The Red Line

The meeting concluded a few minutes later, with Townes directing the duty officer to not commit the Apaches. It was this information about the disposition of the Apaches that Jelewski received on the radio moments before the platoon began its desperate run toward E48.

Townes had left the drab squadron headquarters at a little before eleven for some much-needed food, and possibly a drink or two, at the tiny officers’ club on the far side of the compound. While he trudged through the falling snow, he realized there were three long days before the squadron’s month on the border would be completed. In seventy-two hours, he would finally be able to let down his guard a little and settle in for a well-earned rest.

At 11:45, Townes was sitting alone at a table next to a frost-covered window in the nearly deserted officers’ club. The squadron commander had just devoured a last satisfying mouthful of schnitzel. He was about to order a bourbon and water when Brown’s TOW ripped into the first T-80. A ball of fire filled the eastern heavens. In rapid succession, additional fireworks rushed skyward. Townes, a veteran of Iraq and Afghanistan, knew it could mean only one thing. He scrambled to his feet and raced from the club at full speed. Running as fast as he could through the deep snows, it took him five full minutes to retrace his steps to squadron headquarters.

At midnight, as Jensen’s platoon screamed onto the north–south highway, the squadron commander realized the full implications of the attack. All along the border, 1st Squadron was falling back or being wiped out.

As 2nd Platoon neared the beckoning crossroads, twelve tanks, with sixteen Bradleys in support, were heading out of Camp Kinney to find a blocking position on E48. An equal force was preparing to race south to support the squadron’s platoons protecting E50 and the enemy’s access to the historic city of Nuremberg.

Help was on the way for the squadron’s border forces. There was, however, no chance of the first column of tanks and Bradleys covering the twelve miles to the intersection where Jensen’s platoon would enter E48 before the Russian column reached the same point. The deadly M-1s were going to be too late to aid Jensen’s retreating platoon.

If David Townes hadn’t been a man willing to change his mind, Jensen and his men would’ve been racing toward their certain deaths. A death waiting to greet them in the form of one thousand Russian tanks.

The last report from the platoon blocking E48 hadn’t been encouraging. Twelve tanks and two platoons of Bradleys weren’t going to be enough to stop the growing Russian juggernaut. Blizzard or not, Townes had to play his trump card.

The Apaches had to attack. If they didn’t, by the time the weather cleared, Camp Kinney would be thirty miles behind enemy lines. He could chance losing the Apaches in the vicious storm, or he could wait and lose them on the ground.

Townes scooped up the telephone and dialed a three-digit number. It rang twice before the squadron aviation officer answered.

“This is Colonel Townes. Get the Apaches into the air.”

“But, sir, I thought we agreed to keep the Apaches on the ground until morning. The weather’s no better than it was, and . . .”

“Dammit, Marks, you heard me! My whole command’s getting slaughtered out there. If we don’t do something immediately, by morning this camp’s going to be well behind enemy lines. And the pilots flying your Apaches will be speaking Russian. Get nine of them into the air and on their way up E48. Do it now! I want the other nine ready to leave for E50 in the next half hour.”

In the time it took Jensen’s platoon to travel the first three miles south, nine grotesque killers were climbing into the blizzard and roaring toward the border.

• • •

E48 was near. The Humvee started up a long incline. It was the final hill the Americans would climb before descending into the majestic valley where the highways intersected.

“Halt just before you get to the top of the hill,” Jensen said.

When they neared the crest, Ramirez brought the vehicle to a stop. Motioning for them to stay put, Jensen grabbed his night-vision goggles and leaped from the Humvee. In a crouch, he ran through the blizzard to the apex of the hill. Jensen threw himself down in the deep snows. From the hilltop, he had an unrestricted view of E48 as it ran through the winding valley below. He lay perfectly still, trying to get a feel for his surroundings. It didn’t take long for him to realize the awful truth about the platoon’s situation.

He heard them before he saw them. Like the tremors that followed an earthquake, the rumble of a thousand tanks shook the earth beneath his motionless form.

