baby some new shoes. “All Steel elements, Steel Six. Two rounds sabot . . . at my command . . . Tophat, tophat, tophat!”

  Abdulamir could not be prouder of his brigade. They moved with precision as they set up the breach—by far the most complex of military ground operations. The smoke was in. Two battalions were now moving into their final positions to overwatch the obstacle with direct fires. Once these support-by-fire battalions were set, events would move rapidly. The engineers would move in, breaching lanes in the obstacle belt. Once the lanes were in, his assault battalion would attack through the obstacle from their current position, two kilometers to the north, and secure the far side. Colonel Abdulamir would then lead the rest of the brigade through to hold the shoulders of the penetration open for the Tawakalna’s Third Brigade. Third Brigade wou
ld then continue the attack into the Americans’ rear.

  The commander felt a sudden chill, thinking of his sister brigade. Where were they? The last time he’d spoken to their commander, he was fifteen minutes behind Abdulamir’s own Second Brigade. He had tried calling again to send an update on the location the breach was going in, but had gotten only static.

  He considered once again waiting until they’d reestablished contact to force the penetration. No. He couldn’t let his unit’s momentum be broken. They would hold the breach until Third Brigade arrived. Besides, General Hamza had made it quite clear that they were to stop their attack only on his order, not for any other reason. Abdulamir had gotten the distinct impression that the commander was under a bit of pressure from Baghdad.

  Abdulamir knew that it should be short work once their forces broke into the Americans’ rear area. The enemy simply did not have enough combat power to stop them. From past experience, he knew the Kuwaitis would be of little or no value to the Americans. Abdulamir was surprised they were not already on the road to Saudi with their skirts between their knees.

  The sporadic American artillery was having little effect on his force, making it clear no unfriendly eyes could see them. He keyed his radio to move his engineers forward.

  Dillon gave his tanks five seconds from the final tophat call to pull out of their holes, stop, and place a final lay on their targets. It was the longest five seconds of his life, knowing that his entire company was now visible to the Iraqis facing them.

  As C-66 rocked to a stop, Dillon looked through his extension and saw the fire control system reticle come to rest on a T-72. Time’s up, asshole. “Fire!”

  The colonel watched as the sinister-looking American tanks appeared from the desert floor. Three more pulled from behind the scattered boulders to the south of the obstacle. Sabots streaked from the enemy tank cannons simultaneously, all heading on a dead line for his forces. In horrified fascination Abdulamir counted as thirteen of his combat vehicles went up in flames. He felt tricked, violated somehow, losing so many men so fast.