The parachutists were seven miles from the base and moving fast. Four A-10s churned down the first of the hastily patched runways. They took to the air. The Warthogs were intent on slowing the Russians long enough for the 82nd to form up
and attack. For the moment, they would keep a handful of the 24th Infantry’s Bradleys in reserve to protect the base against any enemy force that was lucky enough to breach the savage American assault.
The Russian regiment was exceptionally powerful. But the confident Americans were building a force that was more than a match for their opponent. This would be another Kaiserslautern. The Americans were comfortable that they’d win. And win decisively. Their goal was to crush the Russians as many miles from the base as they possibly could. After this morning’s attack, Ramstein couldn’t afford to suffer any additional harm.
It was all a matter of time. A race to see if the American battalion could intercept their counterparts soon enough to spare the base from further damage.
• • •
The four new airmen huddled near the main bunker.
“All right, you guys,” Rios said, “one grenade could get you all. Two of you grab your rifles and take that bunker over there.”
Two airmen ran to the bunker on the left.
“You two, down there.”
The airmen raced to the right.
“Home at last,” Wilson said.
His cheeks were flush from the sting of the crisp winter air. As the sun started to fade, the temperature was steadily plummeting. It was going to be a viciously cold night. But Wilson wasn’t going to let the enemy or the weather change his outlook. His belly was full. And as long as that was the case, a few more Russians coming to kill them weren’t going to spoil his mood.
“Aw, shut up, Wilson,” Goodman said.
Arturo Rios reluctantly slid into his sandbagged world. He settled in behind the all-too-familiar machine gun. His desperate need for sleep clung to the corners of his weary eyes and tugged at his tortured brain. One thing he knew for certain: if he had to kill thirty-three more Russians to get a good night’s sleep, he was going to do so.
CHAPTER 39
January 29—4:10 p.m.
On the Eastern Fence
Ramstein Air Base
The self-assured parachutists raced toward Ramstein. They were certain a great victory would soon be theirs. There’d be no feint this time. The regiment would concentrate its strike at a single point—the northern gate. They’d hit it with an immense blow so intense that the battered air base couldn’t possibly withstand. To do so, the oncoming column was closely bunched.
The Warthogs rushed out to greet them.
At the same moment the initial 82nd Airborne company roared out the northern gate, the thunder and lightning of the A-10s struck the Russian column. The 24th Infantry’s armor was right behind. At top speed, nearly thirty Bradleys and the eight M-1 Abrams tanks joined the Humvees as they sped across the windswept landscape toward the enemy. With the open ground in front of them, the Americans could clearly see the A-10s’ assault five miles away.
As cannon shells poured from the Warthogs’ noses, the leading BMDs burst into flames. New trails of suffocating smoke wafted into the hazy skies near Ramstein.
Another bloody battle for the battered air base had begun.
On the A-10 flight’s first fierce pass, fourteen pieces of Russian armor fell. Eighty-three parachutists perished in a few fleeting seconds. In response, the Russians hurled malice into the skies at the little killer aircraft. The third Warthog in the formation spiraled out of control beneath the mortal blow of a striking air-defense missile. Its flaming fuselage plunged toward the unforgiving ground.
Another airborne company hurried out the northern gate. With their Humvees spewing snow, they hastened toward the steadily expanding battle. The Russians came on. The smoldering American air base was in sight. The A-10s attacked again. Lethal ordnance poured down upon the steadfast parachutists. And still more air-defense missiles were sent into the darkening heavens to greet the stubborn Warthogs. A horrific end reached up to claim a second A-10 pilot.
The final two companies of burgundy-bereted soldiers rushed out the western gate in their Humvees. The battalion’s plan was to ensnare the parachute regiment between the two formations. Once within the Americans’ mighty grasp, the slaughter would commence. To the last man, the enemy would be systematically destroyed.
The Bradleys and M-1s pinched in toward the parachutists’ column. They would hit the enemy head-on. Eighty Humvees were right with them. The American trap was about to be sprung.
The Russians spotted the overwhelming force heading toward them across the frozen landscape. The regimental commander had no idea from where the enemy had come. But he instantly recognized that he would likely be outgunned by the daunting American weapons. The enemy armor, with so many Humvees in support, would decimate his regiment. In minutes, they’d all be dead if he didn’t do something. Even as his men struggled to fend off the persistent A-10s’ attacks, he issued new orders to them.
