by Harold Coyle
Fifty yards away, by the tunnel entrance, Captain Smithy waited impatiently while the demolition team finished placing their charges. Though they had planned on such an eventuality, Smithy was upset that they hadn't been able to drop the guards before they closed the door. It would have been, he thought, so much quicker, so much easier.
To his rear, Smithy could hear the third and last wave of Blackhawks lifting off, telling him that the last of his company was in. Turning his head, he watched as the 2nd Platoon began to deploy to the left of the 1st Platoon, now in positions along the outer perimeter fence. The guard shack at the outer perimeter fence was where the two platoons came together and, because it was centrally located and easy to find, served as the company headquarters. Noticing the Russian airborne major standing next to the door of the guard shack, Smithy watched him for a moment. Smithy didn't like that Russian. While the fat major was a nuisance, he at least seemed friendly; and besides, his knowledge of the site had been and continued to be useful. Major Ilvanich, however, was different. He had a sinister air about him. Smithy had decided early that this man, laconic and stone-faced, was not to be trusted. As Smithy watched, Ilvanich moved away from the guard shack, unslinging his AK assault rifle and working its bolt while he looked around, observing the deployment of the 2nd Platoon. Wondering why he wasn't staying with Zack, as he had been told, Smithy was about to go over and find out when the sergeant in charge of the demolition team tapped Smithy on the shoulder. "We're ready to blow it, sir."
Anxious to get on with this, Smithy forgot about the Russian major and shifted his full attention to the matter at hand. Slapping the demo team leader on the side of the arm, Smithy yelled, "Okay, let's get this show on the road."
Turning, the demo sergeant cupped his hands over his mouth, yelling, "FIRE IN THE HOLE! FIRE IN THE HOLE! FIRE IN THE HOLE!" before giving one of his people the high sign to set off the charge.
Followed by the fat Russian major, Smithy moved around to the front of the protective barrier that had failed to save the two Ukrainian guards, yelling to the 3rd Platoon leader to be ready to rush the tunnel as soon as the charge went off. Ducking behind the concrete wall, Smithy prepared to wait until the blast door had been breached and the 3rd Platoon had completed their forced entry. While he waited, Smithy watched the members of 2nd Platoon who had not yet deployed seek cover. For the first time it dawned upon him that the floodlights were still on, bathing the entire area in light and making every move around the tunnel entrance visible for miles. Smithy was still debating whether this was good or bad when the demo charge went off.
At the other end of the tunnel, a group of Ukrainian soldiers peered over their hastily constructed barricade while they watched and waited nervously for their attackers to show themselves. Behind them, their commander, Captain G. Biryukov from the Ukrainian internal security forces, wondered what was going on outside. Except for a single panicked call from a guard at the entrance to the tunnel informing him that they were under attack, he knew nothing. In fact, Biryukov didn't even know that their assailants were Americans. Like everyone else in the tunnel, Biryukov assumed they were Russians. He had in fact even reported that to the reaction force. Efforts to report his situation to the commander of the Ruthenian military district using the direct line to the district command and control bunker east of Mukacevo had failed. That line, for some reason, was dead.
Nervously glancing around, Biryukov began to reconsider the wisdom of making a stand in the assembly chamber. At first he had considered surrendering this cavernous hall to the attackers and withdrawing his men to the two storage chambers below. That would have placed two massive barriers between his men and the Russians—the blast door at the entrance to the tunnel and the steel doors at both ends of the separate elevator shafts that serviced each of the two lower chambers. It had been a tempting thought, an option which he now regretted that he had not taken. To do so, of course, would not only have surrendered the assembly chamber, it would have meant splitting his meager force in half, with one group going down to protect the casings and triggering mechanisms in one chamber to the right of the assembly chamber while the others went down to protect the plutonium cores, the heart of the nuclear devices, which were kept in the other lower chamber to the left. In the end the fact that there were no communications facilities to the outside world in either of the lower chambers had tipped the scale in favor of holding on to the assembly chamber as long as possible. Besides, at the time Biryukov had made his decision, something that he had always found difficult, he had reasoned that if things went bad and the reaction force didn't make it to him before the Russians broke in, he could always retreat down to the other chambers. It was a safe compromise, one which he could justify to his superior.
