by Harold Coyle
Sergeant Tinker Shildon, Ellerbee's gunner, in his usual matter-of-fact New England accent and style, answered Ellerbee without moving his head away from the eyepiece of his primary sight or keying his intercom. "Yup. A tank. Looks like 34 got a tank. A T-80 from the looks of what's left of its turret."
Although every tank that wasn't American was a T-80 to Tinker, Ellerbee felt a rush of relief. At least his gunner was on the ball. Ellerbee's relief, however, was short-lived as the voice of the mech company commander came over the earphones of his crewman's helmet. "Alpha Three One, Alpha Three One, this is Charlie Six. Sitrep. Over." Even at that moment, when Ellerbee was still in the throes of confusion and near panic, the soft feminine voice coming over his tank's tactical radio bothered Ellerbee. It shouldn't have. He had told himself over the past three days that such trivial things should not bother him. After all, this was the twenty-first century, and women in combat arms had been a fact of life for many years. But it still did not seem right to him. The idea of going into battle with a woman, let alone listening to her orders, went against just about every convention his society had armed him with. The image of his company commander, standing at five foot eight, with big brown eyes that peered out from under the Kevlar helmet that hid long auburn hair and topped a well-proportioned body that wasn't an ounce over 135 pounds, did not even come close to what Ellerbee pictured as the typical infantryman.
Still she was his commander and at that moment demanding a report that Ellerbee was not prepared to render. Considering his options, Ellerbee tried to decide whether it was better to ignore her call while he contacted Rourk or to swallow his pride and admit over an open company radio net that he didn't know what was going on. Not that he needed to dwell on the subject for long. Taking a deep breath, Ellerbee keyed the radio net and blurted, "CHARLIE SIX, THIS IS ALPHA THREE ONE. WAIT, OUT." Without waiting for a response, Ellerbee released the lever on the side of his crewman's helmet that keyed the radio, reached over to the radio's remote control box, and changed the radio's frequency from the company command net to his platoon's radio net. She could wait, he thought. It was, after all, his platoon in contact.
A little less than a kilometer away, in a hidden position overlooking the bridge and river, Captain Nancy Kozak, commander of Charlie Company, 3rd Battalion, 3rd Infantry, sat perched on top of her Bradley. Looking out across the river at the burning hull of a T-80 tank, she thought a moment about Ellerbee's response. He didn't know what was going on. In her heart she knew without asking or needing to press the point. Easing herself down into her seat, Kozak looked over to her gunner, Sergeant Danny Wolf. There was a broad grin on Wolf's face. "The boy's fucked up, ain't he?"
Though Kozak didn't care for Wolf's referring to a second lieutenant as boy, she didn't say anything about it. Instead she nodded. "I think so. Let's find out." Bending over and twisting her body so that she was facing to the rear into the crew compartment of her Bradley, Kozak called out to Specialist Paul Paden, her radioman. "Pee, switch the aux receiver to the tank platoon's frequency."
Paden, whom everyone, including Kozak, referred to as Pee Pee, or Pee for short, was facing the radio. Acknowledging Kozak's order with a thumbs-up, Paden reached over to the auxiliary radio receiver and flipped the frequency control knobs until he hit the one assigned to Ellerbee's platoon. As soon as he did, the aux receiver's speaker came to life. "THREE FOUR, THREE FOUR, THIS IS THREE ONE. I SAY AGAIN, WHAT'S GOING ON OVER THERE? OVER." Ellerbee's voice was excited. Wolf chuckled. "Told you he was fucked up."
From a distance the report of a tank firing drifted over to Kozak's Bradley. Kozak ignored Wolf's comment and continued to lean over and listen to the aux receiver.
"THIS IS THREE FOUR. WE'RE ENGAGING SOME T-80 TANKS ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THE RIVER AT A RANGE OF 2700 METERS. OVER."
There was a pause. Then Ellerbee came on again. "THIS IS THREE ONE. DO YOU HAVE A GRID FOR THE LOCATION AND NUMBER OF THE T-80S? OVER."
