Colonel Jones had made the right call. Even now, as the two tanks from 2-77 Armor held up the advancing enemy force, the reserve was deploying into a firing line capable of killing anything battalion-size or smaller that made it through.
A valiant effort was being waged here in this small corner of hell, but the numbers would go against them soon. No, they needed a little luck. As if in answer to his silent plea, a message came through from the JTF headquarters. He listened intently to half of it before interrupting.
“Roger! You’re damned right! Our current position . . .”
Lieutenant Sam Matheson jotted a note and acknowledged the change in mission. Quickly relaying information to the other three helicopters in the flight, the Kiowa Warrior platoon transitioned from reconnaissance mode to preparation for the attack.
The OH-58D helicopter wasn’t the most popular piece of equipment in the army. Most old-time aviators, and just about every ground maneuver unit, would much prefer seeing the heavier and proven AH-64 Apache when the shit hit the fan. The Kiowa Warrior—a modified version of the reconnaissance helicopter—was slowly taking over the Apache’s missions. It was smaller, easier to transport, and could carry virtually the same ammunition. The only thing it couldn’t match was the Apache’s survivability, range, and overall firepower. It didn’t take a great deal of damage to bring one of the little machines crashing to the ground.
Matheson switched to the frequency she’d been given and contacted the unit requesting support. “Striker Three, this is Cutlass Six. Understand you’re in need of some assistance. My flight is one minute out, coming in from the southeast, over.”
As the unmistakably feminine voice came across the radio, Tom Proctor started. Proctor had been in the army for a while. He’d seen many changes over the past decade—some good, some bad. While a lot of soldiers publicly challenged the more radical military policy shifts, he’d always thought of himself as open-minded and willing to give change a chance.
One policy that Proctor personally hadn’t approved of, however, was that of putting women in combat. It went against the code of chivalry his father had taught him at an early age. It was nothing personal. He knew that there were a lot of females in uniform as capable as he was—hell, more so. Still, something inside Proctor cringed at the thought of his daughter, or his wife, taking up arms. But here they were, and he was in no position to be choosy. But he couldn’t help himself. Despite his professional military education and experience, one thought kept ringing in Proctor’s head.
They’re sending a girl to save us?
The three American vehicles watched as the line of enemy tanks moved closer. Since Colonel Jones had arrived on the scene, life had become an endless cycle of shooting and moving.
Both Estes and Waters had almost exhausted the seventeen rounds of main gun ammunition in their ready racks and badly needed to transfer ammunition from their semiready racks. Both knew that the Iraqis weren’t going to allow them the precious minutes necessary to effect the drill.
They’d slowed down the attacking battalion significantly and managed to take out the lead vehicles. Seeing that they weren’t going to be able to quickly overrun the American position, the Republican Guard force was now in the process of maneuvering on the small group opposing them.
The Iraqis bounded forward by company. Ten tanks remained behind whatever sparse cover was available, firing at the Americans to keep them occupied, while the other ten tanks sped forward. Once the second group was set—some behind rocks, some finding gentle folds in the desert floor—they covered while the first group took up the attack. Once this group was set, they repeated the maneuver. It was now just a matter of time.
The Americans knew what was transpiring but were unable to do anything about it. Every time they moved from behind cover to engage the approaching vehicles, multiple rounds came their way. Each of them saw that there was no cover or concealment left between the attacking Iraqis and themselves. The final assault would be now.
Jones, Estes, and Waters chose their final positions—the positions from which they’d make their last stands. Each of the vehicle commanders issued instructions to his crew and dropped down behind their sights, lining them up on the closest vehicles in their sectors. Jones had the left, Estes the center, Waters the right.
When the assault came, it came in a rush. Multiple enemy tanks charging across the desert, gun tubes blazing. Jones’s Bradley initiated fire with a TOW missile. Before the missile had reached its midway point, the section of tanks from the Iron Tigers engaged with their main guns. Three T-72s went up in flames. Each of the Americans quickly selected their next victim. They tried to disregard the fact that there were so many enemy vehicles behind the ones in their sights that they would never be capable of getting them all—it was numerically impossible.