When the thought that he would never have the need to justify it occurred to Biryukov as he watched and waited with his men, he called his deputy, a young lieutenant, and a sergeant over. Both men pulled themselves away from their positions at the barricade and trotted over to where Biryukov stood next to the elevator shaft leading to the chamber where the plutonium cores were stored. After the lieutenant and sergeant presented themselves, Biryukov looked at the main tunnel entrance, then at each of the two men before him. "Lieutenant Sorokovoy, give Sergeant Popel your key."
Startled by the order, both Sorokovoy and Popel turned and looked at each other wide-eyed before turning back to face their commander. The key in question was one of a pair that was needed to initiate the self-destruct sequence designed as a last-ditch effort to deny capture of weapons at the storage facility. According to regulations, only officers were permitted to carry the keys. Even under the most extreme circumstances, no one had ever thought of relinquishing control of a key except to another officer authorized to have it. So Biryukov's order was a shock to both his subordinates.
With both men staring at Biryukov, he took a deep breath. "Unless the main reaction force arrives in the next few minutes, we will lose this facility. My orders are to prevent the loss of any weapons. Since I am unable to contact the commander of the reaction force or the military district command post, I must assume the worst and prepare to execute my orders." Biryukov paused to let what he had just said sink in. "Lieutenant Sorokovoy, you will remain with the main force here on this level and hold for as long as you can. Sergeant Popel will accompany me with two men to the lower level and wait as long as we can before initiating the sequence."
Still stunned, neither Sorokovoy nor Popel responded at first. Instructions for activating the small atomic demolition device that would destroy the storage site in order to prevent compromise were classified top secret and were supposed to be known only by the officers of the guard. That every sergeant in the force knew how to do it was an open secret. Still, thoughts of the consequences of admitting it, even under these circumstances, caused the sergeant to hesitate.
An ear-splitting blast wrenched Biryukov's attention back to the far end of the tunnel. The Russians were attempting to breach the blast door. From somewhere to his right a sergeant yelled to his men, "Here they come!"
Biryukov looked toward the door, then back at his subordinates, yelling as he did so. "Lieutenant Sorokovoy, the key. Give the key to Sergeant Popel now!" Sorokovoy, also looking toward the tunnel entrance, pulled the key from around his neck and offered it to Popel without looking. Popel, knowing what all of this meant, took the key dangling from a chain and held it at arm's length as if it were a poisonous snake. Only Biryukov's shouted orders got him to react.
"All right, Lieutenant Sorokovoy, you have your instructions. Do the best you can and pray the reaction force reacts." When Sorokovoy was gone, Biryukov reached out and grasped Popel on his shoulder. "Come, Sergeant. Stay next to me. And whatever happens up here, we must make it down that elevator. Understood?"
After Popel nodded, Biryukov moved closer to the barricade. Like everyone else, he lowered his head and steadied his weapon. As he watched and waited for the assault force to come, a gray cloud ca
used by the explosion crept down toward them, filling the chamber with acrid smoke. Instead of a stampede of boots, however, the first noise that came from the gray cloud was a series of clicks and hisses. It took Biryukov a second to understand what was happening. When he did, his warning was cut short by a series of pops as the flash grenades went off and flooded the tunnel with blinding light.
Damn, he thought as he rubbed his eyes. Damn! You fool, you know better. You know the drill. Blind the defenders with smoke or flash grenades and then attack. It was a standard drill for the KGB strike teams. Still unable to see, Biryukov was alerted by a new series of pops and hissing sounds to the next step in the KGB drill. Reaching down, Biryukov grabbed for his chemical protective mask, yelling as he worked to pull it out of its carrier, "GAS! GAS! GAS!"
Though the second series of grenades were only HC grenades, white smoke, Biryukov and his men had no way of knowing and were not about to take a chance. Had they realized that the attackers were American rangers and not KGB, they might have forgone the hassle of putting on their protective masks. As it was, the smoke grenades worked better than Smithy could have hoped. The Ukrainians were struggling with their protective masks when Smithy's 3rd Platoon came out of the white cloud and fell upon Biryukov's men.