There was much movement to the east. Jensen pulled the night-vision goggles up to his face. When the goggles covered his morose eyes, the strange green world returned.

There they were, an endless column of Russian armored vehicles stretching for untold miles to the east. Jensen quickly scanned the area in front of him for any signs of activity. The intersection of the two highways was deathly silent. He slowly panned to his right, searching the forested valley to the west for any signs of the enemy. There was nothing anywhere. The Russians hadn’t yet made it to where the highways met. He turned back to calculate the distance from the enemy column to where the roads converged. It didn’t take long for him to have his answer.

His battered heart sank. The lead tank wasn’t more than a mile from the crossroads.

The platoon was trapped. Their luck had run out. Jensen’s mind soared through his options, desperately searching for an answer.

If they made a run for the crossroads, they’d be wiped out before any of the platoon’s vehicles reached E48. Even if they somehow made it to E48, they’d have to race west through the valley floor. The Russians would have them in their sights for at least five minutes. There’d be no chance of escape for the fleeing Americans.

They could turn around and head seventeen miles north to Selb. Maybe they’d have better luck upon arriving there. Unfortunately, he sensed it was far too late to attempt such a desperate maneuver. The Russians would soon penetrate the north–south highway in a number of locations. Even with the sacrificial lamb out front, the platoon would undoubtedly be ambushed and killed before they made it halfway.

Maybe they could wait for the squadron’s twelve Abrams tanks to arrive. Possibly they could escape then. But Jensen knew that by the time the tanks made their way from Camp Kinney, the Russians would be five miles farther into Germany. And the platoon would be trapped forever behind enemy lines.

They could abandon their vehicles, fade into the woods, and fight a guerrilla action on foot. But 2nd Platoon’s strength lay in the power of its Bradleys. Deep within the protective forest, they might hold out for a few days, possibly longer, before their position was uncovered.

That, however, had never been their mission. The platoon was here for one reason. They were here to slow the Russians for as long as they could.

They could attack . . .

E48 was much too broad for the five Bradleys to do to this column what they’d done to the earlier one. E48 was four lanes wide. And on both sides of the highway, there were large open areas before reaching the impenetrable woods. They would have to destroy at least thirty enemy vehicles to have any hope of blocking th

e powerful column’s advance.

With so small a force at his disposal, there was no chance of that occurring. Jensen knew they wouldn’t succeed. They couldn’t stop the Russians. Nevertheless, from their hilltop vantage point, they might be able to create a bit of havoc for at least a little while. With the two-and-a-half-mile range of their TOWs, they could possibly destroy as many as ten or twelve tanks before the Russians figured out what had hit them.

Jensen understood what would happen next. The enemy would locate the origin of the strike. Once they did, the Russians would pull back out of range of the Bradleys. They’d then open fire with their massive cannons. The first salvo, likely to be from a hundred tanks, would end the brief skirmish. There’d be no chance of surviving. With one swish of the Russian elephant’s tail, the mosquitoes’ lives would be over.

With any luck, however, they could slow the elephant down for as much as fifteen minutes. The exchange of twenty-six lives for fifteen minutes of precious time was the best Jensen could do.

It was settled. With five Bradleys, the men of 2nd Platoon, Delta Troop, would attack two thousand Russian armored vehicles.

While he lay in the snows planning the battle, the Bradleys arrived behind him. Jensen returned to meet the dismounting vehicle commanders.

“Seth, send scouts out one hundred yards in each direction.”

The last thing they needed was an enemy unit stumbling upon the unprotected platoon.

Two soldiers scrambled in each direction to find defensive positions.

Jensen drew the vehicle commanders together. The Russian column continued its steadfast movement into Germany. He had little time to organize the attack.

The fire had gone out in the platoon sergeant’s expressive eyes. “We’re too late,” he said. “A Russian armored column’s a mile from the intersection. We’ll never make it if we try to escape on E48. And it’s too late to turn around.”