The Red Line
The Patriot community was a small one. While they looked into each other’s startled eyes, Fowler and Morgan understood they’d lost many friends on this bright winter morning. They also knew if it hadn’t been for a smart American pilot, their names would have been added to that list.
It was Fowler who would break the second bout of prolonged silence that enveloped the crowded space.
“Jesus Christ!” he said. “Take a look at this!”
The screens started filling with triangles once more. In an endless stream, they poured across the Czech border.
Before it was over, two thousand hostiles would cover nearly every square inch of both screens.
Seventeen hundred transports carrying five divisions of Russian paratroopers, and three hundred escorting fighters, were headed deep into Germany.
The next phase of General Yovanovich’s plan was about to commence.
CHAPTER 28
January 29—12:31 a.m. (Eastern Standard Time)
World News Network Studios
Boston
The anchorperson sat behind the desk during the commercial break. A makeup artist stood over her.
“Ten seconds, Bonnie,” the director said.
In millions of homes around the world, the television screen changed from one of a happy man driving a shiny new car to a picture of the American and Soviet flags clashing with the words THE BATTLE FOR GERMANY running across its bottom. The theme music for the war, primarily trumpets and percussion instruments, blared. When the music ended, the picture changed to the smiling anchorperson.
“Welcome back. This is Bonnie Lloyd at the WNN news desk in Boston. We’ve just received word from our Berlin correspondent, Stewart Turner, that Berlin has fallen to the Russians. For more on this story, we take you to Berlin and WNN’s correspondent, Stewart Turner.”
The picture changed to a handsome man in his late twenties standing on a snowy rooftop in the middle of the German capital. Turner held a microphone with a gloved hand. He was wearing a heavy overcoat and thick scarf to protect himself from the stark cold. His breath was visible with every word he spoke.
“Thank you, Bonnie. I’m reporting to you from the roof of the Sheraton Hotel in the center of downtown Berlin. It’s eight thirty in the morning here. And as you can see behind me, the sun has fully risen. The winter storm that held Europe in its powerful grip for the past few days dissipated late last night. The dawn has broken clear, but cold.
“The Soviet forces are visibly in control of this ancient city, so symbolic of the reunification of Germany. Russian tanks are absolutely everywhere. They’ve taken up positions at all the main intersections inside the city. So far, there’s been little resistance from within Berlin itself. From time to time, gunfire and shelling can be heard in the distance.”
The camera swung away from Turner and toward the edge of the rooftop. The cameraman slowly panned up and down a wide boulevard.
“The streets are empty except for the movement of the Russian tanks. In the distance, you should be able to make out the Brandenburg Gate.”
The cameraman focused on the massive monument so filled with German history. A dozen tanks could be seen sitting beneath its wide arches.
The camera returned to Stewart Turner. “Other than that, this city, taken by complete surprise by the swift nighttime attack, is quiet and still on this shocking winter morning.”
“Stewart,” Bonnie Lloyd said, “we’ve heard rumors from some pretty reliable sources that most of what used to be East Germany is now under Soviet control. Can you confirm or deny those rumors?”
“No, I can’t, Bonnie. Similar rumors have circulated through the press corps here in Berlin. But so far they’re just rumors . . . What?” With a puzzled expression on his face, Turner looked at his cameraman. “Hold on for a second, Bonnie. My cameraman is indicating that there’s some kind of activity in the street below us. We’re going to attempt to give WNN’s viewers a look at what’s going on.”
The camera swung over the side of the hotel rooftop. The picture showed five Russian soldiers dragging a pair of men in civilian clothing out of a building on the other side of the street. The men were shoved against a wall. In front of millions of television viewers, the Russians opened fire with their automatic weapons. Both men were killed instantly. They slumped to the ground. The soldiers turned and walked away. The crumpled bodies lay where they’d fallen.
There were five seconds of stunned silence in both Berlin and Boston. The producer cut away from Berlin and cued Bonnie Lloyd.