The run from the border into the center of Uzhgorod was fast, wild, and unopposed. Following the cavalry troop that led the 1st Brigade into the Ukraine, Company C, 3rd Battalion, 3rd Infantry, under the command of Captain Nancy Kozak, prepared to turn south on the road for Chop. While her driver kept the last vehicle of the cavalry troop in sight, Kozak stood upright in the open hatch of her M-2 Bradley infantry fighting vehicle, alternating between looking down at the map she held in one hand and up as she tried to read the street signs and look for landmarks she had been briefed on. Not wanting to miss her turn, Kozak paid scant attention to the scene around her. She noted that the streetlights were still on, indicating that the Ukrainians were taken by complete surprise, and wondered how long that would last. Kozak didn't pay any attention to the people of Uzhgorod, shaken out of a sound sleep by the rumbling of the cavalry troop's sixty-three-ton tanks, as they pulled the shades of their bedroom windows back to see who was invading their country this time. Kozak didn't even seem to be aware of a police car, lights flashing, as it came out of a side street, stopping just short of the main road leading from the border. The startled policeman driving saw the armored vehicles, slammed on the brakes, and immediately backed up without hesitation or looking behind him. Though the policeman had no idea who or why his city was being overrun by armored vehicles, he knew that at that moment there was little he could do.
When Kozak saw the turnoff, she keyed the intercom on her helmet and shouted to her driver to make a hard right. Gripping onto the lip of her hatch, Kozak hung on as the Bradley made the sharp turn that almost carried them into a line of parked cars that lined the street. Once they were on the road to Chop, Kozak leaned over and looked to her rear to make sure that the platoon following her also made the turn. In the bright light provided by the overhead streetlights, Kozak began counting vehicles as they made the turn until her own Bradley went around a slight curve that blocked her view. By that time, she had seen all four Bradleys of her 2nd Platoon, as well as the lead tank of the attached tank platoon, make the turn.
Satisfied that everyone in her company team would make the turn and that they were on the right road, Kozak turned to the front, looking at the shops and apartment buildings that lined the street on either side. There was little difference between the streets and shops here and those they had seen in Czech towns and villages. Those, in turn, had reminded her of the towns and villages in Germany, except that the German buildings were more modern, cleaner, and more colorful. Before turning her thoughts back toward her mission, it dawned upon Kozak that this whole region, with its buildings and dingy towns nestled in the hills and mountains connected by twisting roads, reminded her of Pittsburgh. Strange, she thought. In her two years in Germany she had been with armored columns running through towns and across the countryside without giving it a second thought. The idea of doing so in Pittsburgh, however, was totally beyond her. When the last of the streetlights whizzed by as her Bradley raced out of the narrow streets of the town and into the dark countryside, Kozak looked back at Uzhgorod one more time. I guess, she thought, these people are used to this sort of thing by now.
From the second-story window of his small bedroom, a middle-aged Ukrainian shopkeeper watched the parade of armored vehicles roll by in the street below. Across the room, sitting up in their bed, his wife waited, struggling to overcome her fright and join her husband. Unable to do so, she called from the bed, "Josef, is it the Russians?"
At first he didn't answer. It had been a long time since he had served in the Red Army. But as a gunner on a tank stationed in East Germany, he had been trained well to recognize enemy vehicles. The sight of those vehicles right there under his own bedroom window was a shock. Finally, when he did answer, Josef meekly mumbled, "No, not Russians."
That statement made his wife's eyes grow large as she threw her hands up over her mouth. "Oh, my God, not the Germans, again?"
Turning, Josef looked at his wife. He was about to ridicule her for making such a silly statement, but then stopped. In this world of theirs, turned upside down, anything, including their worst nightmare, was possible. So instead of chiding his wife for making such a foolish comment, Josef walked across the darkened room, reassuring her as he did so. "No, it's only the Americans."
The high-pitched whine of a BTR armored personnel carrier racing up the road toward their position caused Ilvanich to turn his attention away from the echo of gunfire and grenade blasts coming from the tunnel and to the road outside the chainlink fence. It was the reaction force, finally. Looking at his watch, Ilvanich noted the time. Slow, he thought. They were too slow and now too late. A Russian reaction force, he reasoned, would have been there in half the time. How fortunate for the Americans, Ilvanich thought, that they are only pitted against Ukrainians and not Russians.