Rourk's response to Ellerbee's request for a grid was quick, short, and final. "THREE ONE, I'M TRYING TO ENGAGE. I'LL REPORT WHEN I CAN. OUT."
Drawing in a deep breath, Kozak fought to control her anger. To have a subordinate cut her off as Ellerbee had, even in the heat of battle, was too much for her. After all, how could she, a company commander, coordinate and mass fires if her platoon leaders didn't submit accurate and timely reports? Stuffing her anger as best she could, Kozak told Paden to contact the engineer platoon and find out if they were under fire, then to contact 2nd Platoon, which was on the other side of the river covering the engineers, and find out if they were in contact.
Turning away, Kozak noticed that Wolf was grinning. "What's so funny, Sergeant?"
"Told ya the boy was fucked up."
Rather than become upset with Wolf, Kozak nodded. "You know, you're right, Sergeant Wolf. How about we go down there and straighten out poor Lieutenant Ellerbee?"
Wolf's smile disappeared in a flash. The thought of moving around in the middle of a firelight didn't seem like a good idea to him, especially since they would be going right where the enemy return fire was bound to be the thickest. He didn't, however, say anything. Kozak was serious. As dangerous as it would be, Wolf knew that it was the only thing, given Ellerbee's inability to control his platoon, that made sense. Besides, Wolf knew it was Kozak's style. In every training exercise, she simply could not stay out of the middle of things. Unable to get a clear view of what was happening from their position, Wolf had known in the back of his mind that Kozak's ordering them to move closer was only a matter of time.
"Sure thing, Captain." Turning away from Kozak, Wolf yelled over the intercom to Specialist Tish, the driver. "Hey, Terri, crank this bad boy up. The CO wants to go down and talk to them tankers."
The stunned silence that followed the explosion and the resulting fireball at the nuclear weapons storage site south of Svalyava seemed to last an eternity. The area outside the tunnel entrance was plunged into darkness as the security lights finally were snuffed out when the power to them was cut by the explosion. Like a gun's barrel, the access tunnel aimed the fireball and the main force of the explosion in a straight line across the open area out toward the road, wiping away the mortar section and leveling the cinder block guard shack before its force dissipated into the night. Members of the 1st and 2nd platoons who had been deployed along the chainlink fence or were off to either side of the access tunnel were unaffected physically by the explosion. Everyone else was either dead, dying, or simply gone.
Wide-eyed, Pape looked back at the tunnel. From the gaping mouth of the tunnel he could see the faint glow of fires burning inside. "What the hell happened? What's going on?" He was excited, almost screeching. Pulling away from the rocks and small berm of dirt that had provided cover to his front, Pape began to get up on his knees before Ilvanich's hand grabbed him by the shoulder and kept him from doing so.
"Back down. You must get back down. There may still be Ukrainians out there."
Though Pape continued to stare at the tunnel entrance, he lowered himself back behind the berm of dirt. Only after he was down did he turn to Ilvanich. "What the hell happened?"
That, Ilvanich thought, was obvious. But he didn't say that to the American, who was shaken and needed to be calmed, to be steadied. Doing so was an officer's job. Though he was a Russian officer and Pape was an American, they were at that moment both on the same side due to the political requirements of their nations and practical considerations of the moment. Himself shaken by the turn of events, Ilvanich nevertheless took a deep breath and began to get up as he looked toward the tunnel entrance. "The Ukrainians in the tunnel have destroyed themselves and the nuclear warheads." Ilvanich placed his hand on Pape's shoulder again as he looked down into the young soldier's upturned face. Ilvanich could not see Pape's eyes, but he knew they were riveted on him. "You stay here and cover your assigned sector. Once the Ukrainians out there recover from their shock, they will be back. I will go over and find out what your commander i
s planning to do. Understood?" Even though Ilvanich didn't expect to find Smithy alive, he didn't want to upset Pape any more than he had to. Bad news sometimes needed to be taken in small doses.
Relieved that someone was doing something to find out what had happened, Pape gave a slight nod. "Okay, Major. I'll stay here."