As Lieutenant Samantha Matheson’s platoon of 58Ds popped over the crest they were spread out on line. Quickly scanning for the reported friendlies, she picked up the two M1A1s and the Bradley just in front of them and to her platoon’s ten o’clock—and what appeared to be another friendly tank rapidly approaching them from the rear. She saw a sabot round streak from the M1 closest to her. The concussion of the main gun caused her small helicopter to waver momentarily. Following the red trail of the projectile, she saw it culminate its journey in a T-72.
My God, she thought. They were everywhere. There had to be at least twenty enemy tanks to her front, staggered in two lines and attacking south. Farther north she saw a few Soviet infantry carriers—not in the fight at the moment, but her platoon would take care of that.
As soon as she’d seen the Iraqis arrayed north of her platoon, she’d automatically thought as her instructors and warrants had trained her. Number and types of threats, number and types of weapons at her disposal, the best way of combining the two. They hadn’t mentioned the bowling ball that materializes in your stomach when you realize your bird is Plexiglas-to-gun-tube with men who would kill you without a second thought.
A voice that was pure Texas brought Matheson out of her reverie. “Cutlass Six, Cutlass Four,” called the experienced warrant officer who was her wingman. “I think we’ve separated the cowboys from the injuns. We’re prepared to engage on your order, over.”
Matheson shook her head to clear it. She mentally reviewed her platoon’s weapons payload. For antitank engagements, each 58 carried two Hellfire missiles. Once they used those, they could go to work on the BMPs—but the tanks were the biggest threat to the friendlies at the moment. “Roger. Okay, boys, we’ve got eight Hellfires between us. Let the friendlies worry about the lead tanks. We’ll engage the far targets. Alpha section, you start on the right. Bravo section . . .”
As their next rounds struck the attacking Republican Guard formation, the three command crews saw explosions in the rear of the enemy force. More explosions followed close behind. Some unknown guardian was wreaking havoc in the second echelon of their attackers. Things were looking up for the good guys . . . until Estes and Waters realized they were out of ammunition at the same time.
Strictly speaking, they weren’t out. But they’d both expended the rounds in their ready racks. They each had seventeen more rounds in their semiready rack, but needed time to effect the transfer. When operating as platoons and companies, tankers drilled switching sectors of responsibility between subunits, one transferring ammo while the other covered their sector. With the fight currently in progress, the two Iron Tiger tanks simply hadn’t had the time or the numbers to do anything other than continue to engage the attacking enemy vehicles. And now they were seriously sucking.
O’Keefe let fly with another TOW, and another T-72 went down. He yelled instructions feverishly to the crew. “Driver, back up! You guys in the back get two more TOWs ready! I’m gonna move down to that little dip off to the left. Prepare to reload the missile tubes.”
The driver responded immediately, throwing the fifty-thousand-pound fighting vehicle into reverse and then accelerating int
o the depression. Once set, O’Keefe wasted no time slewing the Bradley’s turret over the side and elevating the missile launcher. As the hammerhead on the left side of the vehicle completed its upward movement, the crew popped through the opening in the rear of the vehicle and slammed two more missiles into the empty launch tubes.
Rotating the turret once again in the direction of the enemy, O’Keefe turned to Jones. “What’s the story, boss? Got us a target?”
Jones dropped his binos and turned to O’Keefe. “Oh, I don’t think that’ll be a problem. As Major Proctor is fond of saying, there’s good news and bad news. The good news is that there are only four enemy tanks remaining. Some 58Ds, I can only assume from the Eighty-second, kindly destroyed most of the second company—what’s left of them is hightailing north.”
O’Keefe frowned. “And the bad news?”
Jones pointed at a group of burning vehicles less than one thousand meters to their left. “The four remaining tanks are hiding behind those toasties. They’re getting ready to make their final assault—unless they’re taking time out for a marshmallow roast.” He looked pointedly at his gunner. “Oh yeah, and our two tankers appear to be out of ammunition.”
