God, the din out there is horrendous, he thought. He didn’t care to go outside, instead sticking by his radios. The noise was overwhelming enough inside the train car as it was.
“Sir, BTR commander reports he isn’t receiving any more incoming from the Americans at the house cluster. But he’s still a sitting duck in the field. It’s only a matter of time before he loses one of his vehicles to the American LAVs.”
“Nonsense, they have thick armor, and the American vehicle has a weak gun. Tell him to keep his position and divide his fires between both targets.”
“Understood, Comrade Major.”
Was it just Uintergrin’s imagination, or did the radioman just say “Comrade Major” in a tone of disrespect? Never mind, he’d consider that later. Yet he was feeling an apprehension in the air that he didn’t like. The men were tense, and he wasn’t sure why. He’d always been taught that you should use a three-to-one ratio when fighting, and with the arrival of Shenkov’s men, he was at two-to-one. The odds were not decisive, but he calculated that they were still in his favor.
* * *
The Marines were panting from heat and exhaustion. A few drank from canteens, draining the liquid down in one big gulp with half the contents splashing down their flak jackets.
“Sir, what are your orders?” said Gunnery Sergeant Dixon.
Tyce looked around. Twelve men crowded in a basement stared back at him. “Okay, listen up. We’re going to take a calculated risk based on my assessment of the battlefield geometry. The LAR guys are going to keep those BTRs busy. I want two men on the back keeping an eye on the BTRs. One fireteam of four men use the small windows or make a mousehole in the bricks, and keep fire on the Russian dismounts. Have the grenadiers lob an occasional grenade on any pockets you see advancing. The rest of you are going to grab whatever construction stuff you can, and you’re going to construct a platform for the. 50. On my command, you’re going to open up at the same time as the other two squads. We’re going to pour it on them.”
Gunny looked at him and blinked. He understood the tactic Tyce was setting up immediately. “You’re gonna counterattack, aren’t you, sir?”
“We’re gonna motherfucking counterattack,” Tyce said flatly, and with the hint of a grin. He rarely swore, but sometimes it felt appropriate. This was the time.
Cries of “hell yeah!” and “damn straight” went up among the men.
Gunny looked around the room. “Well, what the hell you bastards waiting for? You heard the colonel. Time to show those sons of bitches what the 150th is made of.”
Whether it was from Gunny’s booming battlefield voice or confidence in Tyce’s experienced and reasoned tactic, the men complied with gusto. They bolted in different directions. The radio operator relayed the orders to the rest of the platoon, then passed them on the field radio to the LAVs. Gunny put together a team of two volunteers to go back into the fire-ravaged upstairs to gather ammo from the Humvee still stuck in the wall.
* * *
Captain Shenkov could see the enemy pocket. He watched as his men landed and raced to the edge of the woods, picking rough ground and clusters of trees to take cover and start setting up their arsenal of light machine guns. He could see the enemy taking positions in the basements of the four houses. They were firing mostly small arms, but their bursts of fire were generally inaccurate, and the volume of fire was not enough to prevent his men’s freedom of movement.
He looked back and saw his secret weapons moving up. He knew the American mindset; they would dig in their heels and try to achieve fire dominance. He’d seen it before in videos from Iraq and Afghanistan, and in his own experience recently against their special forces outside Huntington. They were well-trained marksmen, but this tactic only worked when they had air superiority. Something the Yankees had had bred into them that came with a flaw: they no longer had air superiority. Without their illustrious air forces, they were just another light infantry unit.
Better yet, Shenkov had a foolproof plan. He was going to root them out of their basements, and he could either kill them out in the open or let them die in place. He looked back and saw one team of men surging forward bringing two heavy 82mm mortars. The tactic he was going to use he’d learned from reading his Marine counterparts’ field manuals and after-action reports. They were stupid to post them all online; democracies gave out their secrets too freely.
He was about to paste them with a huge volume of RPK-74 light machine gun fire, then slam them with mortars and rockets. Four pairs of men, the last to offload from the helicopters, raced up with the PG-29V Vampir anti-tank rockets, steel crates of extra ammo swinging between them. Platoon commanders down the line yelled and grabbed the rockets, putting them right into key positions where they had clear shots at each of the four houses.
