Final Storm

by Maloney, Mack;

  Charged by the master blaster’s spark, the big gun roared again, sending a bright orange tongue of flame out of the end of the Abram’s barrel. The shot screamed over the heads of the clustered infantry but plowed smack into the BMP, which erupted in a mushroom-shaped orange fireball. Still fingering the Cadillacs, the gunner adjusted his aim down one half-mil and once again pressed the machine gun triggers.

  This time the tracers streamed directly into the kneeling form of the RPG gunner, cutting the forward Soviet infantryman in two at the waist. His partner, wounded as well, looked up from his own bloody legs to see the revolting scene, then passed out.

  LaRochelle was too busy to watch the RPG crew die; and he had no time to congratulate his gunner on the shot. In a treeline at nine o’clock from a range of just two thousand meters, he saw a peculiar flash and a cloud of smoke. A shudder ran through him—he’d seen enough training films to identify it as an antitank guided missile, probably a Soviet AT-4 “Spigot.”

  “Sagger! Sagger! Sagger!” he yelled, keying the microphone in his Combat Vehicle Crewman (CVC) headgear to the “transmit” position. It was the universal NATO warning for an anti-tank missile attack. Instantly all the tanks on CVC frequency began to move. Abandoning their hiding places, the tanks began driving evasively, jinking back and forth crazily in an effort to give the Soviet missileers tougher targets to hit.

  Their turbine engine whined as LaRochelle’s driver reacted to the implied command, moving the tank backward out of its battle position snug against the rock formation.

  Looking through the vision blocks, LaRochelle estimated that they would have another twenty meters to cross before they were screened from the missile’s path.

  “Driver! Jink for you life! Go! Go! Go!” the tank commander hollered into the intercom.

  The driver needed no further encouragement. He wheeled the tank madly to the left, hoping to present a more difficult target while also shifting to a forward gear to make a faster getaway.

  It was too late. Instantaneously the sixty-ton tank was shaken by a terrific blast. Each crewman rose out of his seat as flakes of paint showered down from the turret walls and roof. Dust rose from every nook and cranny, filling the air inside the turret. Wiring-harnesses, binoculars, kit-bags, notebooks, ration-packs, and other equipment were torn loose from retaining brackets, stowage trays and hiding places.

  LaRochelle’s head was filled with a loud ringing. Were it not for the hearing protection provided by their CVC headgear, the whole crew would have been completely deafened.

  “Driver!” he yelled above the reverb echoing in his ears, hoping that the stricken tank could still maneuver. Through the vision blocks the TC saw the smoking hulk of his wingman’s tank to the right. He reached for the keying switch on his radio microphone, issuing the orders for the unit to withdraw to the next line of battle positions. When he heard no static, he realized that the hit had knocked out the tank’s radio.

  “Driver—Move out—Position Bravo—Route Blue!” he yelled. He said a silent prayer that the surviving tankers would begin their withdrawal once the word was passed. He saw other Abrams throwing rooster tails of fine snow behind them, and he knew they’d gotten the word. He hoped that the Soviets would not be able to get any shots at them en route to the next position. That last hit had been too close for comfort.

  “Crew report!” LaRochelle announced over the intercom—at least that was still working.

  “Gunner up! Computer inop—turret power up,” said the man just below and in front of the tank commander.

  “Driver up—engine’s hot,” answered the unseen driver from his position in the forward belly of the big tank.

  “Loader up! Ammo door’s jammed!” the loader called out from the depths of the still-smoky turret interior.

  LaRochelle realized then that the Soviet missile must have penetrated the auxiliary ammunition compartment at the turret’s left rear corner. The terrific explosion that had rocked them was caused by several rounds of main gun ammo detonating simultaneously.

  Fortunately, the blast door had prevented the explosion from entering the turret, instead causing it to exit through blow-out panels in the top of the ammo compartment. Had their vehicle been an old M60 “Patton”—which lacked such a sealed compartment—the missile would almost certainly have killed everyone in the tank.

  He was never more glad that he was riding in an M1A1 Abrams.

