by Harold Coyle
As innocent as that was, Ellerbee soon found himself adopting Rourk's viewpoint, an effort that was reinforced by other officers in the battalion and unconsciously by his own company commander. Whenever the officers of the battalion gathered socially, Ellerbee noticed that for the most part the male officers gravitated together while the female officers did likewise. In these small social groups, the business of the day was discussed, with one or more male officers inevitably complaining about the latest "female" problem in his unit or section. Ellerbee, as anxious to be accepted by his fellow officers as he was to be accepted by his platoon sergeant, said nothing. He was, after all, new and was learning. Since his platoon was "pure," many of his fellow officers would end their complaint sessions by looking at him, shaking their heads, and saying, "Ellerbee, you're lucky. I don't know how you keep your platoon pure. But whatever your method, keep it up. It'll save you a lot of heartburn."
On duty, Ellerbee found himself being compared to the platoon leader of the 1st Platoon, a Second Lieutenant Christine Johnson. Assigned to the company eight months before Ellerbee, Johnson had earned the grudging respect of Ellerbee's company commander. During their annual gunnery cycle, three of her four tanks qualified distinguished. This was followed up by a rotation at the Combined Arms Training Center during which Johnson's 1st Platoon performed brilliantly. Unable to argue with success, everyone assumed Johnson was a shoo-in to be the next company executive officer. So it was quite natural that Ellerbee's company commander, as well as the battalion commander, held Johnson up as the role model for newly assigned platoon leaders.
Ellerbee found he was unable to deal with this comparison. How, he asked himself, could anyone possibly expect him, an independent and successful man, who was no slouch when it came to looks and athletic ability, to pattern himself after a girl? At five foot five and 145 pounds, Second Lieutenant Christine Johnson was, to Ellerbee, nowhere near the ideal image of the great warrior that his commander seemed to think she was. As hard as he tried, he could not get beyond Johnson's big brown eyes and round face that was forever framed by long wisps of hair that always managed to free themselves from under her helmet or hat. Johnson had an easygoing, unassuming, and cooperative manner. Coupled with an adeptness when dealing with the people in her platoon as well as her superiors, she became quite popular with her commander and, to no one's surprise, to the men and women in her platoon. Still Ellerbee could not bring himself to see beyond the physical. His reaction was an emotional one, one that was reinforced by the attitudes of his platoon sergeant and other male officers in the battalion who refused to put "The Issue" to rest.
So it was no surprise that as Captain Nancy Kozak was busy pointing out to Ellerbee that he needed to do a better job of reporting the next time, her words were blocked out by Ellerbee's own thoughts. Over and over in his mind, as he stood there listening to her, Ellerbee kept telling himself that he didn't need to take this from a damned woman who shouldn't have been there in the first place. Even after she left, Ellerbee found himself unable to concentrate on the matter at hand. Instead of maintaining the presence of mind that would be needed to deal with the coming fight, Ellerbee went over and over in his mind the earlier engagement, ending each review by mumbling to himself the same question. "Who," he quietly asked himself, "does that bitch think she is?"
With his mind occupied with thoughts that ranged from self-pity to anger, Ellerbee was too busy to notice that the yellow low battery indicator light on his control panel had lit up.
Major Nikolai Ilvanich and the survivors of Company A, 1st Ranger Battalion, whom he now commanded, had no such difficulties when it came to keeping their minds on their current situation. Ilvanich's decision to move down the hill and away from the storage site had been accepted by everyone in the company without a murmur of protest. Besides, as Ilvanich pointed out to Lieutenant Fitzhugh before going into the tunnel with Rasper, there was always the possibility that the commander of the relief force would still attack. Not knowing how badly the facility had been damaged, the Ukrainians might still press home an attack, if for no other reason than to eliminate the raiders and find out exactly how much damage had been done to their precious nuclear weapons. Ilvanich therefore cautioned Fitzhugh that while he prepared the company to move, Fitzhugh was to pay attention to security of his force and be ready to go back into defensive positions if necessary. Fitzhugh had just finished making his rounds of those positions when Ilvanich and Rasper emerged from the tunnel.
