“Well, what are you waiting for, sir? An invitation from the Russians?”
Even more impressed by her bravado under fire, Tyce pushed himself up and manned the gun. He’d watched the general instruct Diaz on its operation, but was still a little unfamiliar with the jerry-rigged night vision equipment they’d strapped to it. Diaz hefted a round up to the gun with her good arm, then kicked it into the breech with her foot. The mechanism snapped shut while Tyce was dialing the closest Russian targets.
Boom! went the old German gun followed quickly by a distant spaang as the shell hit its mark.
* * *
This time, the vehicle was hit clean down along the left side, right along the midsection. The BTR had been caught in an open field, bounding from its position and toward the cover of a copse of trees.
The heavy round didn’t penetrate the armored hull, just skidded right along its side, but the damage was still immense. The screaming ball of tungsten going two thousand feet per second hit the BTR, ripping three of its four tires to shreds and tearing into the steel road wheels. The left wheels jammed, and that side locked up, but the right wheels were still going full speed. The vehicle spun violently on its axis, carving a deep semicircle in the field before coming to a full stop, tipped half on its side and facing the wrong direction.
The BTR’s commander, who had been up in his turret scanning for targets, was tossed free from the vehicle at close to fifty miles per hour, landing in a twisted pile, his arms and legs contorted in impossible positions.
“Colonel, vic 4 just went down . . . hard. We’re being bracketed, sir. Gunner says he thinks there might be several guns, sir. We still cannot identify. They have us in their sights, down the long axis of the valley. What are your orders, sir?” There was a serious tone of panic in the man’s voice.
“Calm down! Everyone, stay off the radio and continue to advance, damn you!” shouted the colonel.
In the firelight from the first burning BTR, the colonel was near enough to see and hear the impact. By the sound, he was certain his commander had been correct, it was definitely high velocity and not just one of the U.S. infantry’s shoulder-fired rockets. Beads of perspiration broke out on his brow.
Crap, crap, crap, he thought.
* * *
An out-of-breath radio operator popped up from their HQ in the woods below. “Sir, Gunny radioed for me to come check on you . . . and we heard the hits up here.” in the dim light the Marine could see both Diaz and Tyce sweating profusely and racing back and forth frantically trying to work the gun and its heavy ammo.
“Get over here, kid! Help me load these rounds.” yelled Diaz.
“No, go get the lady doctor.” yelled Tyce, his eyes still fixed in the gunsight eyecups.
The young Marine stood fast. For a brief second, he seemed to be weighing whether to obey his commander or the giant, angry, and bleeding staff sergeant.
Before he could obey either command, a shout came from the woods “It’s fucking Commander Remington.” Even over the chatter of the battlefield below and their own noise and haste, they could hear her sprinting up the trail.
“We don’t have time for that crap now,” said Diaz lugging another round over to the gun.
“Yes, you do have time for that crap!” said Victoria as she burst into the clearing. “And it’s called medicine. We’ve been practicing it for thousands of years now, you idiots. Now, shut up. Both of you. Do your job and fight. And let me do mine. Where the hell’s Diaz?”
She searched around with her hands, her eyes still becoming accustomed to the dark, then finding her, she immediately set about working, opening a medical backpack and dragging the big SSgt down to the ground, where she lay the wounded arm flat across her knees. Diaz protested a moment, then sat down hard and let Victoria do her work.
No more time to waste. They had to fire, now.
Tyce slammed the half-loaded round into the weapon, the breech mechanism closed, and he pulled the hand lever.
Boom! went the old gun again, the big metal breech dashing back, the pistons slowing the recoil and putting the weapon back into battery.
Immediately came a radio call from Ned, “Dragon Skewer, this is Center. Another good hit. That one penetrated. The vehicle is burning.”
Tyce looked over the broad, flat valley of Harman. The report of rifles and the many muzzle flashes in the valley told Tyce what was happening. Each accurate shot sent the Russians into a tizzy and probably against orders for fire discipline, they began fighting ghosts, much like he had in Iraq and Afghanistan. An unseen enemy is the most unnerving. Only now, this was his homeland and he was pleased to be the one destroying the foreigner from the shadows.
