by Tom Clancy
“Shit,” said Belanger. He directed his response to Havoc 6. “Havoc, I don’t care how well your positions are set on the east side. Get to the far side of the bridge and prepare your ambush. The enemy is on his way.” He pointed to the operations officer and weapons commander to get ready to start battle tracking.
The enemy attack was on.
• • •
Minutes later a report came from the team setting their ambush on the eastern side of the river. “Havoc Six, this is Havoc Two. I have a SPOTREP to follow. I identify a reconnaissance element of four BTR-90s and approximately forty, that is four-zero, troops moving through the eastern village, inbound my vicinity from phase line Jenna to phase line Hanna.”
BTR-90s were armored troop carriers. The fact there were forty troops on foot around the vehicles told Belanger they had dismounted to patrol through the little village and across the bridge, looking for enemy positions or booby traps. He looked out the window at the predawn while he spoke into his radio. “Havoc Six. I want you to let that force pass through you.”
“Sir?”
“Your cover in the woods adjacent to the bridge will prevent him from seeing your positions. He’s going to recon the bridge, then mount up and push west. I want to draw in the tanks. I want their report to go back to their commander clean. Let them say they just seized the Punžonys bridge.”
“Copy. What are my instructions after that?”
“Well . . . if I’m right, then you get to be the first Marine on this continent to kill a bunch of Russian tanks.”
“Copy, sir,” said Havoc 6, sounding less enthusiastic for the second task than he did for the first.
Another call came over the radio now. Belanger knew it was going to be a morning full of interrogatives and orders. “Darkhorse Six, this is Reckless Six.” It was the Headquarters and Service Company commander, but the captain was an infantryman, and he was being tasked with all sorts of odd jobs today.
“Go ahead, Reckless.”
“Copy, sir. Me and the engineering-O just finished laying all the mines. I think in broad daylight they’ll be visible, but for now, they are set up where you wanted them.”
“Okay, good work. Get back through friendly lines. I want you manning fifty-cals and ready to deal with dismounts.”
“Copy. Reckless Six out.”
Minutes later the lead rifle company commander came back over the net. “Darkhorse, this is Havoc Six, be advised, the enemy recon has passed our positions and is over the bridge. They mounted back up in the BTR-90s and are headed your way. Also, we hear those tanks now. They are near the cemetery on the east side of the river. Northeast of the bridge.”
There was no way Belanger would have known to look toward the little cemetery on the far side of the Neris. There were so many other places in the area that seemed to offer a better approach for Russian armor. It occurred to him that if this sighting was, in fact, enemy tank contact, then Early Sentinel had already proven its worth in the field.
Just then the same voice came over the battalion tactical net. “Break, break. All stations off the net. Flash report, this is Havoc Six. Confirmed. Positive ID on enemy armor . . . and they are not T-90s. They are fucking T-14s! Say again . . . Russian T-14s!”
No one had faced T-14s in combat; the T-14 was a brand-new tank and its capabilities weren’t fully known by NATO forces. One of the weapons had famously broken down the first time the tank had been revealed to the world in a May Day parade through Red Square, but Rich Belanger knew better than to hope Russia’s new fifth-generation tank would just stall out and die at its first contact with the enemy.
“Copy, Havoc. How many?”
“Three . . . Negative. Four. I think there are also T-90s behind them. They are still in the village of Punžionys and I can’t say numbers yet.”
Belanger called his India Company commander: “Diesel, are there tanks in your zone as well?”
“Negative, sir. Not sure this rail bridge can hold the T-14s, but we’re tracking and our ambush positions are set.”
Belanger thought over the picture of the entire battle space quickly. “Okay, Havoc, listen up. I want you to kill those T-14s using volley fire. Make sure your CAAT team uses their TOWs in conjunction with your Javelins. If these assholes disappear off their radios it will make the Russian commander halt and think over his situation. When that happens you will move all your forces to our side of the river, and occupy your final engagement positions. Acknowledge.”
