The Red Line

Six German armored divisions were to the north. The combined British and Canadian division was with them. Four of the German divisions were embroiled in a fierce assault to break through the Russians’ tenuous defenses on the East German border. For the moment, the Russian line appeared to be quite thin. The Germans had seen an opportunity to retake East Germany before it was too late and were racing to capitalize upon it.

One hundred and twenty miles to the southwest, the nine thousand men of the American 11th Armored Cavalry and 6th Cavalry were waiting east of Munich to block the enemy’s advance into the city of nearly two million.

That was all there was.

Twelve hours into the war, there were thirty Russian divisions in East Germany. Another twenty were crossing into the northern portion of the country. In the south, things were even worse. Fifty Russian divisions were inside Germany and rolling west. Thirty more were making their way across the border.

Eleven NATO armored divisions and the two American cavalry regiments were rushing into battle against 150 Russian divisions. The final elements of the 82nd Airborne were three hours away from arriving in Germany. The 24th Infantry’s last units were just now boarding planes in Georgia. Both divisions had planned on joining the 3rd Infantry to strengthen the Americans’ defenses. But because of the Russians’ airborne assault, those orders had been changed.

For the Germans, British, and Americans, the situation in the initial hours of the conflict appeared quite grim. In this war, there were going to be ten attacking divisions for every one defending. The odds were staggering. Yet they weren’t hopeless. On the technology-dominated battlefield, the advantage would go to the defenders. With the West’s superior weapons, the attacker was going to suffer severe losses of men and equipment while attempting to root the Allies from their fortified positions.

• • •

The combat engineer indicated that the hole was ready. Richardson spoke into his headset.

“All right, Jamie, drop her in nice and slow.”

Specialist Tony Warrick stood on the ground, guiding the M-1. Private First Class Jamie Pierson drove the seventy-two-ton tank forward. He eased it into the sloped hole the bulldozer had created. Using a smaller bulldozer, another combat engineer pushed three large logs in front of Richardson’s Abrams. To complete the job, the bulldozer piled dirt and snow on top of the logs. When their efforts were completed, only the tank’s turret was visible.

Their task at an end, the engineers hurried off to prepare the platoon’s secondary position. Five miles west on Highway 19, three new holes would soon be dug.

Lieutenant Mallory and Staff Sergeant Greene walked up to Richardson’s tank.

“Richardson,” Mallory said, “let’s take a look around while we’ve still got a little time.”

“Okay, sir.”

Richardson climbed out of his tank. To evaluate their fighting position, the tank commanders headed into the snow-filled valley. They stopped a few hundred yards down the modest slope. They turned and looked back at the hillside.

“What do you think, sir?” Greene asked.

“I like what I see.”

“Me, too,” Greene said. “From here, you can’t even tell we’re there. We’re definitely going to get a clean shot at Comrade before he knows what hit him.”

The trio of tanks lay hidden on the crest of a small hill. They were on the edge of a patch of dense woods, a mile west of where the only major east–west highway in the area intersected Autobahn A7. To advance, the enemy would have to come down one of the two roadways. When they did, they’d head straight into the crosshairs of the waiting M-1s. What made the location even better was that while the woods protecting the Abrams were thick, the trees behind the platoon were fairly thin.

“What I like best,” Richardson said, “is that when the time comes to run, it’ll be easy to retract from our holes and escape through the woods in either of two directions.”

“There you go again, Tim,” Greene said, “always running from something. First it’s irate Frauleins you’ve promised to marry in Wurzburg. Now it’s Comrade in . . . um . . . aw . . . Where the hell are we anyway?”

Mallory looked around. “Somewhere in Germany, I think.”

“Thanks, sir, that’s a lot of help.”

“Well, wherever we are, we’ve been out in the open long enough,” the lieutenant said. “Let’s get back up the hill before some Russian helicopter jockey decides to use us to test out his machine guns.”

Richardson scanned the cloudless sky. “I’m with you, Lieutenant.”

They climbed through the waist-deep drifts to the top of the hill and clambered back into their Abrams tanks. While the afternoon wore on, there was little more for the tankers to do. Richardson spent the time watching the snarl of automobiles on the intersecting highways below. Frantic German refugees covered every inch of both roadways for as far as the eye could see. Over the noise o

f the tangled traffic, the twelve soldiers could hear the rumbling thunder of the intense battles raging in the east. The frightful sounds went on without end.

• • •

Early in the afternoon, a steady succession of Predator drones began appearing overhead. Each carried two Hellfire missiles. Each was heading east in search of prey.

A few minutes later, a flight of six Apache helicopters appeared out of nowhere. The tank killers screamed overhead. They passed a few feet above the treetops. In their haste to become a part of the historic contest, the helicopters roared through the scenic valley at speeds approaching 180 miles per hour. In less than a minute, they disappeared into the eastern trees. Richardson watched them go. A smile came to his face. The helicopters’ obvious hurry to join in the fighting amused him. The young tanker was in no rush whatsoever to become a part of the death and destruction being wrought a scant handful of hills away.

There was no need to hasten things. He knew the platoon’s time would come soon enough.

• • •

The Apaches hovered one hundred yards apart. Hidden in a blanket of fir and beech, they prepared to unleash their missiles. Twelve unsuspecting tanks scurried through a trackless field toward the attack helicopters. With their rotors spinning, the deadly spiders waited in the treetops. They needed to ensure that all the flies were ensnared in their web before they struck. The T-80s continued ever farther into the Americans’ trap.

“All right, Warrior Flight, let’s get ’em,” the flight leader said into his headset. “I’ll take the middle one and the one right behind him. The rest of you take the two nearest your position.”