by Harold Coyle
Watching where Billy's round struck, and noting that it appeared a little high, Ned laid the two-hundred-meter range line of his rocket launcher's sight on the center of the BTR, now slowing and offering an oblique shot as it turned. Lowering the muzzle of his AT-4 ever so slightly, Ned yelled out, "RANGE, ONE EIGHTY. FIRING," then let fly with his rocket. Though it was not a catastrophic hit, Ned's rocket ended any desire by the startled BTR's crew and passengers to stay with their vehicle. They didn't even wait for the driver to bring the BTR to a complete stop before hatches and doors flew open.
Checking himself, Pape flipped the safety off of his weapon with his thumb and continued to wait until the Ukrainian infantry squad began to spill out before he opened fire. Using the range announced by Ned to sight his weapon, Pape opened with a killing burst, hitting one Ukrainian before he could completely emerge from the BTR's side door. The Ukrainian's forward momentum, assisted by the shoving of the man behind him, cleared the line of sight for Pape to fire on the next man coming out the door. The second Ukrainian never realized that his companion had been hit, a fate that he soon suffered himself as Pape squeezed off a second short burst.
From inside the BTR, a flame shot out of the opened door, followed by a muffled explosion. A secondary detonation, probably an anti-tank rocket stored inside the BTR just like the one that had stopped it, went off, ending the short anti-armor ambush.
Seeing no more targets, Pape eased up, noticing for the first time that the Russian major was staring at him. While holding his weapon steady, Pape twisted his head and looked at the Russian lying less than a meter away from him.
Ilvanich smiled at the American soldier. "You did well. That was excellent shooting. Two five-round bursts, two men dead."
Pape smiled. "Piece of cake, Major. Piece of cake."
Ilvanich continued to smile. "Yes, I am sure it was." These Americans, he thought, take this too casually. What will happen, he thought, when things begin to go against them. "Now you need to prepare for a deliberate attack, dismounted this time, that will come up, oh, over there, to your right."
Pape looked over to where the Russian major was pointing. "How do you know that?"
Ilvanich smiled. "Because, my friend, two months ago I was doing the same thing at a site like this. Those men out there may be Ukrainians, but they read the same books I do. There is a gully, three hundred meters over there, that leads almost up to the fence. It is mined near the fence, but the BTR will use it to close on us and dismount its troops."
Not sure about the Russian next to him, Pape looked at the major for a few seconds, then grunted. "Okay, you're the expert." After which he shifted his weapon to the right.
Fifty meters below Ilvanich and Pape, another battle was being waged. In this one the Americans also held the upper hand, a fact that Biryukov could not ignore. The fight, for him and his small detachment in the assembly chamber, had been a disaster. Coming out of the smoke, the enemy had been among his positions before his men had gotten a shot off. At point-blank range the Americans had all but wiped out Biryukov's command. Only the quick thinking of one of his sergeants saved Biryukov from dying in that first rush with the rest of his men. Not that salvation was going to last long. Unable to move because of a wound that laid most of his side open, Biryukov sat with his back to the wall looking at the elevator doors that led back up to the assembly chamber. Only he, Sergeant Popel, who had dragged him into the elevator, and one other man made it to the lower storage chamber. Though the elevator was locked, Biryukov could hear the Americans working on the other side, preparing charges to force the elevator doors on their level. They had time, but not much. Once the American demolition team was finished, they would have to climb out of the elevator shaft before setting off their charges. After that everything would go fast. First, if they were smart, the Americans would drop grenades to clear the shaft and area by the door. Then the assault force would rappel down on ropes to finish Biryukov and his tiny command before they had recovered from the grenades. It was simply a matter of time before the Americans seized the weapons he was charged with guarding, unless he did something.
Looking down the long corridor to his right, Biryukov turned his mind away from the coming fight. Yes, he thought, it would be quick. Though some of the attackers would surely die this time, there was only so much that his two men could do. The Americans, Biryukov knew, had come too far to stop. They would gladly fill the elevator shaft with their dead in order to seize the warheads that sat in the chambers on either side of the long corridor. That the Russians had somehow gotten the naive Americans to do their dirty work didn't surprise Biryukov. His father had always told him that while the Americans acted like cowboys, they thought like boy scouts. Looking back at Popel, Biryukov coughed, spitting up small clots of blood. "If they do not hurry, I fear I shall miss their grand entrance."