“Roger, Darkhorse, I copy all.”
Belanger tuned his second radio to Havoc company’s net. He had given the order, and now, as if tuning in to the big game, he would listen in as the India Company commander and his men did the job.
Havoc’s lead gunner was armed with M27 machine guns. The M27 was an awesome weapon against troops in the open, but it wouldn’t scratch the paint off a Russian main battle tank.
“Havoc One, what’s your range to the lead T-14?” the company commander asked Lieutenant Munyon, his first platoon commander.
“Havoc Six, they sound like eight-zero-zero distance. But sir, I’m dealing with a lot of fog here.”
“You’ve got tracers in your M27?” the captain asked.
“Yes, sir.”
“Nail that fucking tank, Devil Dog. Light the way for the antitank guys. ATs, are you all copying my traffic?”
The antitank platoon commander took to the radio now. “Sir, this is Shitty-Kitty. Roger on all. I can’t see much in this fog with my thermals, but if they can reach out and touch the target with tracer fire we’ll take the shots.”
Belanger ran to the balcony. His sergeant major was already out there, pointing off to the east. From their elevated location in the farmhouse the two might have seen out to the northern bridge in perfect conditions, but the darkness and fog ensured they couldn’t make out anything at that distance now.
Within seconds, however, Belanger saw a bright red streak of light shoot across and toward the village on the other side of the woods in the distance. It looked like it was impacting near the cemetery on the far side of the Neris. Another red streak followed shortly behind it. The report of the machine gun rolled across the countryside and back to them in a loud burp.
The tracers began arcing skyward after impacting with metal near the cemetery. Belanger knew they were raking the tanks with lead.
“Havoc Six for Shitty-Kitty. You got eyes on that location?”
“Copy, we see vehicle movement in the fog at the end of those tracers.”
“At my command I need you to fire off a volley of TOWs at the two lead tanks. Havoc Two, are your Javelins set?”
“Ready to rock, sir.”
“Fire on my order.” There was a moment’s delay, then the command came: “Fire!”
From the farmhouse two kilometers from the river, the sky to the east flashed too many times for Belanger to count. He saw the streaks of light of multiple Javelins, but because the TOW missiles raced along a wire-guided path close to the ground, he was unable to follow them across the undulating landscape between his position and the bridge.
One long, single bright red flash illuminated the fog near the cemetery. The lieutenant colonel knew multiple targets were being hit multiple times, but it looked like one long detonation from where he stood.
Then dozens of low booms from the explosions finally reached him at Darkhorse command.
His radio came alive. “Darkhorse Six, this is Havoc on battalion tac. It looks like the T-14s’ reactive armor went off. Only the Javelins’ two tanks were destroyed. None of the TOWs hit their targets—they were all destroyed in flight by the Russians’ antimissile system. Break . . . There are a pair of T-14s still alive. They are moving to engage.”
Now Belanger saw tracer rounds coming out of the village on the other side of the Neris, streaking over the woods and into Havoc�
��s position.
“This is Havoc Two! We’re taking fire!”
Belanger pressed down on the radio call button and ordered Havoc 6 to move his men. “Displace to your secondary defensive positions on our side of the river.”
Just then, Belanger heard a clatter of heavy gunfire two hundred meters from the farmhouse he was using as his CP. The enemy’s reconnaissance element had found his secondary machine guns, manned by his Headquarters and Service Company.
He heard the H&S commander calling for 81-millimeter mortar fire on the Russian recon-element men who were dismounting from their troop carriers, and Vandal company acknowledging that high-explosive rounds would soon be on the way.
More Javelins were fired at the Russian tanks at the cemetery, but again the tanks survived the onslaught by using automatic antiair missiles and reactive armor that detonated in front of the inbound missiles, destroying them before impact.
The radio reported T-90 tanks appearing at the cemetery as well, farther away than the T-14s. The sounds of battle, both near and far, made Belanger’s adrenaline pump, but he had to keep cool, continue directing his forces.