Both Ilvanich and Rasper covered the final steps toward the entrance of the tunnel in quick, long strides. Neither man stopped to talk to Fitzhugh, who was waiting for them as they emerged from the tunnel. Instead, Rasper peeled off to the left while Ilvanich, barely slowing, went to the right, throwing himself against the side of the mountain. Once clear of the entrance, Rasper tore off his protective mask and threw it away from him in one quick motion as he bent over and began to throw up. Looking over at Rasper, Fitzhugh became alarmed. The first thing that came to his mind was radiation poisoning. Rasper, still bent over double, continued grasping his knees as his stomach muscles spasmed in an effort to expel their contents.
The Russian major, Fitzhugh thought, had been right. Rasper had absorbed lethal doses of radiation and was dying. Turning to Ilvanich, he saw that the Russian major had also ripped his protective mask off and was standing with his back against the side of the mountain, wide-eyed and staring off into the distance. Even in the pale moonlight, Fitzhugh could see the major's face had no color and that he was struggling to keep from throwing up. Overcoming his initial shock, Fitzhugh slowly walked over to Ilvanich. "Sir, is there anything I can do?"
Ilvanich didn't hear Fitzhugh. He didn't hear Rasper either as he struggled to control his dry heaves and shaking. He merely stood there unable to erase the image of twisted and disfigured bodies, burned beyond recognition, that hung before his eyes. Dear God, he thought over and over. How could we do such a thing to ourselves? How could sane men who claimed to be responsible leaders order their sons to such a death? It was not possible, not possible. Such murder, cloaked in the guise of political necessity and patriotism, transcended insanity. Such madness defied logic. There was no logic that could justify what had happened there that night. And again Ilvanich thought, Dear God, how could we do such a thing to ourselves?
Despite his years as an officer and experiences in combat, the overwhelming horrors that had greeted both him and Sergeant Rasper overcame any self-control that the two men had. With Ilvanich in the lead and Rasper following, the two men had almost made it to the elevator shafts. Their pace was slow and careful as Ilvanich with a flashlight worked his way around obstacles, barriers, and bodies, bodies that were burned to varying degrees. Some were missing limbs or heads. Most, burned black, were still smoldering, filling the air with the sickly-sweet smell of burned flesh.
Just before they reached the elevator shafts, Ilvanich stopped short. To his front, rock, shattered concrete, and debris formed a wall that blocked access and brought their search to an abrupt halt. As he studied the rubble before him, Ilvanich hoped that it would seal the further escape of radiation from the storage chambers below. If nothing else, he thought, this brought their search to an end.
Ilvanich was just about to announce his intention to turn around when the beam of his flashlight fell upon one body partially buried in the rubble. With the uniform ripped away and burned, there was no way of telling which side he had belonged to. Not that it mattered. What struck Ilvanich was the expression on the face, a face that seemed to be looking right at him. Most of the skin and muscle on the face was peeled away by the force of the explosion and the fireball. What struck Ilvanich, as he stood there unable to turn away from the mangled body, was the skeletal grin that stared back at him. It was to Ilvanich as if the corpse was laughing at him, a laughter he could almost hear ringing in his ears. Slowly, uncontrollably, Ilvanich's hand began to tremble as he suddenly imagined that the corpse was laughing at him and every
one who had survived. The corpse was laughing at them because they were alive and had not yet seen the end of their suffering.
Only with the greatest of efforts did Ilvanich manage to tear himself away from his dead tormentor. Pivoting, he began to move back toward the entrance of the tunnel, brushing Rasper with his shoulder and blurting as he did so, "We have gone far enough."
Rasper, his eyes glued to the radiacmeter in an effort to avoid seeing the bodies that littered the floor of the tunnel and assembly area, said nothing as he turned and followed Ilvanich. He was sorry that he had not listened to the Russian. He was sorry that he had insisted on coming in the tunnel. Not in his most tortured nightmares had he imagined anything could be like this. Such thoughts soon gave way as he struggled to hold down the contents of his stomach that the bile in his throat told him was coming.
