The Red Line

CHAPTER 30

January 29—8:48 a.m.

3rd Regiment, 105th Parachute Division

Ten Miles Northeast of Ramstein Air Base

As they’d practiced untold times, the moment the men of the 3rd Regiment picked themselves up off the ground, they raced to their vehicles. In two minutes, the drop zone was secured. In ten minutes, seventeen hundred parachutists were rolling onto an icy roadway. The air base’s main gates, on the northern and western fences, would be their primary objective. When they left the broad field, a company of parachutists, 140 of the regiment’s best men, split from the column. The smaller force raced away at top speed. They headed straight for their goal—the woods outside the sprawling base’s eastern fence.

Ten miles to the southwest, the air base waited. The giant base looked upon open country on its northern and western fences. The southern and eastern perimeters were on the edge of a heavily forested area. The attack plan was simple. The regiment would send a parachute company into the eastern woods. Their purpose would be to provide a powerful diversion. On foot, the 140 would strike the eastern fence, hoping to fool the Americans into believing that the primary assault was coming from the east. As soon as the Americans reacted to the ploy, the main force would use their armored vehicles to smash through the northern and western sides of the base.

The bulk of the initial offensive, the feint at the eastern fence, would be directed at Arturo Rios and his small band.

So far, everything was working precisely as planned. Thirty minutes after first touching German soil, 140 of the world’s finest soldiers slipped into the heavy woods on the eastern edge of the air base. They started threading their way through the thick blanket of evergreens. It wouldn’t take long to reach their objective.

From the moment the regiment touched down, American scouts had observed their every action. They’d seen the smaller force entering the eastern woods. They’d watched the larger column heading straight for the open sides of the air base. American intelligence had been solid. The Ramstein base commander wasn’t fooled by the Russians’ plan. The force preparing to attack the eastern fence concerned him. He knew, however, that it was the main column he had to stop.

For the moment, the base commander’s assets were quite limited. Almost all of his fighters were still involved in the air battle, had been shot down by MiGs, or had just returned to be rearmed and refueled. The timing of General Yovanovich’s plan had counted on the Americans finding themselves in just such a predicament.

As the Russians neared, all the Ramstein commanding general had at his disposal were five A-10 Warthog ground-attack fighters and six rescue helicopters. He ordered the A-10s and the helicopters to take to the sky and attack the invader’s main column.

There was no time to lose. The determined parachute regiment was five miles from the air base and closing fast. If not stopped, they’d hit both gates in ten minutes. The A-10s roared down the runway toward Rios’s bunker. They leaped from the ground and headed north to intercept the enemy regiment.

The stubby Warthogs churned through the low skies in search of the lengthy column. With the parachutists so close, it took no time at all for the American pilots to locate the target. In the snowy meadows northeast of the base, there were Russian vehicles everywhere they looked. The open ground of the killing field was in front of them. The Americans dove headlong toward the surging regiment. Their aircrafts’ seven-barrel cannons blazed. The first of the Russian armored vehicles burst into flames. A second quickly followed. Fire and smoke billowed forth, choking the pristine skies.

The battle for Ramstein had begun.

At the precise moment the A-10s slammed into the leading edge of the main column, the parachutist company in the woods initiated an all-out assault on the eastern fence. A desperate struggle erupted on all sides. Hand grenades, mortars, and automatic gunfire ripped into the Americans. Fierce soldiers with powder-blue berets in their pockets rushed toward the fence.

“Here they come!” Rios screamed. He squeezed the trigger on his machine gun, firing round after round into the snow-covered trees on the far side of the wire.

His countrymen’s M-4s soon joined in.

• • •

A second of the elite division’s parachute regiments moved through the open country toward the smaller American fighter base. Fifty miles northwest of Ramstein, Spangdahlem and its three thousand airmen braced for the Russian attack.

A half dozen Warthogs, each armed and ready for battle, tore out of the air base to slow the hundreds of vehicles of the widespread Russian column. The A-10s, one of the greatest killers of armor in the world, ripped into the determined regiment. With the mighty cannons in their noses spewing certain death, and four five-hundred-pound bombs at their disposal, the A-10s charged straight for the oncoming parachutists. By the end of the tough little Warthogs’ first pass, trails of thick smoke filled the skies over a broad area. The sounds of battle spread far and wide. The Russian light armor wilted beneath the intense air attack.

The Warthogs had been built specifically for a war in central Europe. Like the Apache helicopter, they’d been designed to hit and run. The slow fighter’s greatest ally was the deep woods of the vast German forests. But the area around Spangdahlem was somewhat open country. There would be few places for the A-10s to hide. And the Russian parachute regiment was teeming with air-defense weapons.

