Tyce’s short-range radio headset sparked to life. It was Gunny Dixon.
“Dragoon-six, this is Dragoon nine-nine.”
“Go ahead, nine-nine,” Tyce whispered into his mic.
“Okay, six, I’ve got a final count. But you’re not gonna like it.”
Tyce’s stomach fell a bit. If something had piqued Gunny’s masterful instincts, it sure as hell wasn’t going to sit well with Tyce. “Send it,” said Tyce shortly.
“Okay, in addition to the dozen attack helos and up-gunned Tigrs Wynand reconned, he also reported two new additions. Probably arrived in the past twenty-four hours, but thank goodness Wynand spotted them.”
“Yeah, what did he spot?”
“Two Russian main battle tanks. Just piecing together what he and his buddy described, it sounds to me like T-90s.”
“Shit . . .” Tyce said under his breath. Then he keyed the mic. “Copy, nine-nine. We should have expected it. As the Russians open up the seaports, there’s gonna be more and more of their big stuff coming ashore. Break, break,” he said, using the familiar military term to signal he was now going to reach out to another unit. “Heavy, heavy, this is Six.”
“Go for heavy-guns,” came SSgt. Diaz’s familiar thick mixed Bronx Spanish accent.
“Okay, heavy-guns, if you were listening, nine-nine has spotted two pieces of armor near the entrance. You got anything in that kit bag of yours that can help?”
“Hey, six, I copied that. But if I shift them rockets over toward those tanks, B Troop and Dragoons are gonna have a tough time with those GAZ Tigrs once they react to their attack through the wire.”
Tyce sighed. These were the difficult decisions of command, even right on the cusp of battle: a commander had to shift his forces to meet changes in the enemy’s ranks. “Roger, heavy. A tough fight just got tougher, but if we don’t take out those tanks on the opening salvo, the companies won’t last under their tank main guns. A 125mm smoothbore cannon against infantry is a bad combo. They’ve got sufficient medium machine guns and ammo to do the job. So you just take out those tanks before they can move, and then hightail it back to the line companies.”
“Six, I copy all. Acknowledged and WILCO,” she said.
Seems Ned and Zane’s army lingo is rubbing off on the Marines, Tyce realized. Not necessarily a bad thing. Perhaps even the best sign of a cohesive unit.
* * *
Whoosh. Boom! Boom! Boom!
The sounds of four AT-4 rockets launching splintered the night air, followed by three concussive blasts—the American missile men were rewarded with three detonations, and three Russian GAZ Tigrs went up in flames. Immediately, Ned’s soldiers opened up from their positions on a berm, and the clatter of machine guns and the arcing red zigzag of tracer fire filled the air.
Ned watched the Russians race for cover in surprise at the American counterattack. Ned could just imagine what was going through the Russian commander’s head. Only a split second earlier, the Russians had been the aggressors, creeping in on what they’d been told was a sleepy band of unprepared guerillas on the outskirts of Parsons. It wouldn’t take long for them to recover, though. These were the Russian special mountain forces, and though the blast and gunfire set them back, the effect was momentary.
The remaining Tigrs opened up with their own up-gunned and heavy-barrel machine guns. These were not the small-caliber, standard Russian 7.62mm. These were much bigger, the so-called Kord-12.7mm machine gun, and the effects were immediate and devastating. Huge clods of frozen earth blasted from the front of the berm, while others skipped just off the crest. There was nothing B-Team could do but hunker down and await a pause in the Russians’ heavy gunfire.
Ned watched everything unfolding, a slightly uncertain confidence filling his gut.
It was time to pull the rug out.
He keyed his mic. This time, there was no use whispering. The deafening sounds of battle all around them would drown out any but the loudest voices. With what soldiers and Marines call a battlefield voice, he yelled into the radio, “All stations, all stations, this is B Troop Six-Actual. One-team is pinned, two-team, time to make your move. Three-team, stay covered, but stay ready.”
