The Red Line

The radio suddenly came to life. The tension in the battalion radio operator’s voice was unmistakable. “This is Echo-Yankee-One. Urgent. To all units. Everyone except Sierra-Kilo-One-Two is to fall back immediately. Head for Highway 19. Once there, each crew is to make it on their own the fifty miles to Heilbronn. The battalion will re-form on the eastern end of that city. The artillery’s moved forward. They’re preparing to fire. The planes are in the air. Get as far away from the front lines as you can. ‘The Final Ace’ has been called for forty-five minutes from now. Repeat. Get away from the front lines immediately. Countdown for ‘The Final Ace’ has begun.”

“Echo-Yankee-One, this is Sierra-Kilo-One-Two,” Richardson said. “What about us?”

“Sierra-Kilo-One-Two, you’re to hold your position for ten minutes to allow the battalion to escape. Ten minutes, no more. Then get the hell out of there as fast as you can. Do you copy?”

“Roger, Echo-Yankee-One. We’ll try to hold on here. But be advised, all of our machine guns are out of commission. Only our main gun’s working.”

The radio operator conferred with the battalion commander. “Sierra-Kilo-One-Two, the Apaches will stay with you for the next ten minutes.”

“Roger, understood. With the Apaches in support, we’ll attempt to hold on here for the next ten minutes, then retreat to Heilbronn.”

“Roger, Sierra-Kilo-One-Two. We’ll see you there.”

From the small trails and thick woods for ten miles north and south of Highway 19, the ragged vestiges of the battered battalion scurried for an entrance onto the narrow highway. Retreating behind Richardson’s protective screen, each entered the winding road west.

• • •

Forty-five minutes from now, as part of their plan to stop the Russians and save Germany, the Americans were going to unleash their immense arsenal of tactical nuclear weapons. Without consulting with their German allies, the Americans were implementing a plan they’d developed nearly seventy years earlier at the direction of President John F. Kennedy.

For over six decades, the Americans had understood their only real chance of winning a ground war in Europe would be by escalating the conflict with the explosion of hundreds of small tactical nuclear devices. This was going to be America’s final grasp at changing the tide in a war they hadn’t been ready to fight.

Two days earlier, the Russians had severely increased the stakes by introducing nerve gas and a handful of nuclear weapons onto the perverse fields. Now it was the Americans turn to up the ante. They’d play the only card they had left if they were going to win the grievous conflict. They’d play their final ace. In forty-five minutes, the fires of an unspeakable hell man’s imagination was unwilling to address would rain down upon central Germany. The Americans were going to explode score after score of nuclear devices over an area one hundred miles long and twenty miles wide.

In forty-five minutes, two hundred thousand Russian soldiers were going to be consumed in a nuclear holocaust. Another two hundred thousand would find themselves piteously begging for death from the effects of the radiation poisoning seeping through their skin.

To have any chance of saving Germany, America was going to be forced to destroy it.

• • •

With the menacing Apaches lurking in the trees, Richardson’s tank crew waited to repel any further attackers. But none came. The Russians weren’t going to risk any additional charges into the meadow until their own air support arrived to deal with the deadly Apaches.

One by one, six hundred seconds torturously ticked past. Richardson kept a bloody eye on the cracked crystal of his watch. It slowly slid toward the moment when the final American tank would be allowed to retreat.

The instant the ten minutes were up, Richardson’s crew sprang into action. The last thing they wanted was to die beneath the destructive power of their own nuclear weapons. The tank crawled from the hole it had been sitting in for the past thirty hours. Jamie turned the Abrams and carefully picked his way through the evergreens until they reached the beckoning highway. Back on the slender ribbon of asphalt, the M-1 rushed west. It trailed far behind its fleeing comrades. As the last tank disappeared, the Apaches pirouetted and roared away.

There were thirty-five minutes before America would play its final card.

CHAPTER 56

February 1—12:25 a.m.