If we make it out of here today, thought Tyce, I’ll remember this. We can be successful if we put our minds to it and use some ingenuity.
Gunny’s voice came over the radio net. “Dragon Skewer, this is South. The lead BTR is turning onto our obstacles and crossing the trenches. He’s at phase line blue and almost on me. Permission to kick off our surprise.”
The Marine radio operator loaded another round and Tyce sighted in another BTR while yelling back to where Diaz was being treated by Victoria, “One of you get on that damn radio and tell Gunny to wait for my command. We need the Russian commander all the way in the kill zone.”
Boom! went another round.
“I’ve got it.” yelled Diaz, pulling the radio close to her by a wire while Victoria dug smaller pieces of metal from her arm and protested her every move.
“Another hit!” yelled Tyce.
Diaz couldn’t resist pumping her arms while she balanced the radio receiver between her ear and shoulder relaying the message to Gunny.
“This is not helping me save your damn arm, Staff Sergeant.”
* * *
“Colonel, we’ve spotted that gun position. Firing now.” came in one report, quickly followed by another, “Sir, we can see the enemy trenches in front of us. That headquarters barn is right behind them, just where you told us it would be. Permission to surge forward.”
“Granted!” radioed the colonel firmly. Finally, the tide was turning. It was time to strike at the heart of the beast.
He watched two of the BTRs pumping rounds into the trees on an adjacent hill. It looked accurate, about where he’d have placed a gun, too. With the enemy gun effectively suppressed, all he had to do now was close the final distance and wipe out their command. After the hard battle, he was practically licking his lips in anticipation. He didn’t relish reporting the few losses to these hillbillies, but clearly, they’d bitten off more than they could chew.
* * *
The trees came alive with exploding 30mm cannon fire. The entire area lit up from the showers of sparks. Tyce and the others dove for cover. The crack of detonations and whizzing shrapnel filled the air. They had found his position. There was no way to man the gun now.
Tyce fell flat on his belly and crawled back to check on the others as the Russian cannon fire continued to pound their position. Victoria and Diaz had made it back to the ammunition dugout. The radio operator must’ve been caught in the open when the rounds first began to impact. He lay atop an 88mm shell, his body sliced to shreds. Tyce grabbed him by the arm and dragged him toward the ammo pit. It was the only shelter available.
Victoria stopped, pulled away from Diaz, and checked the radioman. She shook her head at Tyce. The three of them lay low under the pine logs as rounds continued to burst all around them. Huge limbs, metal shrapnel dust, and debris flew all around them, making communication and even rational thought next to impossible.
Under the logs, they were relatively safe. But that’s when Tyce realized they were sitting atop the remainder of the 88mm high-explosive shells. One piece of shrapnel, and they were all going to go up in a blaze of glory.
CHAPTER 25
Tyce crawled over to Diaz, the 88mm rounds cold against his stomach. He tugged on her shoulder. They could not hear one another above the din of th
e incoming Russian fire, though it had slackened a bit.
They are probably on the move toward Gunny, he thought.
Tyce held his thumb and forefinger up to his ear like a telephone. Not particularly effective, but Diaz got the point and pulled the radio out from by her feet where she had dragged it when the firing started.
Tyce tried to cup the handset tight to his mouth and transmitted, “Gunny, fire now!” he yelled. He could not be certain the Russians were all fully in the trap, but based on his best guess, it was time to take back the initiative.
In seconds, brilliant and enormous flashes of white and yellow illuminated the whole valley. The Russian cannon fire on Tyce and the gun position ceased immediately. All three sat up, their ears still ringing, and looked out over the valley below. Even through the thick pines, they could still see the enormous blaze as propane tanks and gas drums erupted like volcanos from the middle of the earth. Next, the fuel dumped in the trenches lit up, creating rings of fire around the advancing troops and vehicles.