All three teams acknowledged the order. Ned watched from his concealed perch on the adjacent wood line as two-team unleashed a withering, accurate volley of fire directly into the Russian flank. The Russian advance halted immediately; they were caught, out in the open, and stunned to be receiving a whole new barrage of small arms.
Ned allowed himself a slight smile. As much as Ned’s special forces men had been the bait to draw off the largest of the Russian forces hunting Tyce, being a target that knew what was coming had a distinct advantage. The Russian disorientation didn’t last long, though.
Their confusion and Ned’s grin both melted away as the Russian light artillery began a lightning barrage against two-team. Well drilled, the Russians fired with speed and efficiency. Ned watched round after round burst into the trees, raining deadly shrapnel down onto his forces. Now both one- and two-teams were effectively pinned.
Ned tried to reach two-team over the radio. Four, five, six times he called over, but the only sounds he could hear were the not-so-distant blasts of the Russian light artillery crashing through the trees.
Crap, thought Ned, wondering whose plan would win the day.
CHAPTER 37
Yeager Airport, West Virginia
Tyce rubbed his frozen hands together and yawned, his jaws popping from the cold and fatigue. He knew the men were as exhausted as he was—maybe more so since many had low-crawled through the snow to get into their positions. Things were looking like they were falling into place. The critical factor had been getting into their positions without being noticed. No radios, no headlights, virtually no signatures that they had crossed the mountains with heavy gear and equipment and not stopping until they’d reached just outside the normally bustling Yeager airport.
Tyce surveyed the airfield’s fence line. Mostly quiet, a few vehicles drove around the inside of the perimeter. Guard towers—manned with heavy machine guns, no doubt. Tyce walked the short distance over a rise and into the woods, then pulled the heavy blackout tarp covering his command post aside and instantly felt the warmth of all the bodies inside.
Inside, bathed in red light, his radio operators and, in fact, a whole miniature and portable command post was abuzz with activity. Field phones, their ringers turned off, buzzed. Men pushed pins into maps as the scouts called back with position reports of the enemy. The snipers were hard at work, still struggling to get into their positions while simultaneously trying to map out the enemy vehicles and men.
Gunny handed Tyce a cup of coffee. “Now all we have to do is sit back and let the boys and girls do their jobs.”
Tyce glanced at Gunny. Both of them knew it was never that simple. As the old saying went, “If anything can go wrong, it will go wrong.”
Wynand was in a corner, smoking a cigarette. Seeing Tyce, he walked over. “Boss, I was almost fifteen minutes inside the perimeter when I got that old feeling. One of the patrols seemed to be suspicious of our sewage truck driving around the planes, so I lost ’em and got out before they could nab us. Still, I gave your flyboys and Lieutenant Zane the locations of the Hercs you wanted me to find. Those C-130s are pretty huge airplanes. No idea how you plan to get them up in the air without someone on the Russian side noticing.”
“Thanks, Wynand. Your intel, as always, is spot on.” Tyce couldn’t help but wonder what would happen if Wynand went rogue and turned to the highest bidder. The Russians would pay a lot for the information in that ex-con’s mind. No telling if he hadn’t already given them the goods. Tyce still remained suspicious of the hick’s motives.
A radio operator interrupted his thoughts. “Sir, report from Comanche-six, Captain Blake’s C-Company men. He reports: ‘The bear is in the trap, the bear is in the trap.’” The young radio operator spoke his message twice and with a twinge of glee—part
ially because the transmission from Ned’s radio operator had said it twice, which was standard protocol to ensure the message was clear, but also because important words carried more gravity in combat when repeated. Maybe he also liked bringing his boss some good news. Tyce sure could use some.
“Copy. Hand me the hook.” Tyce reached out for the radio handset and keyed the mic. “Comanche-six, Comanche-six. Understood all. Do you need any support? How’s it looking?”
Tyce realized his words were futile, given the distance between the two units, but he said them more to give confidence to everyone listening. Pretty much every leader would be able to hear Tyce’s side of the transmission. A few might get some bits and pieces of Ned’s transmission, but without the powerful, amplified radios Tyce had in his command vehicle and tents, they would only hear half the conversation. Still, Tyce knew getting wind that Ned’s people were doing well would likely give the men with him at the airport some small comfort that things were unfolding according to plan.