The fact that this was the first time that Pape had acknowledged his rank was not lost on Ilvanich. As an afterthought, Ilvanich turned to his right. "You rangers along the fence, hold your positions. Keep alert, watch your sectors, and hold your positions. I will be back as soon as I find out what your commander intends to do." Twisting his head to the left, Ilvanich repeated his instructions, receiving a few grunts here and there from the darkness in acknowledgment.
Keeping low, Ilvanich backed away from the fence several paces before he stood upright and headed for the cinder block guard shack to find Lieutenant Zack. Moving through the darkness that his eyes were still struggling to adjust to, Ilvanich began to wonder if he would find Lieutenant Zack. That thought had no sooner occurred to him when Ilvanich's feet stumbled over something. Stopping, he peered down to see what it was. Unable to see, he squatted, reaching down with his left hand. It was, he found, a chunk of stone, smooth on one side but with jagged edges. Ilvanich realized that it was a piece of cinder block. To his front a pile of rubble slowly began to take shape as his eyes finally began to adjust to the darkness. Glancing to the left at the tunnel entrance, then following the direction that the force of the explosion would have followed until it reached the pile of rubble, Ilvanich realized that the guard shack, and everyone who had been in it, was finished.
The fact that he had been right and the ranger company executive officer wrong about the guard shack was no comfort to Ilvanich, for he quickly realized that along with Zack the radios for the company command net and the battalion command net were also probably smashed. Russian tactical radios, Ilvanich thought, especially those used by airborne units, were generally more robust than their users. Hoping that the American radios had the same qualities, he slung his assault rifle over his back and moved forward into the rubble to search for those radios.
He had just started pulling away sheets of roofing when a voice with a slight quiver behind him called out, "Zack! Lieutenant Zack! Is that you?"
Ilvanich did not stop. He was near where he thought the radios should have been. Instead he responded to the voice as he continued to work his way down through the pile of broken blocks and metal sheets. "No. I think Lieutenant Zack is dead. Who are you?"
"Fitzhugh, Lieutenant Fitzhugh, 1st Platoon. Are you the Russian major?"
Ilvanich continued to dig away, feeling his way about in the darkness, heaving broken cinder blocks out of the way and working around anything soft that his gloved hands came across, since anything like that was a body or body part, something that he was not interested in at that moment. "Yes. Are you the next senior officer after Lieutenant Zack?" There was silence. "Well, are you or aren't you?"
Fitzhugh's response was slow and halting. "Well, no, not really. You see, Lieutenant Jacobsen, the platoon leader for 2nd Platoon, he was next. Then Burglass of 3rd Platoon. Then me."
"Well, then, go find me one of those two and have him come over here. And while you're at it, send over some men to help me find the radios."
Fitzhugh didn't move. Instead, he turned and looked at the tunnel entrance. In the darkness he saw or heard nothing coming from it. He thought for a moment, then turned back to Ilvanich, who was still digging away. "They were both in the tunnel, I think, with the old man."
For the first time, Ilvanich stopped what he was doing and twisted his body to face where he thought Fitzhugh was. "Well, if that is the case, then that makes you the senior surviving officer, doesn't it?"
The dark, faceless form that stood a few feet from Ilvanich didn't reply. Ilvanich was becoming annoyed. "You are the next in command. Do you understand that, Lieutenant?"
Fitzhugh's response was low, barely audible, and almost plaintive. "Well, yeah, I guess I am. I mean, if everyone is really dead. I mean, they might not all be dead. Maybe—"
Ilvanich tossed a cinder block he was holding to one side and moved over to Fitzhugh's form. Grabbing both arms with his hands, Ilvanich shook Fitzhugh. "All right, Lieutenant, calm down. Just calm down and think for a moment. Maybe they are not dead. Maybe they are still somewhere around here. I do not think so, but anything is possible. That, however, is not important. What is important is that they are not here able to command what is left of the company. You and I are here and able to command. That, right now, right this moment, is all that matters." Ilvanich paused, letting that thought sink in before continuing. "Until one of the other officers shows up, the rest of the company is depending on us. Do you understand me, Lieutenant?"