Several of the explosions detonated with enough force that the nearby Russian infantrymen were coated in burning gasoline. None of the improvised bombs provided enough force to penetrate the BTRs, but liquid gas flung into the air poured back down through the open hatches and over the engines of those caught in its radius.
Two Russian BTR crews jumped off, their jackets and helmets on fire, abandoning their vehicles and sprinting to the rear on foot panicking all nearby. Seeing this, many of the dismounted infantry also began a general and disorganized withdrawal. Until now, many hadn’t even seen who they were fighting against, and this was too much for them to bear.
A third vehicle, awash in burning fuel, gunned it into reverse hoping to escape the incoming flames. With the constant pings of bullets still impacting them from all sides, the crew remained inside. It looked like they were not about to give up the protection of their vehicle or were hoping to activate their fire extinguisher systems and at least get back far enough to dismount out of the danger of the fire and constant small arms. But it was too late for them. Enough fuel had entered the cabin and found the stored ammunition. Sparks, flames and heavy smoke began to erupt out the hatches, like a slow-to-start Roman candle. Even worse, the throttle was jammed in reverse, so the burning vehicle backed across a plowed field dripping red gobs of ignited fuel all the way.
The exploding gas tanks, the lit trenches, all of it was such a spectacle that for a heartbeat, the entire battlefield ceased fire as every combatant, both enemy and friendly gaped awestruck at the grisly sights. Near the center of it all, the burning ghost vehicle retreated slowly, popping and burning, leaving a long line of lit fuel in its wake. Not a person watching didn’t feel at least a passing bit of sympathy for fates of the crewmen trapped inside. Theirs were hideous deaths on display for all to see.
* * *
The Russian colonel’s eyes were wide as saucers and tears of stress and anguish flowed freely down his cheeks. He wiped them off quickly on his sleeve, lest someone else see. Then continued to watch in silence, thoroughly overwhelmed by the turn of events. His radios also remained silent. All of his men were now forced into fighting their own small pockets and too busy to report up the chain.
“Fuck this.” he said aloud, “All vehicles, all vehicles. The American hillbillies are using IEDs. Button up and pull back on me. Time to hit them with the heavy stuff,” said the colonel.
He didn’t need to send the order twice. The sheer weight of what had just happened had already fallen on the men’s psyches and seemed to pull them back even before the order was given. The awful sight of the still moving and burning BTR seemed to have sounded the retreat from beyond the grave.
As they pulled back, the remaining BTR crews and infantry grew more and more angry and fired willy-nilly. A need for vengeance arose in some and in others a desire to keep the Americans at bay. They sprayed the hills, trees, and anything that they didn’t like. The wanton acts added back a bit of bravery that was lost, but the Russians’ spirits were now thoroughly broken.
The colonel sighed and looked over at the air officer, “Call them in.” he said simply.
* * *
Tyce, Victoria and Diaz all edged to the lip of the gun position and looked out. They had the best vantage to watch the Russian retreat.
“Do you think they’ll advance again?” asked Victoria.
“If we give them too much time to think about it, they will. Maybe not willingly, but their boss will rally them if he sees a chance. He doesn’t want to return to Morgantown and face his superiors empty handed.”
“Should we hit ’em again?” asked Diaz.
“Most certainly.” came a voice from the wood line. The sonorous voice of General Lawton surprised them all, “But for the moment now I’d say you have thoroughly defeated the enemy commander. At least in his own mind.” Bill Degata towed the general over to where the trio was half sitting, half kneeling. “Did you break my gun?” asked the general. “It’s on loan, you know.”
A thundering roar resounding across the valley, two Mi-24 Hind Russian attack helicopters raced down the valley from the north, their 30mm cannons blazing.
“What now, boss?” asked Diaz.
“Call Gunny, tell him to kick into phase three.”
“And we’ll help load another few rounds.” said Bill.
The gun was covered in branches and debris, but looked okay. Bill and Victoria together hauled over another round and the one-armed Diaz helped them load.