The sergeant, his face betraying no emotion, nodded. "It shall not be long, Captain. I believe that they are climbing back up the elevator shaft. Once the demolition party is cleared, they will set off the charge. Then..."
In the silence, the soldier crouching next to the elevator shaft looked at the sergeant, then at Biryukov. His young face was contorted with fear and apprehension. He, like Biryukov and the sergeant, knew they had no chance. Still he refused to believe it. In his youth he refused to believe that there was no way out.
Coughing, Biryukov looked down the corridor again, then back at the sergeant. "Suppose, Sergeant, we decide not to cooperate with the enemy's plan?"
The young soldier piped up, "You mean we should surrender?"
Biryukov shook his head. "No. I doubt that they would be willing to take our surrender even if we were willing to offer it. After what happened up there, they have blood in their eyes." Biryukov paused, glancing once more down the long corridor before he continued without looking back at Popel. It was quiet, terribly quiet, like a tomb. "We must initiate the self-destruct sequence."
Popel didn't answer at first. Looking back at him, Biryukov forced a smile. "It is, Sergeant Popel, time to put your treasonable knowledge to use." Biryukov took his bloody hand away from his side and stretched it out. "As you can see, I cannot do it myself. I need your help, Sergeant." A spasm of pain went through Biryukov's body. Grabbing his side again, Biryukov forced himself to stifle a moan. When he could speak, Biryukov pleaded. "Please, Sergeant, hurry. We do not have much time. Do not fail me."
At the other end of the elevator shaft, Captain Smithy leaned over the open shaft, yelling to the last of the engineers struggling up the ropes to get a move on. This was taking too long for Smithy. The whole operation was not going the way he had wanted it to, and it was starting to piss him off. The gunfire from outside, barely audible to most of the men in his company that were in the assembly chamber, only served to increase Smithy's anger. Turning to the platoon leader standing next to him, Smithy blurted, "Why in the hell did those yahoos have to take the elevator down to where the warheads were stored? Geez, why couldn't they have used the other one? They really screwed this up." Smithy looked down the shaft and mumbled again, "They really screwed this up."
The platoon leader, not knowing if his company commander expected an answer, merely shrugged. How had the Ukrainians' action screwed up the operation? As far as the platoon leader could see, everything was in hand. They had cleared the upper chamber at the loss of one dead and three lightly wounded men. The initial portion of the Ukrainian reaction force was taken out by the rest of the company without any problem. And in a few minutes, after the elevator doors at the far end of the elevator shaft had been blown open, all they had to do was dump a few CS tear-gas and smoke grenades down the shaft, slide down the ropes, and clean up any Ukrainians who were still down there. The young platoon leader looked down the elevator shaft, then over at his commander, now pacing back and forth a few feet away, wondering what possibly could be wrong.
The attack by the second BTR had caught everyone, except Ilvanich, by surprise. No one had heard i
ts approach. Even the riflemen along the chainlink fence with night vision goggles failed to see the second part of the reaction force as it advanced up a gully to the right of the road. Only when a hail of 14.5mm rounds began to smack into the cinder block guard shack did the men of 1st Platoon go to ground and begin to search their assigned sectors in earnest.
"TO THE RIGHT. BTR WITH DISMOUNTED INFANTRY COMING UP ON OUR RIGHT."
As if to underscore the warning, a hail of small-arms fire flew over Pape's head from the direction of the gully that Ilvanich had pointed out to him. Looking over to the Russian, Pape saw that Ilvanich had his assault rifle up and was preparing to fire. "Son of a bitch! You were right!"
Ilvanich did not respond to Pape's comment. He only issued instructions to the surprised American. "Remember, you are shooting downhill. Aim lower than you normally would, otherwise your rounds will go harmlessly over their heads."
