The Red Line

While they huddled together in the storm, taking in their leader’s pronouncement, each sneaked glances at the others in the group. Disappointment was everywhere. They were all experienced enough to know the significance of Jensen’s words.

“Our only option is to attack. Maybe we can slow them a little.” While they listened, Jensen explained his hasty battle plan. “This road’s only wide enough for three Bradleys to fire at one time. Here’s what we’ll do. Brownie, you set up on the left. Seth, you’re in the middle. Foster, you’ve got the right. Renoir, you and Richmond line up single file far enough behind Seth that you can pull right around him. I want every shot to count. You vehicle commanders are to fire the TOWs. Brownie and Foster, take your time and pick out a couple of good targets. Fire off both your TOWs. Then have your driver back far enough off the line for Renoir or Richmond to move into your firing position. Do that before you begin reloading your missile tubes. Seth, wait until Brownie and Foster finish firing before you open up with your TOWs. Then back up to reload, making room for Brownie or Foster to fill your spot. You guys keep firing, trade positions, reloading, and firing again for as long as you can. Whatever you do, don’t fire your Bushmaster or machine gun. The muzzle flash will give our position away immediately. Has everyone got it?”

Five soldiers nodded their understanding.

“Let’s go get them, then,” Jensen said. Deep within his parka, an uncontrollable grin crept onto the platoon sergeant’s weathered face at the realization that this just might be his life’s end.

The quick meeting broke up. Jensen guided Brown into position on the far left, with just enough of the Bradley’s turret peaking over the crest of the hill for Brown to select his targets and fire his TOWs. Austin’s team slid into the middle. Foster was soon in place on the right. Richmond and Renoir lined their Bradleys up twenty yards behind Austin’s. Both anxiously waited to pull forward and enter the fray.

The Bradleys in place, Jensen crawled forward through the snows to the crest of the hill. He brought his night-vision goggles up to his face once more. The platoon sergeant located the steadily rolling lead tank. Traveling at twenty miles per hour, the lumbering ogre was a quarter mile from where the roads met. On the gentle slope, a mile above the crossroads, Jensen’s force watched the tanks crossing the final distance to the intersection. Brown and Foster selected their victims and waited for the command to fire. There was no need to hurry. With so many inviting targets from which to choose, Jensen wanted to ensure the first few shots were easy ones.

In a handful of minutes, the small group of Americans would be wiped out. But in doing so, they would buy their countrymen a little extra time.

Second Platoon was going to go down fighting.

In thirty seconds, the lead tank would reach the intersection. The monstrous image was in the crosshairs on Brown’s periscope.

While the snows fell upon them, the bloodied platoon waited. The soldiers held their breath as the eternities continued to torturously tick past.

CHAPTER 13

January 29—12:11 a.m.

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

On the North–South Highway a Mile from E48

From out of nowhere, the leading tank and the two behind it suddenly exploded.

The stark violence startled both the Russians and the American platoon. Unaware of the Apache’s change of orders, Jensen was just as confused as the enemy. The burning tanks lit up the midnight battlefield once more. A new false daylight devoured the night. Jensen threw off his night-vision goggles.

For an instant, he believed one of his crews had panicked and fired. But that couldn’t be the answer. One TOW couldn’t destroy three tanks. And three tanks had been destroyed. Mines? It couldn’t be that either. There hadn’t been time for anyone to lay them.

Just then, a T-80 opened up with its antiaircraft machine gun. Instantly, Jensen’s quick mind solved the puzzle. It could only be one thing—helicopters!

Searching the low skies, Jensen caught a shadow roaring through the valley. A glimpse really. But enough to tell him that the cause of the sudden infernos had been Apaches. Jensen had seen the unmistakable silhouette of a sleek Apache Attack Helicopter.

At night, the helicopters’ olive drab image appeared to be jet-black. After watching the Apaches on numerous night-training missions, the cavalry soldiers had anointed the squadron’s lethal avengers with an appropriate name.

“Black death” had arrived on the battlefield.

The nine two-man tank-killer teams had thundered out of Camp Kinney within minutes of the squadron commander giving the order. It was a scene right out of Star Wars. Each crew was sealed in its futuristic cockpit. In the helicopters, the target-acquisition officer sat in front of and below the pilot. Their sophisticated night-vision equipment was positioned over their passionless faces. Their instrument panels were aglow from a multitude of dials and gauges. At treetop level, in the middle of the night, in the middle of a blizzard, at 180 miles per hour, they rushed toward the border.

When they neared the target area, the attackers split into three groups. At full speed, the first group roared straight down the valley a few feet above the ground. They found the Russians exactly where they’d anticipated. While they continued to hurtle toward the huge formation, each locked onto one of the leading tanks. Nearly as one, they unleashed a Hellfire missile from beneath their obscene helicopter. The missile rocketed out. With the target-acquisition officers’ guidance, the Hellfires smashed into their targets. A trio of tanks was instantly destroyed.

The victorious helicopters veered sharply to the right. A single T-80 commander figured out what had happened. He fired a handful of belated rounds from his antiaircraft machine gun in their general direction. The Apaches disappeared over the tree line.

With the Russians’ attention turned southward toward the fleeing helicopters, a second group of tank killers roared in from the north. This group fired long bursts from their 30mm chain guns at a jumbled mass of BMPs a quarter mile back in the column. The thinly armored upper skins of six BMPs were ripped to shreds. The BMPs started to smolder, then to burn brightly. But the second group of Apaches wasn’t done yet. Each fired a Hellfire missile. A T-72, then another, followed by a third, were soon blazing.

A few more feeble antiaircraft shots were fired at the attackers. The helicopters passed over the trees untouched. In the wake of this attack, the final group of Apaches zoomed directly down the valley floor. Taking the same path for their second run, the original trio was ten seconds behind them.

Hellfire missiles rained down upon the column once again. This time the six Apaches ran straight down the roadway, staying over the target significantly longer than during the first two runs. As the leading group veered left into the forest, and the second disappeared to the right, a dozen armored vehicles exploded. Heaven-searing flames erupted everywhere.

The Russians were stopped dead in their tracks.

It was like watching a highly skilled cat play with a terrified mouse.

This mouse, however, wasn’t defenseless. For this was a mouse with very sharp teeth. In this game, a careless cat could soon find himself the mouse’s meal.

The cat formed up for another run.

• • •

From the snowy hilltop, Jensen and his Bradley crews watched as the Apaches tore into the column. When the Russians faltered and began to retreat, the platoon sergeant saw his opening. He leaped up and ran to Jelewski’s position in the rear of Austin’s Bradley.

“Jewels, get me on the Apaches’ net as fast as you can!”

Jelewski reached over and adjusted the radio dials. He handed the handset to Jensen.

“What’s today’s call sign for the Apaches?”

“Vulture,” Jelewski said.

Jensen put the handset to his parched mouth. “Vulture-One, Vulture-One, this is Del

ta-Two-Five. Say again, this is Delta-Two-Five.”

From the cockpit of the lead helicopter came the response in the officious voice all pilots seem to use. “Roger, Delta-Two-Five. This is Vulture-One. Go ahead.”

“Vulture, have five Bradleys on north–south highway, one mile north of your position. During your next run, we’re going to join in on the attack. After we fire, we’ll try to escape west in the confusion. Don’t fire on us. Repeat, we are friendlies, don’t fire on us.”

“Roger, Delta-Two-Five. We copy. Welcome to the party.”

“Roger, Vulture, good luck.”

Jensen hurried back to the crest of the hill to verify the tank column was still withdrawing.