The Red Line

As the first TOWs tore from their launch tubes, Cruz ordered his Bradley onto the roadway. The fighting vehicle sprang from the cover of the deep forest and positioned itself in the middle of the trail. Renoir and Richmond opened fire with their Bushmasters on the BMP a few vehicles back of the burning tank. The Bushmasters’ shells ripped gaping holes in the side armor of the Russian fighting vehicle. Thick smoke billowed from the wounded armored personnel carrier. The BMP’s ten soldiers died in a matter of seconds beneath the deadly curtain of fire from the Bradleys.

Cruz’s gunner located the second T-80. He hurled a stubby missile down the narrow path with devastating effect. The tank was quickly devoured. Another ear-shattering explosion rocked the night. A second pillar of fire stretched high into the sorrowful evergreens.

The third tank succeeded in its desperate attempt to find the source of the ambush. The T-80’s machine gun opened fire on the American position. The turret of the monster swung to the left. The tank’s gunner locked onto the Bradley sitting in the center of the trail. In a fraction of a second, he would unleash the awesome power of the T-80’s main gun to annihilate the foolish Americans who dared to stand in the column’s way. The Russian gunner prepared to fire his cannon. The time was nearly here. Without warning, three TOWs ripped into the tank’s exposed belly. Its metal workings spilled forth onto the snows. A third blazing tank reached out to sear the majestic forest.

“Fall back! Fall back!” Jensen’s voice screamed in their ears.

In fifteen seconds, the platoon had devastated the enemy. His ability to advance was gone. The remaining elements of the Russian column were hidden by the curve. Protected by the thick woods, they were unreachable by the platoon’s guns. Jensen’s men hadn’t suffered a single loss.

Given a little time, however, the Russian commander was certain to dismount a powerful infantry force and crush the Americans. There was nothing more the platoon could accomplish. The time had come to run.

Jensen signaled the pair of soldiers guarding the platoon’s right. The soldiers raced back through the fallen trees to the Humvee.

Sergeant Richmond raised his commander’s hatch and motioned for the two soldiers protecting the left. They hurried through the heavy snows and disappeared up the ramp into the Bradley’s rear compartment. The ramp closed behind them.

The platoon started its escape. With Cruz’s Bradley providing protection for the fleeing soldiers, Renoir’s team scurried onto the roadway and tore back down the winding trail. Richmond’s fighting vehicle was soon clipping at his heels. With Jensen at the wheel, the Humvee soared from the woods a few seconds later.

While he drove, Jensen keyed his headset. He needed to ensure that Austin’s group, waiting in ambush below, didn’t fire upon their own platoon. In three previous wars, he’d seen far too many soldiers killed by friendly fire.

“Delta-Two-Four, this is Delta-Two-Five. Seth, are you there?”

“Yeah, Bob, we’re ready and waiting.”

“Seth, we’re on our way. Don’t fire. Say again, do not fire. It’s us coming down the trail.”

“Roger. We copy. Bring it on home.”

In order to turn around, Cruz’s Bradley backed into the spot Richmond’s had just relinquished. The last of the Bradleys headed down the trail one hundred yards behind the speeding Humvee.

• • •

A few vehicles back of the raging fires of the lead tanks, two BMPs spotted a small opening in the trees. They carefully threaded their way through the obstacles on the forest floor. The BMPs warily eased onto the roadway in front of their burning comrades.

The T-80 directly behind the BMPs attempted to follow the personnel carriers through the narrow opening they’d forged in the woods. The tank, twice the BMPs size, faltered in its attempt to make it around its burning partners. It wedged itself in the heavy mantle of trees. The more the tank attempted to extricate itself, the more it succeeded in jamming its gargantuan frame ever deeper into the quagmire. The T-80 blocked any further use of the escape route the BMPs had found. The possibility of breaching the burning tanks was gone. And the impenetrable forest of ancient fir held no other means of escape.

Jensen’s plan had succeeded. He’d trapped the Russian armored division at the border.

The BMPs were reentering the trail in front of the blazing tanks when they glimpsed the shadow of the final Bradley beginning its retreat. Throwing caution to the wind, the lead BMP commander gave chase. The second followed close behind as the lethal pair pursued the Americans down the unfamiliar path.

