The Red Line

His voice reverberated throughout the three-story barracks.

The tankers scrambled in every direction. They grabbed their gear and ran down the same steps the Nazi tankers of World War II had used nearly ninety years earlier. The ghosts of those long-dead warriors watched from the twilight shadows as the Americans of Alpha Company raced out the door for the final time. The Americans disappeared into the darkness in their rush to meet the enemy.

When he stepped outside, the first thing Richardson noticed was that it was even colder than before. The fierce winds ripped at his face while he ran through the deepening drifts. The second thing he noticed was that the blizzard had stopped. He dropped his heavy field bags into the snows and took his place in line.

They dispensed with the formalities. Formalities were for peacetime armies. The company commander headed to the front of the formation.

“Men, we’ve gotten the word to move out. Your platoon leaders have been briefed on the battle plan. The 3rd Brigade will be heading south on Autobahn A7 to take up defensive positions. I’ve sent to the motor pool for trucks to take you to your tanks. If I don’t see you again before we leave, I want to tell you all good luck and good hunting. Remember, you’re American soldiers, the finest trained and best equipped in the world. Every one of you knows the capabilities of your M-1s. There’s not a tank in the world that can stand up to the Abrams. And there’s not a division in the world better than the 3rd Infantry. Platoon leaders, take charge of your platoons and prepare your men for battle.”

The company commander and the lieutenants saluted. The captain returned to the orderly room to see if there were further instructions from battalion. While they waited for the trucks, Lieutenant Mallory briefed the eleven men of his tank platoon on their objective and their mission once they arrived. The division’s organization chart called for each tank platoon to have four tanks. Like a number of platoons within the 3rd Infantry, however, Mallory’s platoon was short a tank crew.

They would limp into battle with only three M-1s.

• • •

Hitler’s fears of his military had been so great that throughout Germany he’d built numerous small kasernes and barracks so there’d never be too great a concentration of soldiers at a single location. At the end of the Second World War, the Americans simply moved into those scattered locations. The fifteen thousand men of the 3rd Infantry Division were housed on eight kasernes in and around Wurzburg.

From each of the eight bases, every few minutes a platoon of three or four tanks or a similar number of Bradleys departed.

At 4:00 a.m. on that terrifying morning, Richardson’s seventy-two-ton M-1A2 rolled forward. The three tanks edged out of the motor pool and turned south onto Autobahn A7. For hours, the rumble of armored vehicles could be heard all over the city.

The Americans’ organized response had begun.

CHAPTER 22

January 28—10:00 p.m. (Eastern Standard Time)

World News Network Studios

Boston

Carl Stern, veteran anchor for the evening news segment, stared down at the piece of paper he’d been handed during the commercial break. He pondered the significance of the words he would read. From behind the camera he heard, “Fifteen seconds, Carl.” Stern adjusted his silk tie and straightened his immaculate suit jacket.

“In five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one.”

“This just in to the WNN news desk,” Stern said. “An unconfirmed White House source has intimated that clashes have occurred on the German border between American military units and elements of the Warsaw Pact earlier this evening. These clashes have apparently resulted in at least a handful of casualties on both sides. For more on this story, we take you to WNN’s Pentagon reporter, Patricia Moore.”

The picture switched to an attractive woman in her early thirties wearing a charcoal blazer and matching skirt. She was standing inside the main entrance to the Pentagon.

“Thank you, Carl. So far, the Pentagon has refused to confirm or deny a report, which leaked from the White House, of possible skirmishes between American forward units and forces of the Soviet Union. I can tell you, however, that activity here is unusually heavy for this time of the night. All of the joint chiefs are still in the building. Rumor among the Pentagon press corps is that many high-ranking officers who’d left for the evening have been recalled. Other than that, there’s little information coming out of official sources here. Minutes ago, it was announced that the Pentagon has no plans to hold any unscheduled press conferences this evening. Back to you, Carl.”