“Sir, this is Havoc, be advised: Those tanks are pushing across the bridge, we’re not set up yet. Permission to drop a shitload of smoke.”
“Copy. I’ll get Vandal on the net to take your call for fire.” Belanger couldn’t lose that bridge. Early Sentinel had said the point of penetration was at the bridge, and it had been right. Now it was up to him to do his work and hold it.
He heard three quick whumps in succession, followed by five distinctive cracks.
Enemy tanks main gun, thought Belanger. Shit.
• • •
The battle raged all around for a dozen minutes more, until Belanger got a call he’d been expecting for more than five of those minutes.
“Darkhorse Six, this is Havoc Six. We’re out of Javelins. The enemy is sending more tanks. I am taking casualties. Their 120-millimeter guns are working over my positions. Sir, I have only AT-4s and SMAWs left and I don’t think they are going to do shit against the T-90s.”
“Roger. Stand by.” Belanger knew that AT-4 rockets and shoulder-launched multipurpose assault weapons would be highly potent against a multitude of armored threats out there, but the Russian tanks were just too big and high-tech to be threatened by either of the weapons. He turned to his fires officer, who confirmed that they were firing continuous 120-millimeter smoke and high explosive onto the far shore of the Neris, but it wouldn’t do a thing to the remaining T-90s except slow down their advance.
Belanger realized he needed to get his reserves moving into position to help Lima.
He pulled his radio back to his mouth. “Sledgehammer Six, Sledgehammer Six, this is Darkhorse.”
“Sir, Sledge Six, I read your mind. I’m Oscar Mike already,” said the company commander, clearly itching to get into the fight. “With your go, we can make the bridge in five mikes with the tanks and put the main guns into action.”
“Go now!”
“Roger, on the way. Hooorah!” said the commanding officer of Kilo. Belanger knew only a U.S. Marine in a Humvee could get excited charging into the teeth of the lion. At least he knew he’d guide those M1A1 tanks into a good position.
Havoc then called on the battalion net. “Darkhorse Four, I am retrograding out of the woods now. I need medevac for a lot of my men. I can self-lift them to the medical exchange point, but no further. I need you to take them. These enemy tanks just keep coming.”
Five minutes later the Kilo Company commander came back over the net. “Havoc Six, this is Sledge Six. I have the fight. You boys get out of there. The T-90s will be on your heels smelling blood and I’ll fuck them up!”
Belanger stood over the map now, and worked out with his weapons company commander a final firing solution for the 81- and 120-millimeter mortars. He knew they needed a hellacious amount of smoke both to get Havoc out and to obscure Sledgehammer’s tanks as they moved into position to the west of the bridge.
If they could just clobber a platoon of enemy tanks, Belanger knew, he could get the Russians to grind their advance to a halt. No one, not even the Russians, could stomach losing one full platoon at a pop. It would make the enemy back out of the area and regroup, hopefully buying enough time for Belanger to reposition and rearm.
“Sir, this is Sledge. We see T-90s on Havoc’s heels. They have spread out and are leaving the cemetery, coming this way, but my attached tankers are ready.”
“Okay, you are clear to fire.”
“Copy, rounds on the way.”
Belanger listened. There was a terrible pause, and he imagined they had again lost the targets in the fog, or maybe the smoke had drifted.
Then a crack, then crack-crack-crack.
The tank battle went back and forth for a full minute in the distance, and while this was happening, the H&S Company commander reported that all four Russian BTR-90 reconnaissance vehicles had been knocked out, along with the forty troops. He was transporting multiple wounded of his own back to the battalion aid station.
Finally, Sledgehammer 6 called in. “Darkhorse Six, this is Sledge Six. I have three burning Russian tanks, and a fourth that stopped but has no movement. Say again, four T-90s are down. Break . . . The rest are backing out of the cemetery! Their explosive reactive armor is no good against our tanks’ main gun rounds. Sir, permission to advance and counterattack.”