Realizing for the first time that the Abrams had stopped firing, O’Keefe’s stomach flipped. Then flopped. Four T-72s, two missiles. Of the two missiles, probably only time to fire one. Shit-fuck-damn. Dropping inside the turret, O’Keefe rotated it in the direction of the burning hulks. Looking to his right, he saw only Jones’s legs. Forgetting for a moment that his boss was only one step removed from a general officer, O’Keefe stiff-armed his commander behind the knees, causing him to collapse into the turret.
“Sir, please stay down!”
Without waiting for Jones’s response, the gunner turned his attention back to his optics and the remaining threat. Switching his sight’s magnification level from four-power to twelve-power, O’Keefe conducted a check of his systems—good. Looking through the sight, he caught sight of the Iraqis as they made their move.
Two of the tanks pulled forward and stopped, scanning. O’Keefe knew these two would try to keep their heads down while the other two closed on their position. Movement from the left caught his eye. Yep, there were his buddies. Balls to the wall.
O’Keefe took a deep breath, not allowing himself to get caught up in the excitement. The two stationary tanks were the immediate threats. The T-72 couldn’t hit worth a damn while moving. As he reacquired the stationary tanks, he saw one of them orient toward their Bradley while his wingman oriented toward the two American tanks attempting to transfer ammunition.
Conflicting thoughts ran through the young NCO’s mind. Fuck it, thought O’Keefe. Making his final lay with the TOW crosshair, he squeezed off a missile. As he waited for the missile to complete its flight, he wondered if he’d made the right choice. The wire-guided missile looked as if it was heading anywhere but toward its intended victim as it made small adjustments in its flight path. O’Keefe had to keep the crosshairs on his selected target and ignore the other threat. The TOW wasn’t a fire-and-forget munition; it had to be guided by the gunner until it impacted on target. The few seconds of flight time seemed to take an eternity, but the missile and its warhead finally collided with and destroyed the T-72 that had been getting ready to open fire on the two helpless American tanks.
Blinking cold sweat from his eyes, O’Keefe looked toward the tank that had been oriented on his own vehicle. His eyes doubled in size.
“Driver, back up! Back up! Back up!”
The enemy main gun round tore through the spot they’d just vacated.
Jones’s voice piped in on the intercom. “That was all right, Keef. What are you gonna do now?”
“Get his head down,” said O’Keefe. He opened with the 25mm, spraying the turret of the Iraqi tank. “That should fuck up the gunner for a few seconds, long enough to put a TOW down his throat.”
Switching back to the TOW crosshair, O’Keefe fired. As he guided the missile in, he knew the gun tube staring at them was about to open fire. Just before the TOW impacted, the Iraqi gunner let loose his round.
Jones and O’Keefe were knocked to their knees as the sabot round slid across the front of their Bradley, cutting an inch-deep groove through the vehicle’s spaced laminate armor. The enemy tank blew up two seconds later.
Both men knew they didn’t have time to congratulate themselves. They’d been very lucky—and now had two very empty missile tubes to go along with the two remaining enemy tanks.
“Driver! You know the drill! Get us the hell out of here!”
“You don’t have to tell me twice!” came a shrill voice over the intercom.
O’Keefe and Jones hung on for dear life, trying to figure out who was going to kill them first, the Iraqis or their driver. O’Keefe struggled to remain seated at his gunner’s station and find the enemy tanks. “Driver, stop!”
The driver had found an old streambed that was a little lower than the surrounding desert floor and had attempted to exfiltrate their vehicle through it. O’Keefe had seen the T-72 stopped and scanning just as their Bradley was about to ram it at thirty miles per hour.
The driver, having seen the enemy tank at the same time as O’Keefe, put every ounce of leg muscle he owned into the braking effort. The Bradley came to a shuddering halt.
Removing his face from the front of the turret and spitting out a mouthful of blood and an incisor, O’Keefe got back on the intercom. “Bek uh, bek uh!”
The driver was ahead of O’Keefe and already putting distance between their vehicle and the tank.