1st Platoon, Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion, 69th Armor, 3rd Heavy Brigade Combat Team, 3rd Infantry Division

On the Road to Heilbronn

The moment they were away, Richardson and Vincent popped their hatches and poked their heads out. Normally, the tankers would have settled in behind their machine guns and prepared to repulse any enemy infantry they might encounter. With both of their machine guns destroyed, however, neither loader nor tank commander could do anything but stare at the road ahead and pray that no Russians had yet infiltrated the highway to the west. As the tank rolled forward, the oppressive night’s brutal cold stabbed at Richardson’s gaping head wound. The cold was helping to slow the flow of blood. But even so, every few seconds the tank commander would take his sleeve and swipe at his eyes in a futile attempt to improve his vision. Until they were well away from the danger area, there would be no time to stop and tend to the wound.

Deep within the sheltering trees, the highway unpredictably twisted and turned. In the driver’s seat, Jamie Pierson fought the unfamiliar pavement and the onerous night. The tank’s broad tracks churned through the sinister forest. He understood that their lives depended upon getting as far away from the target area as they possibly could in the small amount of time remaining. Nevertheless, despite everything Pierson tried, he couldn’t maintain a speed above twenty miles per hour under these conditions.

They hadn’t traveled three miles when they stumbled upon the first group of Americans. Four soldiers had been hiding in a dense thicket near the roadway. They recognized the shape of the American tank. At the last possible moment, they rushed onto the asphalt. Pierson slammed on the brakes. The Abrams screeched to a halt inches from the group.

“Jesus!” Jamie screamed.

Even in the darkness, Richardson could make out the triangular shape of the 1st Armor Division patch on the soldiers’ left shoulders. He could also see that only two of the four had weapons.

“Christ, you guys have a death wish or something?” Richardson said. “Do you have any idea how close you just came to being roadkill? I’ve seen what happens when an M-1 runs over someone. It’s not a pretty sight.”

“Sorry, man,” one of the soldiers said. “We’ve been wandering around behind enemy lines for the past two days. When we saw you were Americans, we had to take the chance. We all figured it was better to get run over by an American tank than to stand in front of a Russian firing squad.”

“Look, I understand. But I’m not sure my driver will. You guys scared the crap out of him.”

It was apparent the ragtag group had been through a great deal.

“We’re the last tank out,” Richardson said. “And ‘The Final Ace’ has been called for this sector in less than half an hour. So we don’t exactly have time to stop and chat. Why don’t you guys pile on and let’s get the hell out of here while we still can.”

For the first time in two days, an exhausted smile appeared on the four filthy faces. Without another word, the soldiers scrambled onto the M-1’s wide hull. The tank lurched forward and headed west once more.

There were twenty-five minutes until the horrors of the nuclear attack.

• • •

In another winding mile, three more ghostly figures raced from the woods. They were added to the tank’s growing list of anxious hitchhikers. And seven minutes later, a group of six appeared from the darkness. Thirteen battle-weary soldiers clung to the broad tank while it rolled forward on the confining thread of asphalt. The top of the Abrams, in front of and behind Richardson, was rapidly filling.

Richardson’s crew wasn’t alone. All along the highway, the remnants of the battalion were scooping up loads of stragglers and rushing with them toward the west.

Fifteen fleeting minutes remained until the mass nuclear detonations. The fresh-faced tank commander knew they were still too close to the target area. But they’d ample time to avoid hell’s unforgiving fires. Even at this plodding pace, he was certain they’d add at least five additional miles to their flight before the first mushroom cloud erupted in the depraved night sky behind them.

High overhead, a circling F-35 spotted movement deep within the forest’s cover. The pilot’s instructions were to protect the retreating Americans from any Russian units giving chase. He’d been told his countrymen would be well clear of this area by now.

The F-35 had previously expended two missiles on an unsuspecting pair of MiG-29s. Its pilot decided to make his air-to-ground attack on the enemy vehicle with his armor-piercing, four-barrel Gatling gun. The fighter entered a teeth-rattling dive. The aircraft rushed straight toward the shadowy movement on the black highway below. As the Lightning II swooped in over the treetops, its cannon started to blaze. A long burst of gunfire spewed forth from beneath the F-35.