The American reaction to this new threat, however, was not slow. Along the perimeter fence, near the cinder block guard shack, one of the squad leaders shouted back to his platoon leader, "BTR on the road, coming up fast and dumb." At first Ilvanich considered the sergeant's report to be rather flippant and unmilitary. Then after thinking about it for a moment, Ilvanich chuckled. As he peered into the night beyond the glare of the bright security lights in an effort to spot the reaction force's BTR armored personnel carrier, Ilvanich decided that the American sergeant's report was in fact quite accurate. The Ukrainians were coming on too fast and in a manner that all but guaranteed their demise. Though dumb was not quite the word he would have chosen, Ilvanich reminded himself that the Americans had a unique unmilitary style that defied all logic and common sense.
Deciding that it would not be a good idea to stay next to the cinder block building once the shooting started, Ilvanich looked for a spot on the firing line along the chainlink fence that would offer both cover and a vantage point. When he saw what he was looking for next to a soldier with a squad automatic weapon, Ilvanich glanced down at his assault rifle to ensure that the safety was engaged before moving over to his new position. His pace was deliberate, not hurried, and he continued to look into the darkness for the approaching BTR.
Kevin Pape could feel himself getting excited. This was it! This was no bullshit, for a real enemy armored personnel carrier was coming after them. It wasn't a plywood panel like the ones they used on the squad assault range at Grafenwöhr. It wasn't a vismod, a mock vehicle with a fiberglass and sheet-metal shell made up to look like a BTR like the ones they went against at the maneuver training area at Hohenfels. This one was real, brim full of pissed-off Ukrainians who were coming after him and the rest of 2nd Squad. Pape didn't feel the cold. He didn't notice the Russian major settle down into a prone position next to him. All Pape's attention was focused where the road disappeared into th
e darkness as he listened to the noise of the BTR grow as it closed on their position. Flexing his right index finger, Pape lightly stroked the trigger of his weapon and waited.
To Pape's right, Sergeant Couvelha called out to his men armed with AT-4 anti-tank rocket launchers. "Billy, you fire first. And make sure you call out your range before you do." Couvelha twisted his head toward the second soldier. "Ned, listen up for Billy's range and watch where his rocket hits. Make your correction if you need to, then fire. Got it?"
Billy, intently staring through the sight of his rocket launcher, said nothing. He only nodded, a nod that Couvelha didn't see, not that he needed to. Billy was young but he was solid and dependable. Couvelha knew Billy had heard. Ned, a smile on his face, turned to Couvelha. "No sweat, Sarge."
Couvelha shook his head. Unlike Billy, Ned was a little too cool, too cocksure of himself for Couvelha, which is why Ned fired second. He was about to tell Ned that he had better pay attention to his front when Billy yelled, "RANGE, TWO HUNDRED METERS! FIRING!"
Billy's announcement gave everyone on the firing line a second to prepare themselves. Half of the men, looking elsewhere, hadn't seen the BTR as it emerged from the darkness. Even when he followed the road, Pape still could not see it. "WHERE? WHERE IS THE FUCKER? I DON'T SEE—"
The snap that announced the ignition of the AT-4's rocket motor, followed by a whoosh as the rocket left the tube, cut Pape short. Watching the rocket, Pape was blinded when the shaped-charge warhead made contact with the BTR head-on. The jet stream formed by the explosion of the rocket's inverted cone-shaped warhead cut through the armor of the BTR's front slope just below the roof. Missing the driver's head by inches, the jet stream hit the BTR's gunner square in the stomach after cutting through the ammunition feed chute that fed linked rounds to the BTR's 14.5mm machine gun. The driver was startled by the sudden explosion on the BTR's front slope, followed by the spray of molten metal thrown off by the jet stream as it raced past his head, and the screams of the gunner accompanied by the pop, pop, pop of 14.5mm rounds going off behind him. His first reaction was to slam on the BTR's brakes and duck his head, a motion that caused him to jerk the wheel to the left.