The NCO never took his eye from his gunner’s sight. “Too far out to hit ’em, even with TOWs. Besides,” the gunner said, turning to Jones, “you want to let them move between 2-77 and 2-35, right?”
Jones nodded. Damn but he could use a cigarette. “Yeah, that’s the idea.”
“Air?”
“None available for the next twenty minutes.”
“Artillery?”
Jones punched the gunner’s arm across the turret. “There you go, son. Artillery!”
Dillon heard the distant whistle of the 155mm rounds overhead, heading north. As he watched, the initial volley landed behind the first echelon of the approaching Madinah.
Dave Barnett’s voice was on the air quickly. Knowing the battalion’s fire support officer would be riding with the commander tonight, the S3 called Estes. “Tiger Six, Tiger Three. Tell Redleg the guns need to drop two zero zero and fire for effect.”
“Tiger Six, roger.”
After a minute, the artillery ceased as adjustments were made based off of Barnett’s call. Two minutes later, the American artillery hammered the first echelon of the approaching Madinah Division. From the number of rounds, it looked like the cannon cockers were pulling out all the stops, thought Dillon.
The Republican Guard unit continued moving south, slowly but steadily.
“What’s the range, Bick?”
Sergeant Bickel tracked the nearest T-72 tank as it moved across the desert. Dillon could clearly see the unit markings on the side of the vehicle through the M1’s thermal sight. In the reticle, the green number indicating the enemy vehicle’s range changed as Bickel hit the laser range finder button on his gunner’s power control handle. “Twenty-two hundred meters, sir.”
The enemy force had passed Phase Line Buford and the lead vehicles were between 2-77’s attack position and 2-35’s attack position. The Madinah was set on a course to hit 2-8 Infantry dead-on. Behind them, the men of 3rd Brigade knew that the Hamourabi Division followed close behind, prepared to continue their sister unit’s attack.
Once the enemy’s first echelon closed inside of four thousand meters, 2-8 would open with their TOWs. Spread across three times their normal frontage, the mech-heavy task force would attempt to mislead the attacking Iraqis into believing that the 3rd Brigade still occupied their holes.
Five kilometers to the north were the brigade’s two tank-heavy task forces. Ten kilometers separated the two American units. On order they would each attack, one from the west flank, one from the east. Task Force 2-77 currently occupied Attack Position Nirvana in the east. Once the lead echelon of the Madinah came abreast of the Iron Tigers left-most unit, they would hit the front of the enemy division on its left flank. Task Force 2-35, occupying Attack Position Doors in the west, would hit the rear of the enemy division on its right flank simultaneously. Each of the task forces would put over forty M1A1 tanks and fourteen Bradley Fighting Vehicles into the fight for their assault across the dark desert floor. Surprise was critical. The force they were striking outnumbered them two to one.
Cold Steel occupied the center of Nirvana. To their left was Anvil, to their right Team Knight. Team Mech would be two kilometers behind the task force in reserve, prepared to flex either way.
Estes occupied a position behind Steel from which he could command and control the task force. With him was Jones. Major Barnett moved off of Knight’s flank. Once the attack began, it would be critical that someone keep an eye on Knight and 2-35 as they began to meet at the center of the Madinah—that would be Barnett. In situations where two friendly forces were coming together in the darkness, fratricide was a major concern. The depleted-uranium sabot rounds didn’t discriminate; they’d destroy whatever they were fired at, enemy or friendly.
Estes’s voice cut over the friendly artillery. “Guideons, Tiger Six. I’m going to let the enemy formation move another thousand meters, then we attack. Task force on line as you’re currently set. Mech, maintain a cushion of two kilometers, be prepared to support as ordered.”
The company/team commanders acknowledged the order and waited. This was the hard part. It was all the U.S. soldiers could do not to open up on the Iraqi division parading in front of them. The men of the Striker Brigade had quit trying to count the number of tanks, infantry carriers, and various other armored vehicles passing. It was an endless formation that kept coming on, and on, and on. Then the formation stopped.
Dillon watched the stationary Iraqi division. At forty-five hundred meters, they were still outside 2-8 Infantry’s TOW missile range. The mech-heavy task force couldn’t touch them. “What the fuck . . . ?”