“Wul . . . guess well twy the tain dun adin,” mumbled O’Keefe around his torn-up mouth. He didn’t sound confident in their ability to take out a second tank with 25mm fire. Looking through his sight, O’Keefe tried to settle the gun on the Iraqi tank as the driver maneuvered back and forth wildly in reverse in a desperate attempt to throw off the aim of the enemy gunner.
As O’Keefe squeezed a sensing burst of three 25mm rounds, the enemy tank fireballed.
“O’Keefe!” yelled Jones, observing through his optical relay. “That was damn fine shooting! Three fucking rounds! Unbelievable. That DU is some good shit!”
O’Keefe looked at Jones. “I din do ih!”
Jones squinted at his gunner. “What?”
Taking a deep breath, O’Keefe tried again. “I—dint—do—it!”
“Then who the hell did?”
Both men stood in the turret as they heard a second explosion. To their front were two dead tanks—the second had been in a blind spot only two hundred meters from the one they’d been engaging. The gun tubes of both of the burning T-72s were oriented on their Bradley.
“Who the hell . . . ?” said Jones.
O’Keefe thought about it. “Hewos?”
“Huh?” Jones looked up to the sky. “No, it wasn’t helos.”
As the two looked back to the dead enemy tanks, they were showered with a wave of sand as an M1A1 skidded to a halt not twenty feet behind them. As the dust settled, Major Dave Barnett’s figure took shape. Leaning over his .50 caliber machine gun, Barnett was gently tweaking the ends of his mustache. As if becoming aware of Jones’s stare, Barnett straightened ever so slightly and threw a casual salute in the brigade commander’s direction before climbing out of his turret.
“I knew it!” said Jones.
“Whu’? That i’ wu’ the ma-juh?” asked O’Keefe, suddenly aware of how stupid he sounded through his swelling lips.
Jones looked at O’Keefe as if he were dealing with an idiot. “No. That he was waxing that throw rug! Look at how it’s holding its shape in this heat and dust!”
Estes looked toward Waters’s vehicle and waved for his newest company commander to join him on the ground. Looking up toward the tank commander’s cupola, he motioned for Ike McCloud’s attention. “Ike, coordinate with Lieutenant Waters’s gunner. Set up security here until we get back. If and when those other two platoons show up, tell the fir
st one arriving to spread out along this intervisibility line. Send the other back to the east side of Anvil’s position.”
McCloud threw a thumb in the air and hopped on the radio.
Waters threw a weary salute on reaching his commander’s position.
Estes returned the gesture, smiling through his own exhaustion. “What the hell, Muddy? You know I have a no-salute policy in the field.”
The lieutenant nodded. “I know, sir. But I’m not too worried about snipers at the moment . . . and you deserve it. You know . . . if you hadn’t shown up here . . .”
Estes waved away further comments. “Muddy, you’d have figured out a way to kick their ass all by yourself.” He looked hard into the eyes of his mustang lieutenant. “You did good work, son. Especially considering the conditions.”
Both men’s thoughts turned to the problem of Malloy. Waters wondered what had happened on the man’s tank and, hitting on the likely answer, turned back to Estes. They’d have to take care of this problem quickly.
“Sir, about Captain Malloy . . .”
Holding up a hand, Estes pointed toward Jones’s Bradley. “Let’s walk.”
As they moved toward the vehicle, Estes continued. “I dropped one of my radio nets down to your company command frequency and caught enough of the exchange between you and Captain Malloy to know what happened. I’ve already called Major Proctor and given him the Reader’s Digest version. He’s running a couple of MPs over to A-66. They’re going to . . . escort . . . Malloy back to the field trains.”
Estes continued in silence for a few steps, then said, “You know, Muddy, there are a lot of captains in the brigade waiting for command.”
Waters waved off the message Estes was trying to deliver as delicately as possible. “Sir, I know someone will probably come up to take command. Don’t worry about it. Hell, sir, you need someone in command with more rank and experience than I’ve got anyway. Whoever it is, when the time comes I’ll make sure it’s a smooth transition.”
Tin Soldiers Page 21