“Thanks, Patricia. We take you now to Steven Dillard at the White House.” The picture changed to a man in a tan trench coat, his dark hair blowing in a cold Washington wind. A well-lit image of the White House was in the background. Stern continued to talk, “Steven, what can you tell us from the White House?”

“Carl, twenty minutes ago, a high administration source told me that clashes have occurred between Russian and American soldiers along the border of Germany. The source, who wasn’t willing to be quoted on camera, said details at this point are quite sketchy. As our viewers probably know, Warsaw Pact war games, involving as many as fifty Russian combat divisions, have been going on at the German border for the past two weeks. White House Press Secretary Randolph Wilkerson told me that the President has been aware of the possibility of something like this occurring because of the close proximity of the Warsaw Pact and Allied units. Our source, and Press Secretary Wilkerson, confirmed that there have been some casualties on both sides from the skirmishes. Neither, however, is able to provide us with any further details at this time.”

Dillard paused. The picture on the screen returned to Carl Stern in the Boston studios. “Thanks for your timely report, Steven. We’ll get back to Steven and Patricia as further information on this late-breaking story becomes available.”

The picture changed to an unhappy man with an upset stomach holding the latest pink cure.

From now until the end of the war, WNN would be America’s most popular television station.

CHAPTER 23

January 29—4:00 a.m.

2nd Platoon, Delta Troop, 1st Squadron, 4th Cavalry

Outside the Town of Schirnding

With gloved hands wrapped around his canteen cup, Robert Jensen took another sip of strong coffee. After Ramirez and Steele arrived with the steamy liquid a few minutes earlier, both had been removed from the shit list—at least until their next stupid stunt. Against an ageless apple tree, the platoon sergeant knelt in the modest snow fortification he’d hastily constructed. He was fifteen feet to the right of the critical four-lane highway. The platoon’s firing positions were all laid out. The apple branches had been in place for quite some time. The cavalry soldiers were as ready as they could be for the Russian attack.

Within the last hour, the weather had changed for the better. After three wretched days, the snowfall had ended. The skies above were clearing. A full moon and a handful of shimmering stars, their glow distorted by the bitter cold, peeked through the early-morning darkness. Around the lifeless orchard, the world was eerily still. For the past thirty minutes, there hadn’t be

en a single secondary explosion in the death-filled valley below. The fiery destruction the Americans had inflicted four hours earlier was no longer impeding the Russian column’s ability to advance.

Jensen lifted the metal cup for another taste of bitter coffee. As he did, the terrifying sounds of two thousand armored vehicles resonated from the valley floor. With the cup poised at his lips and the ebony liquid’s pungent aroma filling his nostrils, the platoon sergeant froze. It took just seconds for his senses to confirm what he already knew. The thunderous noises were definitely there.

It could only mean one thing—the enemy was on the move. The Russian armored divisions were headed west once more. Their thrust deep into the heart of Germany was back under way. This time there was no possibility that the Americans could prevent the powerful column from escaping the bloody valley.

The platoon sergeant had tried to find a way to keep the Russians from breaching the woods. He’d sent Austin and a handful of scouts scurrying back into the valley on foot. They’d made a desperate attempt to find an ambush spot for Captain Murphy’s tanks. If the M-1s could surprise the enemy prior to his escaping the restrictive mass of evergreens, the cavalry soldiers would still have a chance. Murphy’s tanks would be greatly outnumbered, but in the narrow valley’s confines, the overpowering Abrams tanks would’ve had an excellent opportunity of blocking the immense column’s actions once again.

Jensen’s hopes, however, had been dashed. His desperate plea for one final miracle had gone unanswered. When Austin and his men arrived in the valley, the woods were swarming with Russian infantry. The Americans had barely escaped with their lives.

Austin, unharmed but dejected, had returned with nothing but bad news. The staff sergeant’s discouraging report forever sealed the cavalry soldiers’ fates. Deep within the forest, hundreds of white-clad figures were moving forward. Scores were carrying armor-piercing weapons—weapons capable of destroying any tanks, even the nearly indomitable M-1. Faced with such a threat to his meager force, Murphy’s Abrams tanks dare not enter the burning valley.