No one in the fleeing platoon was yet aware of the BMPs’ success in breaching the barrier of burning metal. A lethal chase had begun.

The Bradleys rushed toward the safety of Austin’s covering force. Renoir’s and Richmond’s vehicles sped past the deserted platoon building and through Austin’s position without slowing down. The Humvee also hastened past the ghostly structure and was nearing Austin’s force.

Cruz’s team trailed.

At the last possible instant, Austin spotted the rapidly closing BMPs as they made the trail’s final turn. He quickly aimed his Bushmaster at the onrushing threat. His gunner did his best to line up a clear shot at the leader. He was more than eager to release the first of his TOWs. But Cruz’s Bradley was in their line of fire.

“Brownie, nail the bastards!” Austin screamed into his headset.

“Hector’s in the way!”

“Foster, can you get the lead one?”

“Negative, Seth! The trail’s too tight. There’s no way to fire around Cruz.”

“Hector, get out of the damn way! Hector, move your ass to the right!”

In the confined space, however, there was nowhere for Cruz and his men to go.

The final Bradley was nearing the platoon building when a Spandrel missile leaped from the lead BMP. The lethal missile ripped from its mooring and roared through the frozen night. With a mighty wail of protest, it struck the lightly armored rear of the Bradley. As it exploded beneath the impacting missile, the Bradley swerved sharply to the right. The crippled fighting vehicle slammed headlong into the staid building that minutes earlier had been the platoon’s home. Inside the Bradley’s burning wreckage, Cruz and his team were dead.

The BMPs continued their relentless pursuit of the American cavalry. The first, his lone missile fired, found a small opening and slid to the left to allow his partner to pass.

A second inviting target, the speeding Humvee, was one hundred yards beyond the demolished Bradley. In the new leader, the Spandrel gunner took aim. The smaller American combat vehicle was in his sights. In a few seconds, he’d be ready to fire.

But the Russian would never unleash his Spandrel. For he didn’t have a few seconds left to live.

The Bradleys of Austin’s force had beaten him to the draw. With Cruz out of the way, they locked onto the enemy armored vehicles. In quick succession, the American crews fired TOW missiles. Two struck the lead vehicle. The third hit the trailing one. Both BMPs erupted in hellfire and damnation, reaching high into the low-hanging heavens. For good measure, the Bradley commanders opened up with their Bushmasters to ensure no one survived.

And no one did.

A few hundred yards down the trail, Jensen keyed his headset once again. For the moment, he was uncertain of what had happened near the platoon building. While he dashed for safety, he was aware of the excited chatter on the radio. And he’d heard the explosions close behind. He didn’t yet know, however, that Cruz and his men were dead.

“Form up just before the highway,” Jensen said.

Renoir’s Bradley skidded to a stop thirty yards from the trail’s entrance onto the north–south roadway. The platoon began arriving at his position. The young sergeant dismounted. He ran to scout the blizzard-shrouded highway. Renoir threw himself into a snowdrift at the edge of the road. He brought his night-vision

goggles up to his face.

He could see nearly a mile in both directions on the snowy asphalt. Behind him, there were tremendous explosions and constant distractions by the sudden flashes of light all along the border. But for as far as he could see, nothing was moving on the pavement.

While Renoir scanned their escape route, Austin’s covering force arrived at the platoon’s location. Jensen sent Marconi and a handful of soldiers scrambling to the rear to protect them. Once more, they needed to get organized. It was then that he realized they were short a Bradley.

“Who’s missing, Seth?” Jensen asked, as Austin climbed down from his fighting vehicle.

“Cruz’s team bought it, Bob. We saw the BMPs coming, but with his Bradley in the way, we couldn’t get an angle on Comrade to get off a shot.”

Midnight. In fifteen minutes of battle, the platoon’s losses totaled seventeen. Even so, there was no time to mourn, for there were twenty-six lives Jensen could still attempt to save.

Kicking up the soft snows as he ran, Renoir hurried back to the platoon’s position.

“Well?” Jensen said.

“I checked the road in both directions. There’s nothing moving anywhere.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m positive, Sarge. The road’s deserted.”

“Well, it won’t be for long,” Jensen said.