The Red Line

The T-72s continued to plod up the hill toward the hidden Americans.

“Tony, did you get that?” Richardson said into the intercom. “We’re still on the lead tank.”

“Roger, I’ve got him locked in. I’ll fire as soon as the lieutenant gives the word.”

Mallory was back on the radio. “If the BMPs dismount infantry to support the tanks, tank commanders open fire with your machine guns immediately. Try to keep the infantry as far away from our position as you possibly can. Let’s hit them real hard, then get out of here fast. Get off two or three good shots at the tanks. We’ll then retract from our holes and head for our secondary fighting position.”

“I’m all for that, Lieutenant,” Richardson said. “Lead tank ready to be engaged whenever you give the word. Will fire two or three rounds and get the hell out of here.”

“Which escape route are we going to take through the trees?” Greene asked.

“We’ll go directly west,” Mallory said, “unless it’s blocked. If we get separated, form up at the secondary position. Does everyone have the map coordinates?”

“We’ve got them okay,” Greene said.

“No problem, Lieutenant,” Richardson said. “Retreating’s something I’ll be able to handle just fine.”

A typical Richardson comment. The kind the platoon had long ago come to expect from its junior sergeant. They were seconds away from their first combat. Even so, inside the three tanks, the soldiers let out a nervous laugh.

The re-formed Russian column picked up speed. Led by the tanks, they moved up the highway. From the snowy hilltop, the M-1s had an excellent angle with which to attack the entire line of T-72s. From their vantage point, they could unleash a clean shot at any of the twelve tanks.

Warrick had his hand on the firing mechanism. Sweat ran down the Americans’ faces. The cramped space inside the tanks was smothering and oppressive. The soldiers’ breathing was short and labored. Richardson, Mallory, and Greene waited to open fire. Each would remotely fire his .50-caliber commander’s machine gun from inside the fully secured tank.

The lieutenant bit his lip and waited. The Russians closed to within five hundred yards. At this distance, the sophisticated firing systems of the M-1s wouldn’t miss.

Mallory screamed into the radio, “Open fire!”

Warrick fired his Abrams’s 120mm main gun. The moment the huge shell leaped from the cannon’s barrel, a giant “whoosh!” could be heard for miles around. Two more “whooshes!” quickly followed as Mallory’s and Greene’s tanks fired.

Three shells raced across the quarter-mile distance that separated attacker and prey. Warrick’s lethal warhead smashed into the lead T-72’s eight inches of armor plating. The shell blew right through the thick armor. The Russian tank erupted in roaring flames. Red-hot pieces of metal flew in every direction. The mighty explosion reverberated throughout the once-peaceful valley. Two more shattering explosions were right on its heels. They filled the fading day with riotous sound. Fire enveloped the destroyed tanks.

“I got the bastard!” Warrick screamed. “Did you see that son of a bitch go up? I got him! I got him good!”

Richardson was feeling the same battle-induced euphoria. He knew, however, he had to keep his head if his crew was going to live to see the onrushing sunset. He tried to sound composed and workmanlike.

“Tony, calm down. Calm down. Start targeting another tank, or else some Russian gunner’s going to be saying the same thing about us in a few seconds. Get that big sucker trying to pull out of line about three tanks back of the burning ones.”

“Roger,” Warrick said. “Targeting tank pulling out of line.”

In the rear of the command compartment, Clark Vincent withdrew the first of the forty-one replacement shells from behind the thick metal panel that separated the lethal ordnance from the crew. He shoved the eighty-pound shell into the main gun’s firing chamber. That task completed, he closed the munitions panel, protecting the tank crew from the possibility of their own exploding shells entering the crew compartment should the tank be hit by an enemy round. Although only six weeks removed from the completion of his training at Fort Knox, Kentucky, the tank’s new loader handled his tasks with relative ease.

In seconds, the main gun was ready to fire again.

The remaining Russian tanks fanned out on the snowy ground below the Americans. They’d yet to locate the exact origin of the attack by the well-hidden defenders. A trio of T-72s started blindly firing their machine guns toward the knoll. BMPs rushed forward to support the tanks. They screamed to a stop. Infantrymen spewed forth from the rear of a dozen armored personnel carriers.