“Roger, clear to advance. But no further than our side of the bridge. Hit them till you can’t see them in retreat any longer.”
“Copy that, sir.”
Belanger looked around the CP one more time. In the red light of their battle lanterns, with the grip of fatigue setting in, the men looked like zombies, but they had done it. And more important, they were ready for more.
Belanger left the second story of the farmhouse with Sergeant Major Garcia minutes later, mounted up in their Humvee, and headed to the battalion aid station. He knew the “docs,” as they affectionately called their Navy corpsmen, would be working frantically on all the wounded from Kilo and Lima companies, but he hoped his other Navy personnel, namely the chaplains, wouldn’t be performing any last rites.
His hope was in vain, as he knew it would be. You don’t battle tanks without taking losses.
77
Terry Walker had been told nothing about his family’s escape, but he could see the panic on the faces of Limonov and Kozlov, and he knew something had happened. He sat at his computer, making his trades, sending billions of dollars into invisible accounts, quite possibly for the Russian president. But while he did this he kept one eye on the Russians, trying to figure out what was going on.
Soon the four security officers were taken aside by Kozlov, and then they moved out into the hallway. He didn’t know what they were doing at first, but when he asked to go to the bathroom Kozlov himself drew his pistol, then led Walker down the hall, past the four men, all of whom had their guns out and trained on the elevator and stairs.
He’d asked Limonov what was up, but the Russian bean counter would not speak to him at all. He just chewed his fingers and made his trades, argued with Kozlov in Russian, and looked like he might have an aneurysm at any moment.
When it was time to leave for the day, all seven men moved down the stairs and out to the vehicles. Walker walked in the middle of the group; he was the only man without a gun.
As soon as one of the security men put his key in the door of one of the Land Rovers, laser beams shined lines of red light from several directions. The security men raised their pistols high; then the men began spinning and dropping to the ground, one after another.
All four were dead in under two seconds; flashes of light across the parking lot were the only indicator of the source of fire, but Walker hadn’t heard a single gunshot. He dove to the ground. Above him Kozlov fired a single shot bef
ore he too tumbled facedown onto the parking lot.
Walker lay next to the man, their eyes locked together, Kozlov’s empty with death.
Limonov tried to run, but pieces of the parking lot kicked up in front of him and he stopped, raised his hands. Limonov’s chest was covered by the red dots of lasers.
Walker shut his eyes and prayed this was the end of the horror.
• • •
Soon after he opened them, he sat with his wife and son on a sofa in a luxury Gulfstream jet. The three could not hold one another tight enough, and Walker promised the very serious men on the aircraft with him that he would answer any question, provide any assistance, or reveal any detail to the world that they wanted from him. He’d leave the BVIs and never return; he just didn’t want to have anything to do with the man tied to a chair at the front of the cabin.
Jack Ryan, Jr., sat in front of Andrei Limonov. Limonov might have been able to recognize the President’s son, it happened from time to time, after all, but the Russian wore a blindfold.
He looked white from terror, so Jack decided to play on his fears.
Jack said, “Limonov, you’ve got no choice. You are done.”
Limonov licked his dry lips. “Actually, I do have a choice. To me this is quite simple. I am infinitely more afraid of Valeri Volodin than I am of Jack Ryan.”
Jack was momentarily stunned. Then he realized the man was talking about his father.
He recovered and said, “You misunderstand the situation. We aren’t taking you to the USA. You aren’t going to Guantánamo. You are going home. Back to Moscow.”
Limonov’s chin rose slightly, and Jack thought he detected a tremble in his lip. “I don’t understand.”
“No? I bet you’ll figure it out. We’re going to plop your ass in the middle of Red Square the same morning the news gets out that a top Russian financier with Kremlin ties has been in the BVIs moving eight billion, and you have turned over the account numbers to American Feds.”