  Momentarily just thankful to be alive, LaRochelle soon realized that he and his crew were still in a jam. They were still facing the large Soviet column in a tank with no communications, an inoperative fire-control system, and all they had to throw at the enemy were three HEAT rounds that were stowed in the ready rack next to the main gun.

  The American commander knew that his tank force had taken out several enemy vehicles—certainly more than they’d lost themselves. But the Soviets were still rolling forward across the open field with waves of armor.

  LaRochelle looked at the three meager shells in the ready rack, and at the grime-streaked faces of the other two men in the turret. He cursed the silent radio, wondering how they could hope to stop the Red Army’s juggernaut.

  He thought it would take nothing less than a miracle to save them all….

  Chapter 20

  HUNTER WAS THE FIRST one to see the long green streams of Soviet armor.

  It looked just like a flood. The enemy tanks and BMPs were spilling out onto the German countryside, emptying into a two-mile-wide field like a river delta meeting the sea. On the near side of the field were the rear guard NATO armored units, withdrawing from what had been a thin defensive line.

  Black scars in the earth with jagged metal centers marked the graves of both Soviet and NATO tanks. Though there were more smoking hulks on the Soviet side—Hunter counted about a dozen or so—the American tank company on the southern flank was particularly close to being overrun. Even as he approached the area, he could see the big Abrams tanks racing to their back-up positions, the Soviet T-80s in hot pursuit.

  Flying in the lead, Jones, too, took one look at the deteriorating NATO situation and knew what had to be done. Keying his microphone switch, he called back to the A-10 Thunderbolt flight commander, who was leading a squadron of sub-sonic ground support aircraft a few miles behind the F-16s.

  “Tango leader, commence attack immediately!”

  “Roger, Falcon Leader,” came the reply.

  The message had been received loud and clear by the A-10 flight leader, Captain Marcus A. Powers. Instantly he ordered his airplanes to peel off out of formation and drop to four hundred feet.

  Captain Powers armed his GAU-8 30mm Gatling gun, the rotary cannon nestled in the Thunderbolt’s fat nose. With the touch of the trigger, a full load of heavy, depleted-uranium slugs would pour out of the big gun, punching through the relatively thin armor on the tops of the Soviet tanks. For good measure, underneath their stubby wings, the A-10s carried Rockeye cluster bombs packed with anti-armor bomblets.

  One pass over the battlefield and Powers was able to select his targets. Dividing his squadron into four flights of three, he assigned each flight to one of the main columns of Soviet armor rolling down the roads into the battle area. Then dropping further still to just two hundred feet, he and his two wingmen lined up on the southernmost column of enemy tanks.

  The surprised Soviets didn’t have enough time to get off the road when the Thunderbolts swooped in for their first pass. Their mobile radar unit had disintegrated under a direct hit by the German artillery ambush a few miles back, and they hadn’t had time to bring up a replacement. The orders were to advance, prepared or not, and that’s just what they had done. The price for this adherence to orders was the blind-siding they received from the American attack planes.

  Captain Powers squeezed off several long bursts from his nose cannon into the stream of green Soviet armor on the roadbed below him. Bright flashes appeared under the A-10’s chin as the spent uranium slugs pumped out of the whir
ling barrels, lancing downward in cascading arcs toward the Soviets. His first volley struck a T-80 directly behind the turret, exploding the tank’s engine in a fireball. The torrent of heavy slugs walked back to the next tank in line, ripping jagged and flaming holes in its thin top armor as the deadly effects of the uranium burst the turret at its base, killing the crew in a fiery explosion.

  One of the Thunderbolts to Powers’s right found a Soviet fuel truck in the column, and its content erupted in a yellow-orange mushroom of flame that engulfed several surrounding vehicles.

  At the same instant the A-10 on Powers’s left caught a burst of anti-aircraft fire from a mobile Soviet Gatling-type battery. Spouting flame and smoke from under the wing, it staggered out of the battle area, engines missing sporadically, until a gray-black column of smoke could be seen rising from the horizon where he had plowed into the frozen ground.