The response from Ned came immediately. Ned was obviously planted next to his radios, running his fight much as Tyce was about to run his own.
“It’s all going to plan, Iron Horse-six.” For the mission, Tyce had decided to stop using his “Dragoon” call sign and instead allow himself the battlefield promotion to “Iron horse-six.” It still sounded weird to him, but to the troops it symbolized an ascension of sorts, to the boss and commander of the unit, and not just another company commander.
“Good, copy.” Then Tyce decided he’d better add, “I’ve got great confidence in you and your men, Ned.” It sounded cheesy once he said it, but he knew he had always appreciated when his superior officers spoke to him like that on the cusp of a difficult mission, and he hoped it would have the same effect on Ned.
“Copy all,” was the only response from Ned, but in the background, Tyce could hear the continuous staccato of machine gun fire.
Tyce felt his stomach clench. Was he condemning his men again? Was he just sending more boys off to the slaughter? There certainly was nothing he could do now to help Ned and his men. Maybe he’d spent too much time trying to keep the Russians off him and hadn’t paid enough attention to Ned’s battle. It sure sounded like a hellish fight.
Fuck, he thought. Is there any aspect of senior leadership that’s easy? He already knew the answer. A few seconds later, that fact of warfare was reinforced again.
While Tyce was talking to Ned, he’d been somewhat aware of General Lawton. He stil coughed occasionally and was listening in on the captured Russian radio in the back of the LAV C2 vehicle with Bill Degata, his chin in his palms.
“Hey, Major,” said the general. His gravelly voice always carried some gravitas, but it bore an even more serious tone now.
“Yes, sir?”
“We may have a problem.”
“What now?” asked Tyce.
“My Russian is still pretty rusty, but I’m listening in on a conversation between the Russian West Virginia commander, that Colonel Nikolaevich, and the Russian installation commander down below us. They . . . well, actually, it sounds like the entire Russian 8th Mechanized Corps just went on alert. I’d guess from the urgency in both men’s voices that they are tracking Ned’s battle over in Parsons pretty well. They’re trying to decide whether to come to the rescue of the base commander, or to go reinforce the troops attacking Captain Blake.”
“Okay,” said Tyce, his brow furrowing. This was the deciding moment. If Ned’s attack looked like it was bad, they’d send reinforcements to Parsons. If not, they’d come south to Yeager Field. He’d have to trust Ned to stick it to them so hard that they were at the very least stuck in the dilemma of the decision.
Gunny’s next words put even more pressure on Tyce. “Here comes Murphy, sir,” he said.
Tyce glared at him again. He thought for a few seconds. He could feel every man’s eyes on him as he stared past their small command post into the dark, cold gloom.
“We attack now,” he said.
Shocked looks and a gasp went up around the command post. Moving up the time line for the attack would cause some real problems, not the least of which was that SSgt. Diaz hadn’t yet moved her anti-tank rocketmen toward the front gate. Also, if they took the airfield too early, the Russians would send reinforcements south.
The general dismounted from the vehicle to come over to talk to Tyce in confidence. Gunny turned his back toward the rest of the men and spoke in a low tone before the general walked over. “Sir, could I caution against going early—”
Tyce was not having any of it—not the general coming to counsel him like a coach coming to the mound or Gunny’s muttering. He interrupted both loudly enough so everyone in the command post knew it was his decision. “Stop. We attack now. Believe me, I know the consequences. But right this very moment, Russian soldiers are waking up in their barracks. If we give them even ten minutes to organize, we’ll be facing hundreds more alert and ready troops. I’m not risking them hardening their defenses.”
Tyce’s tone was harsh enough to get the radio operators chattering again. Without needing to be told, they knew what was coming next, and they sent transmissions to all the forces to kick off the attack more than an hour early.
