The Red Line

“Do you think the Russians might be considering an attack?” Marconi said.

“Up until two days ago, Michael, I would have said no way, no way at all. But when they evacuated all American dependents living within one hundred miles of the border and ordered us to move three of the Bradleys up to reinforce the towers, I began to have my doubts. Now a Russian general has charged the wire. I don’t know what to think anymore.”

“Look at him sitting there checking us out,” Foster said. “Just like he owns the place.”

“At the moment, with six hundred armored vehicles to back him up, I’m afraid he does.”

“But, Sarge, if the Russians were thinking about an attack, wouldn’t we be on full alert?” Marconi said.

“You’d certainly hope so . . . Look, I know it’s impossible to do when you’re staring into the muzzle of a T-90’s main gun, but you two need to take a deep breath and relax. I suspect this is nothing more than some kind of sick Russian joke. Nothing to worry about. Nothing at all. Even the Russians aren’t stupid enough to risk a war. This general’s just getting his kicks at our expense.”

“You’re probably right, Sarge,” Foster said. “But even so, are you certain you want to leave Ramirez and Steele alone in this tower for the next two hours?”

“I never want to leave those two alone anywhere. Every time I bring them out here, I’m convinced that given a couple of hours to work on it, one of them’s bound to accidentally shoot the other before I get back. Even so, Lieutenant Powers thinks it’s good for morale to let you guys pick who you go up in the towers with.”

“But, Sarge, there weren’t Russian tanks everywhere you looked when the lieutenant made that decision.”

“Well, I’ve got a solution. You two could stay here and take their places. Ready to climb back up that ladder?”

“Not me,” Marconi said. “Another couple of hours out here freezing my ass off, and I might go up to the wire and beg that Russian tank to do me a favor and shoot me.”

“And I’d probably go with him,” Foster said. “I suspect Becky would never forgive you if you let that happen.”

“Then it’s settled,” Jensen said. “Let’s head back to the platoon building and get warmed up.”

“I’m all for that, but what about them?” Foster said. He motioned toward the Russian tank.

“Leave ’em there,” Jensen said. “Brown’s got a TOW aimed at them. If they do anything halfway threatening, I guarantee you there’ll be one less T-90 to worry about.”

The trio climbed into the cab of the platoon sergeant’s Humvee. Jensen pulled away from the tower and headed west across the two hundred yards of barren ground that would take them to the edge of a thick forest.

• • •

“There he goes, Comrade Commander.”

“Yes, Dmetri, I see.”

The Russian tank crew watched as the small vehicle churned through the snows toward the narrow trail that would return the cavalry soldiers to their home.

“Crushing the token enemy border force is going to be so easy,” the tank’s gunner said.

“I wish I had your confidence, Dmetri. But I’m not so sure. Did you see the American when we made our charge? It didn’t affect him at all. There can be little doubt about that one’s courage. And there’s no doubt he knows what he’s doing. Do not underestimate our opponent. I assure you that before this is over, he’ll have proven himself to be an able adversary.”

“Comrade Commander, what I assure you is the next time you see the American, his bloody body will be lying in the snows. And we’ll be on our way to conquering Germany.”

“We shall see, Dmetri. We shall see.”

Upon locating the opening to the constricted trail, the Humvee disappeared into the dense woods.

“Okay, Josef, I’ve seen what I needed to see. Back up slowly and get us out of here.”

“Yes, Comrade Commander,” the tank’s driver said.

CHAPTER 2

January 28—10:32 p.m.

2nd Platoon, Delta Troop, 1st Squadron, 4th Cavalry

The German-Czech Border

All around the Humvee, the relentless snowfall caused the forest’s mantle to droop. While the cavalry soldiers traveled down the twisting pathway, the snow-covered evergreen branches a few feet overhead closed in tightly, blocking out the winter’s night sky.

Usually, the familiar mile drive back to the cinder-block platoon building would go quickly. In the darkness and snow, however, Jensen carefully felt his way home.

“Has there been any further word on our families?” Foster asked.