“Tank commanders, open fire!” Mallory yelled.

Richardson squeezed the trigger on his machine gun. A line of tracer fire rushed straight for a squad of seven exposed infantrymen running forward on the open ground in front of the hill. The infantry continued to struggle through the deep snows toward the small crest. Two of the running figures were hurled backward by the force of the striking bullets. Their comrades dove headlong into the snows. But there was nowhere for them to hide on the trackless hill.

Warrick fired the tank’s main gun. Another “whoosh!” filled the valley. Still unable to pinpoint the precise location of the attack, the Russian tank had been attempting to move toward the hilltop. The M-1’s shell bore down upon the T-72. Another funeral pyre of roaring flames and billowing smoke filled the valley as a fourth tank died.

A second squad of foot soldiers charged up the middle of the slope. Mallory’s and Greene’s machine guns went after them. Six of the Russians were struck by the American fire. They crumpled to the ground. The seventh, a panicked private of eighteen, took one look around and turned to run back down the incline. Three bullets smashed into his back and shoved him into the pink snows. The soldier’s body slid down the hillside.

The other American tanks fired their cannons in quick succession. Two additional T-72s wilted beneath the Abrams’s insurmountable main gun.

The Russians finally located the origin of the attack. They began returning the Americans’ fire. A T-72’s cannon shell burst at the base of the logs and dirt in front of Richardson’s tank. Inside the M-1, the fiercely echoing sound of the exploding shell resounded throughout its metal hull.

“Man, that was close! Everybody all right?”

“Yup,” Vincent said as he loaded another round.

“I’m okay,” Jamie Pierson said from his position in the driver’s compartment at the front of the tank.

“Fine here, too,” Warrick answered.

“Tony, get another good shot at one of those bastards. Then let’s get ready to get the hell out of here.”

“Roger. I’m already targeting. A few more seconds and we’ll be all set.”

Another squad of infantry rushed forward. They threw themselves into the snow. One of the Russians got to his knees. He aimed his shoulder-mounted rocket at the American position. His squad attempted to cover him.

It was a difficult angle. The soldier was firing uphill at well-protected targets. There was no margin for error. With death swirling around him, he had to hit the turret of one of the tanks if he was going to have any chance of penetrating an M-1’s stout armor and killing the Americans inside. The missile roared off his shoulder. It was a blur as it catapulted up the short incline. The anxious shot went just a little high. The rocket whistled over the three tanks. It smashed into a huge evergreen a short way up the rise. The tree’s trunk was severed. It fell forward. With a thunderous thud, the evergreen’s broad branches slammed across the turrets of the American tanks.

“Christ, what was that?” Warrick asked.

“Never mind! Just fire that damn gun so we can get out of here.”

The firing of the rocket attracted the attention of the American tanks. Three converging lines of machine-gun fire waltzed across the snows. The tank comm

anders closed in on the exposed Russians.

The beleaguered infantry leaped to their feet and ran from the hill. The machine guns cut them down before any of the squad had traveled more than a handful of retreating steps.

Another Russian tank fired its cannon at the Americans. Two BMPs followed with Spandrel missiles. Tumultuous explosions tore through the crest of the hill. The earth beneath the tank platoon shuddered and yawed. But inside their strongly fortified worlds, the Americans were unharmed.

Richardson’s machine gun continued to spit death at those trapped below.

“Whoosh!” filled the valley once more as Warrick fired a third mighty round. A T-72 exploded a fraction of a second later.

“I got a third one!” Warrick screamed.

Vincent moved forward with another of the heavy rounds.

“Jamie, get ready to move out as fast as you can when the lieutenant gives the word,” Richardson directed his driver.

But no word came from the command tank. And the BMPs continued to unload their foot soldiers. Scores of white-clad figures moved toward the snowbound crest.

Warrick quickly joined in on the slaughter of the Russian infantry, firing the machine gun next to the tank’s huge cannon toward the onrushing soldiers. Four American machine guns were now firing at the struggling Russians. Unspeakable carnage was spreading unimpeded to every corner of the snowy slope.

“Enough is enough, come on, Lieutenant,” Richardson said, “fire a final round already and give the order to move.”