The general and Gunny, undeterred and each about to advise against Tyce’s new course of action, still sidled closer to Tyce. But Tyce forestalled any further discussion. “Gents, I know we will cause frustration and some bit of chaos among our own men if we kick off the attack now, but giving the Russian commander even ten minutes means the force we’re about to attack will double in strength and build up his lines to near impenetrable. We attack now. Do you hear me? We attack now, or we doom our men to what will be catastrophic odds. We’ll trust Ned to fight his battle and siphon off some or hopefully all of the reinforcements. We just have to force the gods of war onto our side by taking initiative before circumstances are decided for us.”
As if presaged by Tyce’s command, one of the radio operators spun around and yelled out, “Major, Dragoons is reporting that one of the tanks is moving. Looks like they’re headed to the back side of their perimeter, right toward B Troop.”
Tyce looked at Bill, Lawton, and Gunny. “It’s go time, Gents. Put your game faces on, because we’re out of time to think. It’s time to act.” Each man nodded assent. Tyce turned to the radiomen. “Order the assault. All stations are to kick off in the exact sequence per the order, but to do so right now!”
None of the four radiomen even turned to look at Tyce. They all just transmitted the order.
CHAPTER 38
Yeager Airport
SSgt. Diaz’s left hand played mindlessly, building little snow castles, while her right hand flicked the safety on and off her M2 .50 cal. Her right arm was still sore and bandaged, but she wasn’t going to let it bother her. She looked down the line at her other machine gunners; they were likewise sitting restlessly in their assault-by-fire positions. She had watched her missile men slink into the predawn darkness half an hour earlier. They were all but invisible now. Nothing remained but long furrows in the snow, where they had slipped off to their new positions.
She didn’t like dividing her forces. Once divided, they lost a lot of their punch, and they became more open to flank attacks. She looked at the snow castle her left hand had built, then squished it flat.
“Fuck it,” she whispered, making little ghosts with her breath.
Diaz reached up to her helmet and flipped her NVGs down over her eyes. She still couldn’t see her missile men, which was a good thing—it meant it was very likely the Russians hadn’t seen them, either. Even though she’d told them to hasten their way into their assault positions, she was growing more and more impatient with every passing second.
She could see the Russians, though, and in greater numbers than before. They were a swarm of activity, even in the predawn hours. Their defensive positions in the guard towers and slow patrolling along the airport’s perimeter access road network had in
creased. She mainly watched the taillights of the Russian tank as it drove through the base toward the back of the perimeter. There was nothing she could do about it; even if it had been in range, it was now at long, long range, and it was very unlikely her men could hit the thing. She just made a mental note that sometime soon, a piece of Russian armor would be joining the fight and making things a real bitch.
Seconds clicked by. The tension grew. She watched the remaining Russian tank through her NVGs. Their men had only recently begun clambering about the tank. They had likely all been sleeping at their posts when the alarm went up.
If we attacked even three minutes earlier, she thought, we would completely surprise the Russians.
She hoped it still wasn’t too late to gain some momentum during the Russians’ confusion. They may be getting up and to the alert, but since no one was shooting at them and they’d never been attacked on this base before, they probably still felt pretty secure.
Her short-range radio headset came alive. “Attack, attack, attack. Commence attack,” came the word from back at the major’s command post.
About God-damned time, she thought at first, but then, wasn’t this early, like really God-damned earlier than planned? Well, as the boss always said, all plans turn to shit on first contact. Looked like this one was turning to shit before first contact.
Her eyes were fixed on the piece of terrain where her rocket and missile men should be. They would have adjusted to the best position suitable without the need to ask her, but they’d be in the same general area.
Her stomach was doing cheetah flips. Every additional second felt like a minute, every minute felt like an hour.
She glanced back at the Russian tank. It’d been joined by two GAZ Tigr gun trucks.
Crack—Crack!.
The blast of two rockets split the night. Two streaks of fire arced through the darkness. The first, an AT-4 rocket, zipped past the tank, narrowly missing the mark and impacting the side of a building with a loud smack.
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