Then the Hinds appeared on the scene.
The MI-24 attack helicopters swooped in from the north, stopped, and hovered off either flank of the Madinah. Normally used in the offense to destroy counterattacking forces, the Iraqis had decided to change things up. Like giant insects, the Hinds hovered two hundred feet above the desert floor, their weapons oriented south at the American vehicles that had just moved into their prepared positions.
The first volley of AT-6 Spiral guided missiles flew from the Hinds’ weapons pylons and toward 2-8’s position. Accurate to five kilometers, the missiles allowed the Iraqis to soften up the American position while staying out of the U.S. soldiers’ direct fire range.
Looking south with his PVS-7s, Dillon saw flames spouting from five different positions along 2-8 Infantry’s lines—positions that used to be holes hiding American tanks and Bradleys.
Dillon dropped inside the turret and looked through the sight extension. As he knew would be the case, Bickel had the reticle laid on one of the Russian-made helos, hovering stationary as it expended its air-to-surface missiles.
“Guideons, Steel Six. Tell each of your tank commanders to select a hind and then to keep him in his sights. Don’t engage until I tell you . . . going higher.” Dillon switched his radio to the task force command frequency. “Tiger Six, Steel Six.”
“Tiger Six,” answered Estes.
“Tiger Six, Steel Six. We can take out those Hinds and attack as planned. The lead echelon of the Madinah is far enough . . . Tiger Six, if we don’t do something fast, 2-8 is going to get eaten up, over.”
As Dillon waited for Estes to reply, he looked south toward their old position. Most of the 2-8 Infantry vehicles were popping their onboard smoke generators and attempting to exfiltrate. To stay in their holes was to die. As they moved out, they presented even more tempting targets. Three more Bradleys fireballed.
“This is Tiger Six. Concur. Going higher to pass on to Striker Six. Take them out.”
Dillon wasted no time in dropping to company command. “Guideons, Steel Six . . . one round each at those Hinds. Platoon leaders, ensure you’re not double-pumping. Listen up, people. As soon as you fire, we attack. Surprise will be lost and we’ll need to move. . . . All Steel elements, one round sabot, helos, at my command. . . . Fire!”
Madinah Division Forward Headquarters, Northern Kuwait
25 October, 0302 Hours Local
“Tell the helicopters to continue their attack!” screamed Staff Brigadier General Sufian, commander of the Madinah. “I want half of the Americans dead and the other half in shock when we roll into them!”
Standing in the turret of a BMP command and control vehicle just behind the helicopters and in the lead of his division, Sufian intended to win at all costs. He did not know what was going on in the north, but he had received enough conflicting orders tonight to understand that a shake-up was occurring—and that Abdul Aref was still in power. He had not heard from General Abunimah for hours, so the old man had fallen out of favor. That left but one course of action—to carry out Aref’s orders to the letter.
So far his division had performed flawlessly. The Hinds had surprised the Americans. As he watched, two more fires appeared in the south. More Americans dead. Excellent.
To his front, red tracers streaked from left to right. The sound of thunder overrode his vehicle’s engine n
oise. Then the unthinkable happened. His ten helicopters—his precious Hinds—fell from the sky in flames.
Attack Position Nirvana, Northern Kuwait
25 October, 0305 Hours Local
“Red! Move out in the lead of the wedge! Blue, take left. White, right! Move, move, move!” yelled Dillon into his boom mike. He switched to intercom. “Tommy, follow a hundred meters behind C-11.”
“You got it, sir.” The crew rocked backward as the big tank moved out.
Surprise was gone. The 3rd Brigade now had to live up to their name, the Strikers, and hit the Madinah fast and furious, whittling down the enemy’s numbers in short order. Dillon checked his company’s alignment as they moved forward in the attack. First Platoon led in a wedge formation. Second Platoon was moving into their assigned position on the right flank. Third Platoon moved to the left flank. Cold Steel was now a spear, a sharp and deadly spear aiming for the heart of the Madinah.
The remaining company teams of 2-77 Armor oriented off of Dillon’s unit. To the left, Anvil moved into a wedge. Stuart and Team Knight moved up on the right. All of the elements of the task force were in position as the attack on the Madinah commenced.