The American attack had scarcely begun when the first of the Warthogs exploded, the victim of a shoulder-mounted air-defense missile. Its fiery remains fell to earth.

Still, the A-10 pilots were undeterred. The stodgy Warthogs struck again and again. Each time they dove straight for the Russian column. They dropped bomb after bomb. The grotesque aircrafts’ lethal noses blazed with lightning bursts. Their magazines spewed forth death and destruction from the ugly planes at a rate of two thousand armor-piercing 30mm shells per minute. They ripped through the tops and sides of the thinly armored airborne vehicles. The American pilots clawed at the enemy with everything they had. Each knew that his wife and children were in the base’s housing area.

This was no battle for God and country. It was going to be much more personal for the pilots and airmen of Spangdahlem. Their families’ lives were on the line.

With each brief squeeze of their cannon’s trigger, two, sometimes three or more, Russian armored vehicles died at the hands of the Americans. With each passing A-10, ten . . . fifteen . . . twenty Russian soldiers were killed. With each determined run, carnage ripped at the enemy column.

And with nearly every pass, another of the slow-moving A-10s pitifully tumbled from the skies beneath the Russians’ fusillade of air-defense missiles and guns. Even so, the surviving A-10s fought on.

Neither side would give an inch. Ignoring the horror all around them, the tenacious parachutists kept coming. Relentlessly, the determined enemy column pressed on through the raging fires. Every second, they were growing nearer to their objective.

At Spangdahlem, the airmen watched the clouds of smoke filling the morning sky. The black plumes were getting closer. The sounds of battle were drawing near. With each new explosion, it was becoming more and more evident that the Russians would soon be at their doorstep.

Another pair of A-10s leaped into the sky. That was the last of them. The remainder of Spangdahlem’s Warthogs were on missions at the front lines or not yet ready to return to combat. And as at Ramstein, the base’s fighters were, for the moment, out of the war. Behind the A-10s, four Air Force helicopters with machine guns mounted in their doors rose into the blue. They were rescue helicopters, not intended to perform any combat mission beyond protecting themselves. But they were all the base commander had left.

The A-10s made pass after pass, wreaking havoc on the enemy column. The Russians responded with a lethal curtain of antiaircraft fire. By the score, the parachutists died. And one by one, the Warthogs dropped fro

m the smoldering skies until there were no more. It was suicidal, but as the final A-10 fell, the helicopters bolted forward and attacked. With their machine guns blazing, they dove at the Russians.

The rescue helicopters were easy prey for the regiment’s bristling air defenses. By the end of their first pass, the few identifiable pieces remaining from each of the defeated helicopters were smoldering in the snows. Every crew member was dead.

The Russians had suffered severe losses. That, however, wouldn’t stop the parachute regiment.

There would be no feint at Spangdahlem.

The airborne soldiers’ primary armored vehicles were their BMD-4s. The twelve-ton, extremely fierce BMDs were a cross between a small tank and an armored personnel carrier. Each carried a crew of three and five infantry soldiers. Each had an exceptionally impressive array of weapons, capable of inflicting severe harm on even main battle tanks. These nasty little scorpions carried an immense, highly deadly sting. Fifty of the regiment’s BMDs had survived the A-10s’ onslaught. With the BMDs in the lead, over 150 combat vehicles carrying twelve hundred men roared toward Spangdahlem’s main gate.

The Russians rammed headlong into the air base. The Americans responded with everything they could lay their hands on. The air police had three dozen LAWs—light antitank weapons—and six armored cars armed with .50-caliber machine guns. The BMDs’ armor, while stout in the front, was less than an inch thick on its rear and sides to allow for their transport and drop with the airborne forces. An airman with an M-4 rifle posed no threat to them, but the LAWs were more than a match for their opponent. And the heavy machine guns could easily rip right through a BMD’s thin side armor.

As the first BMD raced through the air base’s main gate, an air policeman raised a LAW to his shoulder and fired. The BMD erupted in flames. For a moment, the blazing armored vehicle blocked the attackers’ entrance onto Spangdahlem. At full speed, another BMD raced up behind its burning brother. The second BMD slammed into the destroyed vehicle. It slowly shoved it through the front gate. Others dashed into the opening the BMD had created. The Americans fired their armor-killing weapons and fell back. Using their 100mm main gun, Bastion missiles, 30mm autocannon, and machine guns, the BMDs burst through the overmatched defenders. They attacked in every direction. The slaughter had commenced. Twelve hundred expert killers were far too many for the base’s inexperienced defenders to handle. The LAWs and armored cars had slowed the initial advance. Yet within minutes, Russian vehicles were roaming the flight line. They raced onto the runways and headed for their objectives.