After shaking Ilvanich, Fitzhugh finally got a response. Slowly Ilvanich turned his head and faced the young lieutenant.
"Sir, the company is ready to move."
Ilvanich blinked, then nodded. "Fine, fine." He looked over Fitzhugh's shoulder to where two men were helping Rasper. "Is the sergeant all right?"
Fitzhugh looked over his shoulder, then back to Ilvanich. "I don't know. Did you suck down that many rads that fast?"
"No, that is not radiation sickness. It is sickness of the heart."
There was a pause while Ilvanich looked toward the tunnel entrance. "If, my young friend, we could take the leaders of your country and mine, hand in hand with the leaders of the Ukraine, for a walk down that tunnel, we would have no more talk of wars."
Fitzhugh looked into the dark, gaping entrance of the tunnel, wondering what could possibly turn two veteran soldiers like Ilvanich and Rasper into emotional basket cases. Whatever it was, it was better that he didn't know.
Pushing thoughts of the tunnel aside, Ilvanich forced himself to turn his attention to the current situation they faced. "You said the company is ready to move?"
"Yes, sir. We were just waiting for your return."
Ilvanich pushed himself away from the wall. When he had his balance, he looked at Fitzhugh. "Good, good. Now get the company moving. I will be along in a minute."
Fitzhugh saluted, turned, and walked away, passing the word for the 1st Platoon to mount up and move out. When he was gone, Ilvanich looked back into the tunnel one more time before he shook his head, then walked over to Rasper to see if he was ready to go.
The first volley of 152mm rounds impacted to the rear of Ellerbee's platoon, just short of the roadblock next to a farmhouse being manned by Second Lieutenant Matto's engineers. Like a great trigger, those eighteen artillery rounds catapulted hundreds of soldiers, both American and Ukrainian, who were spread out over an area that encompassed a couple hundred square kilometers, into action.
On C60, Kozak automatically turned to her rear, looking to see where the rounds impacted, before dropping into the turret. Wolf, without needing to be told, yelled to Tish to crank up the engine. Tish, like Wolf, didn't need to be told either. Her finger was already on the starter when Wolf yelled. Paden's eyes popped open as if he had been hit by an electrical shock. In a single glance he checked the frequency settings on both the receiver-transmitter and the auxiliary receiver to ensure that they were set on the correct radio nets. Then, knowing that Tish would be starting the Bradley, he reached up and turned the radios off until after the engine turned over.
When she heard the sound of the radio click back on over her earphones, Kozak waited a second before she pushed the push-to-talk lever on the side of her helmet with her thumb. Listening for the beep that told her the radio was in the secure mode, Kozak notified battalion that they were receiving artillery fire on the tank platoon's position.
Even before Kozak began to transmit her initial report, Sal Salatinni knew the Ukrainian barrage had commenced as the Firefinder radars lit up the 1st Brigade's TACFIRE net with the information that the rocket launchers designated for counter-battery fire would need. Since the mission was already planned for, there was no need for anyone in the division artillery chain of command or at the 1st Brigade to intervene. Salatinni sat in his command post carrier where he monitored the process, yelling out to Cerro that the show was about to begin as he waited for the rocket launchers to acknowledge receipt of mission and confirmation that they had fired.
Ten kilometers from the brigade command post and twenty kilometers behind Kozak's position, the three-man crew of each of the rocket launchers was alerted that they had an incoming mission. Huddled in the armored cab of their launchers, the MLRS crews watched and responded as their computer display took them through the launch sequence. The TACFIRE computer at the field artillery battalion to which the MLRSs were attached assigned each of the three rocket launchers a separate target based on the known location of the rocket launchers and the target locations identified by the Firefinder's radar and computer. When the rocket launcher's computer finished receiving the data and was ready, it cued the crew to initiate the firing sequence.