Turning back to his front, Pape prepared to fire. "Yeah. Aim low. Got it."
While Pape and Ilvanich were preparing to engage, First Lieutenant Zack climbed out of a rear window of the guard shack, which was still being chewed up by 14.5mm bullets from the BTR, and low-crawled over to the entrance of the tunnel where the company's 60mm mortar section was beginning to go into action. Excited and upset by the sudden attack, Zack urged the sergeant in charge of the mortar section to get a move on and start firing. The sergeant ignored Zack as he continued to direct the men manning the two 60mm mortars. Only when they were ready did the sergeant order his mortars to fire. With his right ear covered by the radio's hand mike, and the index finger of his left hand stuck in his left ear, the sergeant listened for corrections from the 1st Platoon, shouting orders when he got them.
When he heard the sergeant yell to his mortar crews that they were on target and to start pouring it on, Zack relaxed. Standing up, he brushed away the dirt and fragments of cinder block that covered his parka. There was nothing, he thought, that he needed to do at that moment. Turning, he looked down the long tunnel and wondered how his commander and the rest of the company were doing. He was about to begin walking down the tunnel to find out when the earth beneath his feet began to tremble. Believing that the Ukrainians were bringing up tanks, Zack turned away from the tunnel to walk away.
He did not, however, get far, as the ground beneath him seemed to heave up. Not understanding what was happening, Zack turned back toward the tunnel opening and watched in horror as an immense, bright yellow fireball, propelled by a series of low-yield nuclear detonations, was forced up the elevator shaft, through the assembly chamber, and out the access tunnel straight at him.
CHAPTER 3
7 JANUARY
The casual early-evening business-as-usual attitude that had dominated the operations center of the Air Force's Space Command buried deep inside of Cheyenne Mountain, Colorado Springs, was gone. It had evaporated the instant that data from the DSP East satellite and the Nuclear Detection System sounded the alert that a nuclear detonation had taken place in the Ukraine. If anyone in the facility that night had been able to detach themselves from their duties and step back and watch, they would have noted two things. First, they would have taken great pride in the manner in which the event was handled. The equipment and systems responded without a problem. Information came into the operations center from satellites, remote sensors, and subordinate units where it was electronically routed to the appropriate Air Force men and women of Space Command in timely manner. Staff officers, given that information, analyzed it, made their assessments, and passed those assessments on to their superiors, both inside the Mountain and around the world. Everything, equipment and people, responded as programmed. It would, in fact, have been difficult for the unattached observer to tell the difference between this event and numerous drills conducted if it were not for the oppressive silence.
That silence, not obvious at first, spoke of the seriousness of the situation. For the first time since a bomb called "Fat Man" had been detonated above Nagasaki, a nuclear device had been set off in anger. Though initial information indicated that it had been only a small device, the size was immaterial. The nice clean surgical strike that the Pentagon briefers likened to the sure, precise prick of a rapier had turned into a radioactive bludgeon.
From his observation booth, the commander of Space Command sat looking down at the legion of staff officers and airmen as they went about their tasks in almost complete silence. Even the atmosphere in the observation booth, where senior officers normally congregated and held lofty discussions on world strategy during drills and training exercises, was heavy with gloom and apprehension. Only the buzz from the phone that provided a direct link with the White House War Room disturbed the ponderous quiet. Everyone in the observation booth watched as their commander, who had been sitting with elbows planted on the desk before him and his face resting between his open hands, sat up and reached out and grabbed the phone. His response was curt, almost plaintive. "Nolan here."
As the staff watched their commander, General Nolan visibly straightened up, telling them that he was in all probability talking to the President. It was several seconds, while Nolan listened to the caller, before his response confirmed that assumption. Finally he responded, shaking his head as he did so. "No, Madam President, there is nothing more that we can do from here at this moment. We have oriented every satellite that we can on the targeted area. It would not, in my opinion, be advisable to divert any additional assets away from their assigned missions. We must continue to monitor other areas of interest to determine what response, if any, the Ukraine, as well as other nations, are taking as a result of this event."