It was excessive force, and Shenkov knew it. The massive 105mm rockets were designed to defeat heavily armored American main battle tanks in a conventional war. They would blow giant holes through the basement brick facade and collapse the buildings with overpressure. The PG-29V was a tandem warhead. Its armor penetrator would turn to liquid metal and ricochet around the room, while the explosive heads would detonate in their midst. The men would experience all of the air being sucked out of the room, bursting their eardrums and making eyes pop out of their sockets. Or they would die when chunks of steel magma melted huge holes through them.
But there’s no such thing as overkill in war, Shenkov thought to himself, just victory and defeat. He yelled the old Soviet battle call, “Uurah!” as rocketeers ran past. The war cry was picked up along the line, strengthening his men’s resolve.
CHAPTER 36
Strasburg, Virginia
“Sir, Lieutenant Bryce is on the hook. He says he just lost a vic. Sounds like the one LAV was hit hard. He’s also down to about one-third of his ammo load. He wants you to know he cannot advance. The BTRs have a 30mm cannon, and every time he tries to displace a vehicle, they take a heavy volume of fire.”
Tyce ran to the back windows. There was a lot of shrapnel, and 7.62mm machine gun fire hitting the upper stories of the house and the ground out back. It wasn’t accurate, but every burst tossed chunks of earth or big pieces of roofing material in front of the narrow basement windows. He looked to the southwest, where he could see Bryce’s burning LAV. There was a massive roar of flames coming out the top, like a flamethrower.
There’s no way anyone survived that, Tyce thought.
He ran back to the front of the basement and yelled, “Boys, you have seconds, not minutes, to get that .50 cal up and ready. Everyone not assisting the gun or keeping up fire, follow me. We move now. Squad leader, call over to the other two squads, and tell them to have their men ready.”
“You going house to house?” asked Gunny, with a look that told Tyce it was practically suicide.
Tyce gave Gunny a reproachful look. “You have the guns, Gunny. I’ll call as soon as we’re at the last house and need you to turn on the heavy guns. I’m banking on that guy being light, special forces. He’s never been smacked around by .50 cals before, and we’re going to hit him with three.”
Gunny smiled. “Nothing like getting hit by a heavy machine gun. I know from experience.” Gunny gave Tyce a fist-pump arm shake, then Tyce ran halfway up the stairs in a low crouch with two squads of sweaty Marines and soldiers following him.
* * *
Stazia parked the rusted blue Ford pickup off of Route 55. She could see the battle raging in an open area of what looked like a half-built housing development. She now understood why Tyce had picked the location for the train ambush. There were open fields of fire and the train lay exposed, though she could see it was partially obscured by the trees where it had halted. Men had dismounted from the train and were firing at extreme long range at a cluster of houses where she presumed Tyce was located. Beyond them, she could just make out machine guns firing into the houses. In the middle of it all were three BTRs that seemed trapped, for some reason reluctant to us
e their speed and mobility.
That’s fucked up, she thought. The Americans were certainly trapped, too, stuck between the BTRs and what she assumed were Shenkov’s men, but why were the BTRs and Shenkov firing into each other? Oh well. Not my matter to worry about.
She glanced a moment at the dead body of the West Virginia man whom she’d flagged down for a ride. He had stopped quickly for the solitary and striking blond beauty only to be rewarded by her climbing in, then knifing him in the back and stealing his car. She had been about to push him out when she reconsidered. He might still prove useful.
She’d not decided yet whether to use an advanced sniper tactic of setting up her hide position inside the vehicle or to dismount and find a more stable shooting platform. She pulled out her father’s red hammer-and-sickle handkerchief and unfolded it on her lap. Outside, the continuous chatter of machine guns, the constant snap-snap of rifle fire, and the deep boom-boom of heavy cannon fire filled the air. She looked at the Soviet flag and all the faded signatures of her father’s men, a gift to him upon his retirement from the service.