He picked up the microphone in his command BMD. “M-1s, Bradleys, and Humvees approaching from Ramstein’s northern and western gates. Implement alternative plan C. Say again—implement alternative plan C.”
The parachutists instantly responded to his directive. One hundred and fifty vehicles spread out across the open ground. In a wide, straight line, they surged forward. They’d make a suicide attack on the Americans to tie them up. Behind the attacking line, the remaining vehicles split. Nearly one hundred turned south. An identical force swung to the east. Both groups sprinted across the white fields at breakneck speed. Six miles away lay the protection of the heavy woods on the far ends of the sprawling air base. As the identical columns raced for safety, every two miles, five Russian vehicles turned back toward the enemy to protect their comrades’ escape. The regiment’s absolute precision was a thing of beauty to behold. They realized they were in deep trouble. But they also knew they could still win the battle if the fleeing columns could outflank the Americans and reach the thick forests surrounding the far sides of their objective. Once into the trees, the parachutists would wait for nightfall. In an hour, the world around them would turn pitch-black. They’d then assault the eastern and southern fences on foot.
Rather than destroying the air base with brute force, they’d become saboteurs. They’d arrived at Ramstein as ruthless bullies. Now, they’d changed into thieves in the night. Stealth, not power, would win the day for the Russians. Despite their tenuous position, their mission wasn’t yet lost.
The Americans raced toward the screening line of armored vehicles. The widely spaced Russians came straight for them. None of the onrushing parachutists could be allowed to penetrate their defenses and gain access to the base. Behind the oncoming line, the Americans could see the other columns escaping in both directions. Even so, the burgundy berets had no other choice. They’d first have to deal with the immediate threat provided by the approaching attackers. Only then could they turn their attention toward the significant groups racing east and south.
The regiment’s strongest elements, the fierce BMDs, were in the attacking force. The two opposing lines roared forward. Second by second, the deadly foes approached each other until less than a quarter mile remained between them. The Russians suddenly stopped. Each BMD began discharging its five infantrymen to support their attack.
“They’re preparing to fire their missiles and main guns,” the American battalion commander said. “Halt, release your TOWs, then charge the sons a bitches. Don’t let a single one escape.”
The M-1s, Bradleys, and Humvees screamed to a stop. Despite the clear threat, the Russians ignored the combat vehicles directly in front of them. Instead, they aimed at the weaker side armor on the Bradleys to their north and south. Missiles flew across the snows in both directions. The Bradleys’ and Humvees’ TOWs, and the BMDs’ Bastions, spun through the rapidly closing darkness. Bushmaster cannon fire, M-1 cannon shells, and searching Russian armaments carried their lethal warheads through the frost-tinged twilight. Machine guns spewed death in every direction. Scores of vehicles on both sides
exploded at nearly the same instant. The violence overwhelmed them all. It carried to the far corners of the battered base and well beyond. A startled Rios turned toward the earth-shattering sound. He watched as countless new fires grabbed at the blackening heavens.
The pair of A-10s swung in behind the enemy. They tore at the rear of the Russian line. The monstrous M-1s fired cannon shell after cannon shell. They churned toward the enemy. Both their online TOWs fired, the surviving Bradleys lunged forward, determined to eliminate the direct threat to the air base. The Humvees were right with them, firing their machine guns as they went. There was no time to waste. The Bradleys would reload their TOW firing tubes on the run. They clawed at their foe with their Bushmasters. A life-taking curtain of piercing cannon fire and whizzing bullets ripped through the battlefield and tore into the BMDs’ thin armor. It felled the Russian soldiers on the merciless ground in countless numbers. The parachutists futilely tried to answer back. But it was no use. The BMDs crumpled beneath the powerful American assault. The Russian line faltered.
In five minutes of sheer terror, 150 attacking vehicles were reduced by two-thirds. The remaining fifty fought on. It wouldn’t be long before the entire parachutists’ line was annihilated. The American battalion commander began preparing to hunt down the enemy columns disappearing in the east and south.
The fleeing Russians were three miles nearer to the woods than they’d been five minutes earlier.
After seven minutes of battle, only eleven of the attacking parachutists’ vehicles survived. Still, the eleven continued to fight. Their refusal to surrender bought further seconds of precious time for their comrades.
The beckoning woods were a mile closer.