Nolan's aide found the use of the soft, rather nondescript word "event" to describe the detonation of a nuclear device rather foolish. Perhaps, he thought, using a softer word would make this disaster easier to deal with. Still he said nothing as he watched his boss nod his head. "I have been in direct contact with my British and French counterparts. While we all agree that we must be careful not to overreact, I must advise you that both the British and French feel the need to advise their governments that it would be in their own interests to increase their readiness posture." There was a pause before Nolan answered with a sigh. "Yes, I do believe the Brits and French spoke to each other before speaking to me. In my opinion, as the senior nuclear powers in Western Europe, they will coordinate their actions on behalf of the European Community." After another pause, Nolan simply hung up the phone and eased back in his chair, indicating that the President had terminated their conversation.
Nolan's aide watched his commander for a moment before speaking. "I'm sure, sir, it's times like this that make you wish you were somewhere else."
Nolan swiveled his chair around to face his aide. "No, Jack. You're wrong. For us, the worst is over. All we need to do is sit here, watch our scopes, and report what we see. It's the idiots who thought up this operation in Washington that have to explain away this mess and the poor bastards in the Ukraine that have to sort it out that I feel for. And believe me when I tell you, that the radiation from Svalyava won't even begin to compare to the political fallout that our noble administration is going to suck down as a result of this screw-up." Turning back to face the operations room, Nolan slumped down in his seat and mumbled, "No, today the Mountain suits me just fine."
Already at wit's end and nervous as hell, Second Lieutenant Tim Ellerbee all but jumped out of his skin when his platoon sergeant's tank, A34, sitting seventy-five meters to Ellerbee's left, fired. In an instant the stillness of the night was shattered by the ear-splitting crack of A34's 120mm main gun. Ellerbee's eyes flew open as he jerked his head up. Turning toward A34, he was blinded by the muzzle blast of A34's wing man, A33, who also fired. Recoiling from the effects of the sudden commotion, momentary blindness, and temporary disorientation, Ellerbee realized that he had fallen asleep. Despite the bitter cold that cut through his parka, despite the mission to secure the brigade's flank along the Latorica River, and despite his respon
sibility to cover the work of the engineer platoon as they prepared the highway bridge leading from Chop for demolition, Ellerbee had simply laid his head down on the machine gun mounted in front of his hatch and fallen asleep.
That he had fallen asleep should not have been a surprise. After all, the day before had been a busy one. Final precombat inspections and orders in their assembly area west of Michalovce consumed the entire afternoon. After a hot meal and nightfall, came a long, slow road march and occupation of an attack position just short of the Ukrainian border where final briefings were given and preparations made. With less than two hours of sleep, Ellerbee could have added to the normal apprehensions the emotions that all young soldiers going into battle for the first time experience. That strange feeling, a weird combination of fear of the unknown, apprehension, and impatience, crept into his tired mind every time there was a lull. That, coupled with the responsibilities of being a platoon leader and attached out with his platoon from his parent company to a mechanized infantry company, made for an almost overwhelming combination. At times, only his determination and pride kept him going. He was determined to show the mech infantrymen in the company his platoon was attached to that tankers were naturally superior beings. Just as important to Ellerbee was his male pride. He could not tolerate any sign of weakness, any indication that he was lacking as a man in any way when dealing with the commander of the infantry company to which his platoon was attached.
Such thoughts, however, were not on Ellerbee's mind at that moment as he tried to compose himself and figure out what was happening. Even before his night vision fully returned, he could make out that something on the south side of the river was burning. Twisting his head quickly this way, then that, Ellerbee was able to determine that his platoon sergeant, Sergeant First Class Ralph Rourk, had engaged some kind of vehicle on the far side of the river and had destroyed it. As he dropped down in his cupola, the first clear thought that came to mind was the hope that Rourk had not mistakenly engaged one of the engineer vehicles or a Bradley that was covering their work. His confidence that such a thing could not happen to him or his platoon evaporated as quickly as his confidence in his ability to understand what was happening. Hoping that his gunner had been alert, Ellerbee yelled, without bothering to key the intercom, "Tinker, did you see what Rourk fired at?"