“Aim for the vehicle that looks like he’s ready to advance again, son.” said the general as Tyce eyed the retreating vehicles through the sights, “It may not be their commander, but you want to reward whomever takes the first step toward bravery. The rest will then reconsider.”
There were many to choose from, but with the helos closing fast he needed to fire. If he waited too long, the helo would see them and they were not likely to survive a direct attack from the elevated position the helos could provide their own 30mm cannons. Sweat broke out, and he could hear the whispers of the rest behind him goading him into action.
Shit, he thought, there was so much smoke and so much cannon blasts from the BTRs obscuring his vision. Wait, there—One of the vehicles had halted its movement. It began to inch forward. The beginning of a rally, Tyce could feel it in his bones. He took careful aim, sighted in, and pulled the hand lever.
Boom!
The cannon jerked back on its carriage, a tungsten round on its way.
Spaang! the round hit the BTR right against its side. It ricocheted, but the impact seemed to change the vehicle commander’s mind. His vehicle began to reverse again, and those near it hastened their withdrawal. If they had forgotten about their enemy’s cannon, the reminder that the gun was still in action spurred them on.
“Now, give the command to the Gunny for your final surprise.” said the general.
* * *
The Russian colonel nodded to his air-liason officer, “Have them strafe that damn tree line. That gun is back in action. Is the Il-20 picking up any other radio transmissions? Have the other hit their HQ. We might not be able to get there, but if they can take out their HQ we can begin our advance again.”
“Yes, sir. They report a massive spike from a barn over there on the next hill. It’s glowing in the thermals, too. The Il-20 reports that from the amount of signals coming from that barn, it must be their command post.”
“Okay, tell him to hit that spot with everything he’s got.”
The Russian air liaison returned to his station at the bottom of the vehicle, where he lay down on the steel floorboards. He had the handsets held to his ears and was trying to coordinate the helicopters on to the radio hot spot that the Il-20 surveillance aircraft had detected with its direction-finding gear. After the sounds of the 88mm gun ricochet, he refused to come off the floor.
The Russian Mi-24 pilot acknowledged the spot and said it was hot in his thermals, too. The colonel listened to the Mi-
24’s blades make a groaning whine as it pulled a hard right to circle back south toward the barn on the hill.
Additionally, reports were coming in from all his men that the American small-arms fire had virtually ceased. Either they were cowed by the arrival of his helos, or they were running low on ammo. It didn’t matter to him much either way.
Ah, good, thought the Russian colonel. Finally, the tides of war are turning back in my favor.
* * *
“Na, vykusi! Eat fire!” the Russian pilot yelled into his radio set.
From afar, he had zeroed almost immediately onto the enemy barn headquarters. It was a superhot spot in his thermals. He listened to the radio as his wingman still searched for an anti-armor cannon that was playing havoc against the Russian ground forces.
The pilot was too young to have fought in Afghanistan, but he had heard the famous stories of Comrade Mi-24s being of great assistance to the brother infantry, and so he was elated to finally take out—what had the ground commander called them? Ah, yes, “hillbillies.”
The pilot dipped low and fast into the valley, pushing thrust to get on target, then pulling back and leveling so the weapons officer could maximize all his weapons on the target.
“Now, Vassily.” he ordered through the intercom.
The whoosh of the rockets firing off the wing mounts and the shudder of the 30mm told him Vassily was going to be right on the mark. The barn was quickly ripped to shreds, and the big, lurching Mi-24 started up its forward momentum again, ready to go assist his wingman.
* * *
Gunny had to sprint back to the Quad-50 from the cover of his trench once he got the radio signal. The gun had been placed away from the trenches with the best view of the sky, which unfortunately meant he had to cross twenty meters of open ground to get to it. He watched the helo’s rounds blast into the barn next to him as he ran, ripping the simple wooden structure to pieces. Wood spans and framework danced through the sky.
Behind him, from their trenches, the men yelled encouragements, “Go, Gunny, go!” and “Hurry your fat ass, Gunny!”
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