What do you think, Papochka? She stroked her face with the fabric, then, as if she heard an answer to her question, she responded out loud, “Yes, I agree—a good tactic, and one that offers me full mobility. Just have to remain incognito. Like you did in Chechnya, right Papochka?”
She pulled the dead man roughly forward so his head was against the dashboard, like someone assuming the crash position on an airplane, then rolled down her window. She kept the engine running and turned up the radio she had tuned to a good 80s rock station. It wasn’t good old-fashioned Russian 80s pop music, but she knew all the American songs by heart. Her father always loved to tell her of the time he met the American band the Scorpions in the Kremlin while on a detail with President Gorbachev. A weak president—not strong like the current leader, President Kryptov, but she loved Father’s little stories to her.
She propped the bipods on the dead man’s back and looked through the Marine Corps compound rifle sight. It was not as good as the one she had mounted on her old Orsis, but it was more than adequate for her needs today.
She zoomed all the way in on one of the basement windows. A soldier or Marine, she couldn’t exactly make out which, popped up with regularity to look at the BTRs. Obviously some kind of lookout. She’d rather have her first shot be an officer, a radioman, or a medic. But what the hell; sochnaya mishen’ pokazyvayet sebya! A juicy target presents itself.
She propped the rifle on the dead man’s back, then aimed out the window. She choked up the little stadia lines in the sight to get the range, pulled out a pencil, and wrote her firing tables. There was virtually no wind, but it was cooler than usual. She stuck the barrel out the window to try to reduce the echo in the car and put in two earplugs. Now, with a well-calculated trajectory and a stable but concealed firing platform, she began her breathing and waited for the man to pop up.
Bang!
The sound and concussion of the rifle was louder than she expected inside the vehicle, but the shot did the job nicely. She pushed the barrel out of her way and tried to get a glimpse of her handiwork. When the man didn’t appear, she smiled and looked for a new target.
* * *
Shenkov angrily grabbed the radio from his operator. “Hey, Uintergrin, your BTRs are firing at me. I am receiving incoming 30mm rounds.” Shenkov pulled out his map and traced his finger from him through the enemy’s position and to the BTRs, confirming the unacceptable fire geometry. “Tell those bastards to check their fires.”
As he spoke, six 30mm cannon rounds burst in the trees overhead, raining small, razor-sharp pieces of shrapnel down on him and his men.
“What’s that son of a bitch trying to do?” When no response came, he took matters into his own hands and dialed in the frequency assigned to the BTR unit. “Bronetransportyor commander, Bronetransportyor commander, this is infantry commander. Your fires are hitting my position. Either advance north or retreat south to change your angle of fires.”
The response was instant. “I copy, infantry commander, we will halt all fires. Be advised, we were ordered to hold position and continue firing.”
A third voice came over the net. It was Uintergrin. “Do not cease your 30mm fires. We have the enemy caught in the middle. Reduce him to shreds. That is my order.”
Although Shenkov was only a captain, he was also a Spetsnaz officer from the famed Russian Spetsgruppa V, or Vympel, and he didn’t have to take orders from Uintergrin. “Negative, Major, that is a bad order. BTR commander, you will cease your fires now!”
The next radio transmission blew up Shenkov’s ear as Uintergrin shouted loudly, “Now you listen to me. I am the on-scene commander, and you will obey my orders. Continue your fires!”
Shenkov dropped the radio handset, put his AK-15 to his shoulder, and let loose a burst of fire at three Americans running between buildings. “Stupid fucking rat,” he said. Then he fired another burst. “This is not the way to run a battle.”
* * *
The squad leaders had established good coordination, and as Tyce and the others ran, the stationary men had picked up their volume of small-arms fire, keeping the enemy’s heads down. Tyce sprinted between the last two houses. He and two other men were the last ones. They heard the pings and zips all around them as they dove through a bashed-in wall and into cover.
Inside the broken building, he caught his breath and looked around. Two squads were assembled, half lying spread out prone around the first floor. The other half of them were taking shelter in the basement until Tyce gave the signal. Tyce crawled up to the front of the house, weaving between the half-constructed walls. He poked his head up to see the Russian lines. They had established solid positions, about one hundred meters away and one hundred meters long.