“Nothing more than what they told us this morning. The wives and kids arrived at Rhein-Main last night and were being put on flights to the States.”

“All headed to the States . . . When we get back to Regensburg in three days, it’s sure going to feel different with our families gone. Everybody’s going to be awfully lonely.”

“Everybody except Ramirez,” Jensen said. “He’s never lonely. How many Frauleins is he presently engaged to?”

“It changes from day to day,” Marconi said. “Last count I heard was six, give or take one or two.”

“Yep, Ramirez won’t be lonely,” Foster said. “If there’s an attractive woman within five hundred miles, Ramirez will find her.”

“No doubt about it, our little Ramirez is destined to be killed by an irate husband someday,” Jensen said.

“If he doesn’t fall out of one of the towers first. That would sure disappoint the Frauleins in Regensburg,” Marconi added.

“You know, I’ll bet our wives are back in the States right now, warm and cozy by the fire while the grandparents spoil the kids,” Foster said. “I’m sure my folks were waiting at the airport in Des Moines when Becky and the kids arrived. This’ll be the first time they’ve seen the baby.”

The short journey reached its end. A few feet from the low-lying building, the platoon sergeant’s Humvee eased to a stop between Lieutenant Powers’s Humvee and the platoon’s five remaining Bradley Fighting Vehicles. The armored vehicles sat in the darkness beneath a foot of newly fallen powder.

To the uninitiated, the platoon’s fighting vehicles could have been mistaken for tanks. Although they tipped the scales at nearly twenty-five tons, that was only half a tank’s weight. Nevertheless, with the Bradleys’ thick steel treads, tanklike shape, and full body armor, such a misidentification could easily occur. Yet the one recognizable feature that distinguished a Bradley Fighting Vehicle from a tank was the size and shape of its main gun. While the American primary battle tank, the M-1 Abrams, had a huge 120mm cannon, the Bradley’s was significantly smaller.

The 25mm Bushmaster chain gun was extremely thin. Even so, with its armor-piercing Bushmaster and array of TOW missiles, the Americans’ Bradley Fighting Vehicles had proven capable in more than one war of standing up to even the most menacing enemy tank.

The trio shook the snow from about their heads and headed toward the ancient building. A wave of moist heat greeted them as they entered the smaller of a pair of rooms. The drafty building was dank and gave off a distinctive odor from the thousands of cavalry soldiers who’d called it their temporary home over the years. A chorus of animated voices resounded from deeper within the old structure.

Foster and Marconi passed through the anteroom that served as the platoon’s operations center. Jensen paused.

Gregory Powers sat at a tired metal desk in the far corner. The blond-haired, blue-eyed second lieutenant was fiddling with the pipe he’d adopted when he took command of the platoon eight weeks earlier. The pipe was an attempt to give himself an air of authority. He seldom smoked the ordinary-looking pipe, but he played with it constantly. Powers, having finished the easier task of changing the shifts in the three Bradleys, had been sitting at the desk for the past twenty minutes.

Ag

ainst the wall nearest the door, the platoon radio operator, Specialist Four Aaron Jelewski, sat reading a comic book. On the table in front of Jelewski was a pair of military radios. The first was tuned to the squadron frequency. The other’s dials were set to connect the platoon command post with the Bradleys, Humvees, and guard towers.

Jelewski looked up as Jensen entered.

“Anything going on?” Jensen asked.

“Not much. Lots of talk on the squadron net about how busy Comrade is tonight. But nothing compared to what I heard you and Brownie discussing a few minutes ago.”

“Yeah, when a Russian general’s willing to chance rushing the wire like that, something’s definitely up. One thing’s certain—you’ve got to have a death wish playing division-level war games in the middle of a blizzard.”

“You’ve got that right, Sarge. Except, squadron says it’s not just the division in front of us that’s involved. Apparently, across the fifty-mile 1st Squadron area, there are ten Russian divisions racing around like madmen in the snow. And over the 150 miles of the American sector, there are twice that many. The British up north are reporting the same kind of activity.”

“Squadron have any further information on what the Russians are up to?”