In front of Dillon, the tanks of Wyatt’s platoon opened fire. The other platoons followed suit. The battle damage assessment reports began flowing in.
“Guideons, Steel Six. Save the reports. Kill ’em now, we’ll sort ’em later. Out.”
Jones turned to Sheldon. “Buck, shift the artillery south onto the Hamourabi! I don’t want those fuckers getting a chance to sneak in the back door!”
He switched his attention to Proctor. “Tom, what’s Spartan’s status?”
The Striker S3 bounced in the back of the Bradley. Not able to hear the joint task force over his CVC, he’d stuck a handset beneath the helmet’s earcup. He turned to Jones. “Sir, they’re moving into position as we speak.”
Jones swayed in the rear compartment of the Bradley as it raced across the desert. “Marvelous! Keep me posted. I’m going up top.”
Madinah Division Forward Headquarters, Northern Kuwait
25 October, 0315 Hours Local
“General Falahi, you must bring your division forward! We have moved into a trap and are surrounded! We have American units on each of our flanks. I need you here to support our attack! Acknowledge!”
Falahi, commander of the Hamourabi, acknowledged the distress call. He had been monitoring the events to his south. Since his division had continued moving as his sister division paused for the helicopter attack, they would soon be in position to come to their aid. “We are moving toward you now. We will be in position in five minutes.”
Phase Line Buford, Northern Kuwait
25 October, 0317 Hours Local
Two kilometers northwest of 3rd Brigade, the 2nd Brigade of the 3rd Infantry Division pulled on line. M1A1 and Bradley commanders made final adjustments to thermal sights, fine-tuning their pictures on the approaching enemy formation. The Hamourabi Division—Iraq’s prized mechanized infantry—slowly approached an invisible line in the sand that marked 2nd Brigade’s trigger point. Fingers twitched and vehicle commanders issued preparatory fire commands as the first enemy vehicles crossed the line of death, blissfully unaware of their circumstances.
Colonel John Seacourt, Spartan Six, lowered his PVS-7s. The enemy had moved far enough into the kill zone that few, if any, would escape. “Task force commanders, it’s your fight. Engage and destroy. Out.” Two seconds later, hundreds of 120mm sabot rounds, TOW missiles, and high explosive mortars were on a collision course for the advancing Hamourabi.
3rd Brigade Axis of Attack, Northern Kuwait
25 October, 0330 Hours Local
Doc Hancock stood in the turret of C-21 as Steel and the rest of 2-77 Armor attacked west. Things had gone well thus far. His platoon hadn’t lost anyone and they’d destroyed at least ten enemy vehicles. From what he could see, the Madinah Division was attempting to break contact and head north.
Small pockets of resistance kept flaring up as the more disciplined of the Iraqi units held their ground while others displaced under their covering fire. Hancock had to acknowledge that the Republican Guard were better fighters than he’d been led to believe.
Doc slammed into the side of the cupola as his gunner fired another main gun round. Momentarily blinded by the white flash from the muzzle as he stood in the cupola, the lieutenant rubbed his eyes. “Thanks for the heads up, Izzo,” he said over the intercom.
The gunner sounded contrite. “Sorry, sir. That bastard popped up and was lookin’ right at us.”
Lifting the PVS-7s that hung from his neck, Doc scanned left. His platoon was maintaining their position off of First Platoon. Looking right, he saw the beginnings of a problem.
“Steel Six, White One, over.”
“Steel Six.”
Doc could hear the adrenaline pumping in Dillon’s voice. The company had been in the attack for twenty minutes. Twenty minutes of rapid movement across the desert, at night, firing at and being engaged by an enemy force, and the whole time trying to keep their alignment with each other and the rest of the task force so one friendly didn’t shoot another. The inherent anxiety of the mission was beginning to tell on every man in the company.
“This is White One. We’re developing a seam between our right flank and Team Knight. Knight needs to pick up the pace, over.”
The pause over the radio told Doc that Dillon was checking out the gap himself. “Roger, I see it. Going higher to coordinate with Knight. Red, slow it down a little until Knight closes up. White and Blue, maintain your positions off of Red. Out.”