Tyce pulled his squad radio off his belt and thumbed the transmit button. “Gunny, give me fifteen seconds, then unleash hell.”
“Got it, sir,” came Gunny’s response.
Tyce turned to the assembled men. “Men, once the heavy guns kick off, follow me out of the house. We’ll circle wide left, get into the woods, then roll down the Russian flank. One thing is vital on a flanking maneuver, so listen closely: don’t stop. You got me? Whatever happens, keep going.”
A rumble of assent went up from the men, As it did, a burst of tracer fire shot over their heads and directly through the house. If anyone had been reluctant to follow Tyce on his charge, this removed all doubt. Staying put looked to be just as deadly.
* * *
Stazia had moved her position to get a better look at the LAVs. They were clumped together on Interstate 81, facing south. One of the vehicles had been badly hit and was completely in flames. The other three had good cover from the BTRs’ 30mm behind the berm on the interstate and clumps of trees. It had only taken her a few minutes to drive behind them on the opposite lanes, and now she was close enough to see the backs of all three LAVs. Men were running in and out of the back hatches, exchanging ammunition and coordinating their shots. She looked around for the lieutenant.
What’s his name again? she thought. Brance? No, Bruce? Yet she didn’t really care. She’d already begun her breathing; it was now just a matter of picking her target. None of the Marines had detected her presence.
This was a good rifle she’d acquired. At the right range and with the right ammo, she could reach up to 1,200 meters easily. Shooting at that range took some additional sniping measures, but those were unnecessary here. She could see almost every Marine in the unit at less than eight hundred meters.
She watched as a youngish man with blond hair jumped onto the back of the middle LAV, climbed up to the turret, and put on his intercom helmet. She leveled the barrel and sighted in.
Ah, there you are! She was so close that she could read the stitched name tape on the back of his body armor through her optic. Bryce. See, I knew it started with a B.
Bang! The sniper rifle exploded with another shot. The round pe
netrated the back of his head, blasting a fist-sized hole and continuing at an upward angle, and through the far side of his helmet. Bryce’s body was flung all the way forward onto the front of his LAV, where he lay motionless atop the driver’s hatch.
CHAPTER 37
Strasburg, Virginia
Suddenly, the woods shattered around Shenkov. Massive chunks flew off the trees. Clods of earth and rocks were being tossed through the air.
“What the hell? Where is that coming from?” he yelled.
“Sir, the enemy has heavy guns. They are firing heavy machine guns from the basements.”
Shenkov could barely hear the soldier over the noise. Up and down the line, he heard only loud yelling, the content of their shouts utterly lost to the sound the American heavy guns were making. Three men clustered around a tree were blown apart as the heavy bullets struck them in spite of their cover. The American heavy guns were actually penetrating all the way through the trees.
Shenkov looked back at the 82mm mortar men. They had just finished setting up their equipment when the enemy guns had started. They dared not sit up now to drop a round. Anybody who popped above knee height was being cut to pieces. Two ammo men who had gone back to the helicopter LZ to pick up ammo got cut in half in an instant.
At great personal danger, one of the radio operators crawled over to him and shouted in his ear, “Sir, enemy have been reported on our right flank. They are attacking on our side.”
For the first time, Shenkov felt a nervous feeling creeping up his spine.
* * *
“Sir, it’s General Kolikoff on the line. He says the flight of Tu-95 Tupolev bombers have arrived on station and are ready where you need them.”
Uintergrin used one of the Amtrak hand towels to wipe sweat from his forehead and neck. He had just received a report from Shenkov that some enemy forces were flanking him, and the BTRs seemed to be disregarding his orders and had refocused their fires back onto the LAVs. They also looked to be creeping backward from their positions in the middle of the field where he wanted them. He was so pissed he could hardly see straight, but the news of the bombers’ arrival was welcome. “Excellent, excellent. Tell him to have the bombers hit the houses. Now we decimate the enemy. We will blow them sky-high.”
The Kill Box Page 26