  Powers suddenly found himself gulping oxygen from his mask like there was no tomorrow. It was his first taste of combat and he imagined he could feel his heart beating right out of his chest.

  “God help me,” he whispered to himself. “God help us all …”

  On the next pass, Powers ordered his Thunderbolts to dump their Rockeye clusters over the stalled Soviet columns. With morbid precision, literally hundreds of the armor-shredding bomblets rained down onto the enemy tanks, BMP armored personnel carriers, and other vehicles that made up the Soviet assault force.

  With a quick glance down and back from his high speed vantage point, Powers estimated that one in every three of four enemy vehicles were being hit by the deadly downpour.

  By their third pass, Powers could see the roads were now clogging up with the burning wreckage of many armored vehicles. But still the Soviet battle tanks poured out onto the open field—from the woods, from dry river beds, from smaller roads—roaring across open space to chase the retreating NATO armor. A fierce counter-volley from the M-1s and Leopards—coincidentally fired at the same time as the A-10s’ first pass—had momentarily stopped the advance in some places. But at the same time, more Soviet T-80s and T-72s were approaching on the main roads, maneuvering around the hulks of their less fortunate comrades’ tanks and joining the fray.

  Worse, two more of the attacking Thunderbolts were hit by ground fire on their bombing run and went down in side-by-side fiery crashes. At that point, Powers reluctantly gave the order to withdraw.

  Immediately Jones keyed his microphone and sent out an order to his F-16s: “Falcon Flight, first unit, commence ground support ops.”

  Instantly half the F-16s peeled off, leaving their eight counterparts to watch the skies for enemy fighters. The first unit pilots, led by Jones and Hunter, armed their 20-mm cannons while diving down to 200 feet.

  “Spread out wide on four,” Jones called back to his pilots.

  With aerial show precision, the eight airplanes lined up in two rows of four across. Now down to just 50 feet, the two quartets streaked over the covering forest on the southern edge of the plain and across the open field, their cannons roaring. The spontaneously combusted cannon shells found targets every few feet—tanks, BMPs, troop trucks and armored cars. The Soviet vehicles caught in the wall of cannon fire below tried desperately to zigzag their way out of the aerial assault. But for many, it was too little too late.

  Hunter was purposely seeking out and firing at the enemy’s fast-moving mobile guns. Keying in on the tracked vehicles’ distinctive outline, he sent fiery tongues of flame shooting out from the cannon muzzle on the left-hand side of his F-16’s fuselage, propelling a stream of shells aimed at the vehicles’ ammunition supply. Each time a unique, greenish fire burst forth from the tracked vehicle like a clustered fireworks display gone awry as dozens of rounds whizzed off in all directions.

  But still the Soviets came forward …

  There were now four hundred tanks deployed in the open field, rolling toward the sparsely populated line of NATO armor. If they got across the three-kilometer expanse of open ground, they would easily overwhelm the outnumbered American and German forces. And they would be across in less than ten minutes, even under the withering fire they’d received from the Thunderbolts and the F-16s.

  Pulling up and out of the long strafing run, Jones knew it was time to play his trump card.

  Punching in a pre-selected radio frequency, the general made a quick call to the orbiting B-52. Once its pilot assured him that he had been following the situation and that everything was “green,” Jones keyed his mike to the F-16 squadron’s channel.

  “Copperhead strike!” he shouted into his oxygen mask microphone. “Clear it out! Repeat. Copperhead!”

  Jones glanced back over his shoulder at the other F-16 pilots as they punched their afterburners, pumping raw JP-8 into their engines to give them an extra jolt of speed. With one eye on them, and the other on the dark speck above him that he knew was the B-52, Jones kicked his own afterburner and started orbiting in a high, wide circle over the battlefield, leaving lots of space between him and the open field full of Soviet armor.

  The huge bomb bays of the B-52 yawned open. Instantly hundreds of cylindrical projectiles came tumbling out of the big bomber’s belly and started plummeting to the ground, all the while spinning rapidly. Once clear of the B-52’s jetwash, each cylinder sprouted a small ram-air parachute to stabilize its descent.