“I’m told that we’ve temporarily lost our picture from Berlin,” she said. “After this commercial break, we’ll be back to speak with our White House correspondent Steven Dillard and, following that, with WNN’s military analyst, retired Colonel Philip McPherson.”
The screen changed to the already familiar picture of the American and Soviet flags clashing with the bold words THE BATTLE FOR GERMANY beneath them. The war’s theme music sounded for a few seconds.
The picture switched to a happy group of attractive men and women romping on the beach while enjoying their favorite beer.
CHAPTER 29
January 29—8:40 a.m.
On the Eastern Fence
Ramstein Air Base
Arturo Rios sat in the sandbagged bunker. His hands were frozen on the .50-caliber machine gun’s grips. He stared into the snow-laden evergreens on the other side of the chain-link fence. The sun’s slow rise had caused his spirits to rise also. As its first rays peeked through the shimmering trees, its false promise of winter warmth reached out for him. There’d only been twenty minutes of daylight, but Rios was beginning to accept that the interminable night was finally over. For the past seven hours, he’d believed it would never end.
Seven hours. A lifetime while he crouched alone in the darkness and peered into the sinister trees on the far side of the icy wire.
The day had broken cold, but clear. The snows had stopped hours earlier. And as was common after a winter storm, not a cloud could be seen in a bright blue sky. He’d left Miami to see the world. One of the things he’d always wanted to see was snow. Yet as the blizzard pelted his exposed position, he’d concluded that he’d seen enough of it to last him for the rest of his days.
He shivered in his world of sand. The airman had long ago lost all feeling in his hands and feet. An hour earlier, a truck had arrived with a huge breakfast. So he was no longer hungry. He was, however, feeling one emotion quite strongly.
He was feeling utterly ashamed.
Much to his embarrassment, his active imagination had gotten the better of him during the night. Certain he’d seen movement on the other side of the fence, Rios had twice fired at shadowy enemy soldiers who existed only in his inventive mind. On both occasions, his firing brought reinforcements running from every direction. There was nothing out there, of course. Just the wind and snow, and a mind that insisted on making its own reality. Rios took no comfort in the fact that nearly every .50-caliber position on the lonely eastern perimeter had fallen prey to these same frailties at some time during the torturous darkness. The firing had become so commonplace that by night’s end, the reinforcements barely responded at all.
• • •
Flying at an altitude of twelve hundred feet, scores of Antonov An-12 cargo planes neared their destination. Inside the belly of each “Cub,” sixty of Russia’s finest soldiers rose to their feet and turned toward the open door. A frigid wind rushed in to greet them. Each removed the powder-blue beret from his head, shoved it into his pocket, and replaced it with a helmet. Weighed down by their equipment, they waited for the light to turn green, signaling for them to jump.
They were the elite parachutists of the 3rd Regiment, 105th Parachute Division. Each of the division’s soldiers was bursting with boundless pride. The 105th had received the most honored role. Its three regiments had been assi
gned the task of destroying the most important targets. The American air bases at Ramstein, Spangdahlem, and Rhein-Main were their goals. And to the men of the division’s 3rd Regiment had gone the greatest prize of all—Ramstein, headquarters of the United States’ air forces in Europe.
Two other airborne divisions had been chosen to attack the six German fighter bases—a pair in the southeast near Munich and four in the northwest. Another division would seize the bridges over the southern portion of the Rhine River. If the bridges couldn’t be held, they would be demolished.
The final division, the 103rd, was the second most honored. It would send one regiment against the British air base in the northern part of the country. A second regiment would attack and lay waste to the Americans’ two divisions of pre-positioned armored equipment near Kaiserslautern. The 103rd’s final regiment sat on the ground in the western Ukraine. They anxiously waited to join the battle. The moment word was received that any of their countrymen had failed to eliminate their objective, the reserve regiment would take to the air to annihilate and destroy.