Ilvanich felt Fitzhugh straighten up. Still unable to see the expression on the lieutenant's face, he had no idea what Fitzhugh's response was going to be. When it came, it surprised him. "Yes, sir. I understand. What do you want me to do?"
Ilvanich suddenly realized that Fitzhugh, confused and unsure of himself, was relinquishing command of the company to him. He had not expected that. He wasn't sure that he wanted that. How would the American sergeants and soldiers respond to taking orders from a Russian? That thought, however, was quickly replaced by Ilvanich's own logic. The American lieutenant was shaken. It would be some time before he would recover enough from the shock of becoming the company commander of a shattered company before he could be effective. He himself had just said they were the only ones who could command. So Ilvanich quickly decided to push aside his concerns and assume command, something that he had already done instinctively. "All right. First pass word down the line that everyone is to hold their positions and put on their protective masks. There is, no doubt, fallout from the explosion. Have your platoon sergeants get a head count, and then you and the platoon sergeants report here to me with that status. And bring three men to help me find the damned radios. Clear?"
Fitzhugh pulled his right arm away from Ilvanich's grasp and saluted. "Yes, sir. I got it." He turned and began to go back to his platoon, then stopped. Ilvanich paused to see what he wanted. "Major, I'll be okay. I'm just a little, well, I—"
Ilvanich felt a slight pang of sympathy for the young American officer. He had felt the same way once, had been through the same experience. Command in battle is not easy. It was, Ilvanich knew, even harder the first time. "Yes, I know. Now go. We must hurry."
Standing along the side of the road leading out of Uzhgorod, Dixon, with Cerro at his side, watched an artillery battery rumble by them. "Hal, this is taking too long. It's taking too damned long."
Cerro watched another M-109 self-propelled howitzer roll by without responding as Dixon continued his one-sided conversation. "We have too much shit going forward. This is a raid, like you said, not an invasion. Most of these units look like they're making a permanent change of station move."
Dixon paused to watch an ammo carrier for the self-propelled gun trundle on by. "Well, Hal, it's too late to do anything about that now. Make a note, will you, to get ahold of the task force and battalion ops officers and have them give you a list of exactly what they took along. It's obvious that the commanders in this brigade still don't understand the meaning of essential vehicles only."
Like in a tennis match, as soon as the ammo carrier passed and the next self-propelled gun came closer, both Dixon and Cerro snapped their heads to watch its passing. With nothing better to do at that moment, and needing to escape the cramped confines of their command post carrier, Dixon and Cerro had left those tracks, leaving captains and sergeants to monitor the incoming status reports. Wandering to the side of the road, the two officers watched the follow-on elements of the brigade pass. Watching columns of military vehicles roll by, Cerro had once thought, was sort of like watching television. It was repetitive and required no thinking, a mindless diversion that was therapeutic, the perfect way, he had found a long time ago,
for a commander to give his mind a rest while appearing to be doing something and showing his face. Everyone, even the notorious Scott Dixon, needed a break. Like Dixon, Cerro had stood on the side of the road watching vehicles of every description and size go by while allowing his brain to simply drift about and rest. Dixon's comments, his first in almost five minutes, were followed by a couple more minutes of silence as his brain drifted free again.
Dixon was busy watching the first of a long line of five-ton cargo trucks begin to roll by when Cerro heard the rapid approach of footsteps and crunching of snow behind him. Turning, he saw one of his young captains, a slip of paper in his hand that Cerro assumed to be a message form, headed for him. "Looks like a dispatch from the field, sir."
It took Dixon a moment to catch on, first looking over at Cerro, then at the approaching staff captain. "Hmm. Must be an update from 3rd of the 3rd on the fight at the Latorica River.
Seems like the Youkes aren't wasting any time moving their forces from Chop."
"Won't do 'em any good, Colonel. Not with Kozak on the prowl."
The arrival of the staff captain cut off Cerro's retort. Momentarily out of breath and excited, the young captain looked at Dixon, then glanced at Cerro. Cerro nodded for him to go ahead and report directly to the colonel. Dixon, feeling good, returned the captain's salute and quipped, "Well, what news from the Old Guard down at the Latorica River?"