  As the heavy cylinders plunged to three thousand feet, they discharged six submunitions, each of which blossomed with their own smaller vortex-ring parachutes. The submunitions spun in a slow, collapsing circle, suspended by the specially designed chutes that rotated them eight times per second. As they descended, the sensor heads activated their own infrared and millimeter-wave detectors which scanned the terrain below, seeking the hot exhausts and solid shapes of the Soviet armor.

  The sky above the large open field was black with pinwheeling parachutes, each cradling a warhead that was dangling at a 30-degree angle, sweeping in an ever-narrowing spiral to pick out a target for its lethal payload. Monolithic microwave integrated circuits fashioned from gallium arsenide sped through thousands of complex algorithms that separated their armored prey from the snowy background of the German field, homing in on the tanks.

  One by one, the sensors selected their victims. Once confirmed and “entered,” each projectile fired an explosive charge at the top of a Soviet tank. Each explosion propelled a metallic liner—a copper disk about the size of a dinner plate—directly down at its target with a velocity of ten thousand feet per second.

  The force of the explosion transformed the specially-shaped liners into elongated rods of white-hot molten copper, traveling at speeds faster than six thousand miles per hour. Like fiery thunderbolts flung from the heavens by angry titans, hundreds of the molten javelins flew down at the crawling green beasts with the red stars on their turrets. They found their mark with deadly accuracy, piercing the Soviet turret tops and boring through steel armor plate like hundreds of high-speed drill bits.

  The Soviet tanks quickly became armored coffins for their hapless crews. The white-hot rods punched through the steel plates to release bursts of fire and shrapnel inside the turrets. Hundreds of tanks lurched to a halt as the lethal darts found their mark in the metal, as turrets, engines, and ammunition erupted in huge geysers of fire and smoke.

  Dozens of T-80s were hit in their ammo compartments, detonating the shells and blowing the big turrets completely away from the tank bodies in brilliant explosions. Everywhere on the battlefield were wrecked tanks—burning, smoking hulks of torn metal whose shattered black shapes melted into the snow-covered field.

  Up along the roads leading into the battle area, more wreckage and carnage littered the roadways as the tanks had been pinned in long ribbons, making it possible for one explosion to destroy two or more armored vehicles at a time.

  The violent combined attack had lasted less than seven minutes, but it had broken the back of the Soviet armored assault, and allowed the surviving NATO armor to escape.

/>   Hunter and Jones were flying parallel above the smoking scene, surveying the weapons’ devastating effects.

  Hunter radioed to Jones to inquire about the nature of the air-launched missile.

  “That, Captain Hunter, was the first combat test of a SADARM—Sense and Destroy Armor—anti-tank smart munitions,” Jones answered. “I think the Soviets will have to agree that it was a complete success.”

  Jones was impressed with the destructive potential of the previously well-guarded top secret weapon. They had substantially accomplished their mission—to block this, probably the largest Soviet armored advance. But at the same time he knew that the secret SADARMs were at a premium—only a half dozen were thought to be in Europe at the moment. Plus, the weapon’s awesome destructive force could only be used under a very specific condition: that was, when the enemy massed his armor in a fairly wide open area. Jones was certain that once the word of the “Copperhead” strike made it back to the Red Army’s High Command, orders would be struck preventing such an open massing of Soviet armor again.

  Jones was about to sweep the area once more, when his radio suddenly crackled to life.

  “Bogeys at ten o’clock!” he heard Hunter’s distinctive Boston-accented voice call out.

  Jones quickly checked his cockpit radar, and initially saw nothing.

  But in the F-16 off to his right, Hunter wasn’t relying on electronic means to cue him of the threat. He had received the message through other channels.

  The feeling was washing over him, setting off the multiple alarm bells in his mind that always signaled imminent danger. A split second before the radar warning went off, Hunter already felt the presence of the enemy.

  Now, even before Jones’s own radar rang out the warning, Hunter had kicked in his afterburner and was climbing fast.

  Chapter 21

  THE FLIGHT OF SOVIET fighters had appeared in the eastern sky above the battlefield.