Doc was just dropping to relay instructions to his platoon when his tank shuddered and ground to a halt. Momentarily blinded by the sparks of what had to have been a direct hit by a sabot round, he dropped inside the turret. The first thing he noticed was the smell of smoke. As his vision cleared, he saw flames licking up from beneath the turret floor. The turret’s sensors kicked on the automatic fire suppression systems. A white cloud of halon enveloped the interior of the tank as the fire suppressant suffocated the flames. Two seconds later the fire sprang back to life.
“Son of a bitch!” screamed Doc. “Crew! Evacuate the tank!”
Another detonation from nearby jarred the crew. Sticking his head through the turret, Doc saw his wingman tank, C-22, stationary and burning, its gun tube hanging at an odd angle from the catastrophic hit that the Abrams had suffered.
Dropping back into the turret, Doc saw his loader moving. As the soldier jumped through his hatch, he was knocked flat. “Shit . . . sir, I’m hit!”
“Just stay flat on the turret!” Hancock yelled. “We’ll get you when we clear out.”
“Sir, Cramer’s not responding in the driver’s hole!” called Sergeant Izzo, C-21’s gunner. “His hatch is locked down, so we’re going to have to get him out from the inside! Rotate the gun over the rear while I move to grab him!”
The smoke inside the turret was getting thick. They didn’t have much time. Reaching down and grabbing the control handle, Doc rotated the tank’s turret. The only way to access the driver’s compartment from inside the tank was for the gun to be over the rear deck. Once there, Sergeant Izzo could reach through a small opening and pull the injured driver free.
Feeling the tank shudder from another enemy hit, Doc popped his head through the hatch again. He immediately saw the problem. A platoon of T-72s had found the gap between Knight and Steel. Someone had apparently forgotten to tell these guys they were supposed to be retreating, thought Doc. Behind the platoon, he saw more enemy tanks moving to follow the group shooting at them. “Shit! Izzo, get in the loader’s station!”
“Sir, we don’t have time to be fuckin’ around!”
Doc looked down at his gunner. That’s okay. He’s bitching—which is understandable since we’re on fire—but he’s moving. “Load sabot!”
“Up!”
Laying his reticle on the nearest Iraqi tank, Doc lased
. “On the way!” The tank rocked backward. The T-72 in his sight stopped as if it had hit a brick wall and flames rolled from it.
“Target! Give me another one!” Looking down, Doc saw Sergeant Izzo slamming another sabot round in the breech. The flames in the bottom of the tank cast an eerie light on the NCO’s features. He looked like a damned soul stoking hell’s furnace.
“Up! Sir, that’s going to have to do it! This fire ain’t goin’ to wait for us!”
Looking through the sight extension, Doc saw an eager T-72 move around his burning buddy. “On the way!” Again the American tank rocked as the main gun of C-21 engaged for the final time.
Doc quickly rotated the turret over the rear deck. “That’ll hold ’em for a minute, Sergeant Izzo. Get ready to grab Cramer.”
The gunner moved back to the turret floor. As the driver’s compartment rotated into view, Sergeant Izzo reached out a hand and grabbed the unconscious soldier. “Cramer! Come on, man, we got to get out of . . . Cramer?” The head rolled back. Glazed, staring eyes and the unnatural angle of the soldier’s neck told the sergeant all he needed to know. “Sir . . . he’s dead.”
“Okay, get the fuck out of there!”
“But Cramer. We can’t leave him—”
“We don’t have time, Iz! Get the fuck out . . . now!”
Jumping out his hatch and seeing the figure struggling on the top of the turret, Doc remembered their loader. PFC Gilreath was trying to wrap a tourniquet around his leg. Blood had soaked through the Nomex legs of his pants and was rapidly puddling beneath him. Seeing his lieutenant exit the turret, the boy turned and smiled through clenched teeth. “Hey, sir. Sounds like you guys have been busy down there. Could I get a little help now?”
Izzo burst through the loader’s hatch next to them. “Sir, she’s getting ready to blow!”
The old girl had given all she could. With multiple hits through the hull and engine compartment, C-21 had stayed intact long enough to give her crew the time they needed. She could give no more.
Tin Soldiers Page 29