Outside the rocket launcher there was no sign of human life, no indication that men were involved in the killing drill that was taking place. Like a great robot, the boxlike rocket pod swung about, aiming its twelve missiles toward the Ukrainian artillery batteries currently engaged in their own killing drill thirty kilometers away. When the computer sensed that the rocket pod was locked onto the proper elevation and azimuth, it gave the crew of the rocket launcher a green ready-to-fire light. A simple flick of a switch lit up the night sky as a ripple of twelve rockets issued forth out of each pod and streaked south toward their designated targets. No sooner had the last rocket left the launch pod, than the pod was returned to the travel position and the MLRS moved out, headed for a new spot where it would reload and await its next mission.
To the south, no one in Kozak's company saw or heard the rockets pass overhead. Kozak's people were too involved in preparing to receive the attack that the Ukrainian artillery had announced. Nor did the Ukrainian assault elements and their supporting tanks see or hear the incoming American rockets. The attention of the men making the assault or supporting it was riveted to their immediate front, looking for targets across the river or at the hundred or so meters of open ground between their jump-off points at the river's edge. The rockets, while they would influence their fight, belonged to a separate battle, an artillery duel that the Ukrainians lost before they even realized that it had been initiated.
After reaching the apogee of their flight, the rockets began their descent, each one spreading out and away from the others that it had been fired with. When the clamshell-like warhead of each of the rockets burst open, spewing its 644 bomblets, the Ukrainian gunners were in the process of preparing to load the fourth round of their barrage. None of the guns, however, managed to fire that round as the bomblets saturated an oblong beaten zone encompassing an area a little over one kilometer in size. The resulting devastation was not as complete as Salatinni would have liked, leaving several guns, vehicles, and artillerymen untouched. Left alone and given time, the Ukrainian artillery battalion would be able to recover some of its ability to function. It was, however, in military terminology, effectively neutralized and would no longer play a part in the battle that was developing along the Latorica.
The artillerymen supporting 1st Brigade were not finished. Their work, in fact, was just beginning. Even before the first MLRS rocket left its pod, the 155mm artillery battalion was receiving its firing orders over the TACFIRE net.
Bursts of radio traffic were heard on the frequencies that the brigade S-2, Lea Thompson, believed to be the Ukrainian brigade command net and artillery net, caught by the EH-60A Quickfix helicopter just after their artillery began to fire. Though each message was only a few seconds in length, together they were enough to fix the Ukrainians' locations. The electronic surveillance package on board the helicopter received and processed the signals using the targeted frequencies and recorded that information in its computer as back azimu
ths, or lines leading from the helicopter back in the direction from which the signals originated. After several seconds, this computer had accumulated several back azimuths, since the helicopter was moving and the source of the signal was not. Using its own internal mapping system, the computer plotted all the back azimuths and compared them. The point where all the back azimuths came together gave it, and everyone who had access to the computer's data down-link, the precise location of where the signals originated.
Lea Thompson compared the new location provided by the EH-60A helicopter with the one they had previously suspected to be the Ukrainian brigade command post based on earlier signal intelligence. When she saw that they matched, she became excited. "We've got 'em. We've got their CP." Bounding out of her command post carrier, she went over to Cerro.
"Hal, we should fire on the Ukrainian brigade CP now, while we have it."
Salatinni, hearing Thompson's request, stuck his head out of his command post carrier. "1st of the 66th Field Artillery is ready to fire that mission. Do we have a go?"
Cerro looked at Salatinni, then at Thompson. For a second he wondered if they appreciated what they were about to do. Did they really understand that through their actions they were about to dump several hundred pounds of steel and high explosives on a group of real human beings? And did they know what would happen to those human beings when that happened? How could these staff officers, so far removed from the actual killing, appreciate what they were doing? But as quickly as those thoughts passed through his head, they left, allowing the brain of the operations officer to re-engage. Without further hesitation, he turned back to Salatinni. "Go ahead, Sal, fire it."