The Red Line

He’d done the drill over and over. He could do it in his sleep. Nine seconds was all he had to put on his mask. Timed again and again, he’d practiced and practiced the task for untold hours past. No time for panic. Nine seconds.

Twenty percent of the American soldiers died.

With no protection whatsoever, one hundred percent of the German civilians caught by the spraying helicopters’ lewd nozzles were killed. Within seconds of the droplets being released, their bodies began to twitch and flail uncontrollably until, after a few torturous ticks of the clock, their nerves mercifully twitched no more. A quick, violent death was their reward.

The poisonous gas falling to the earth was an indiscriminate killer. The murderer refused to distinguish between man and woman, adult and child, evil and innocent. On this night, they were all treated alike by the perverse death that poured from the heavens.

With the introduction of chemical warfare to the killing fields, the Russians forever changed the rules. They greatly escalated the stakes. Man’s world would never again be the same.

An hour later, the Russians were back in force. They relentlessly attacked the 80 percent who hadn’t panicked under the life-ending pressures of the deadly gas. Both sides fought on in full chemical clothing.

They could fight in the cumbersome gear. They’d practiced many times. They could eat and drink in their protective world. They could curse and swear, talk on the radio, and relieve any bodily function. They’d practiced.

They could bleed and die in their protective suits.

• • •

Even with 20 percent casualties, the staggered Americans didn’t falter. The Russians furiously pounded the brittle line, expecting to breach it at any moment. But as the gray winter sunrise pierced the darkness, the battered 1st Armor was where it had been at sundown on the previous day.

The Russians shook their heads in disbelief and attacked once more. The pitiless slaughter of both countries’ daunting young men went on without reprieve. It would continue to do so, unabated, until the Americans finally acquiesced.

For six interminable hours after the grisly nerve-gas attack, the fighting continued. The defenders, their force growing thinner with each passing minute, tenaciously held on to their positions. Without the briefest pause, they resisted one withering assault after another.

The clock continued its unerring movement across the sordid morning with no end to the tumultuous struggle in sight.

• • •

This time, when their stalwart adversary did not yield, it was the increasingly frustrated Cheninko’s patience that was challenged beyond its limits. And his turn to up the ante ever further.

A stunned Yovanovich initially resisted. His concerns with what he’d been commanded to do at so early a point in the war were great. But his rousing pleas for the manic dictator to reconsider his decision fell upon deaf ears. In the end, he was powerless to withstand the edict he’d been given. His orders were to break the Americans at any cost. Cheninko was going to crush the Germans in five days, no matter what it took. He directed Yovanovich to use the one thing he knew would forever end the 1st Armor Division’s valiant efforts.

• • •

At a handful of minutes past ten on that horrid morning, the Russians struck.

The first of the tactical nuclear weapons fell upon a company of Americans deeply entrenched on a rustic German hillside. In rapid succession, five more detonated at critical locations in the American defenses.

The small nuclear armaments had been specifically developed by both sides for use in battlefield situations.

Within a mile of where the nuclear devices were unleashed, nothing survived the onslaught. Anyone caught in the target area of the overwhelming slaughter died instantly from the irrepressible heat of the initial explosion. They simply disappeared. Not a trace of them would remain.

For twice that distance, the nuclear detonations’ mighty blast toppled everything in its path. The fearsome winds created by each frenetic burst consumed untold numbers more on that unspeakable morning.

But in one way, the Americans had been fortunate. At the time of the attack, the day’s breezes were light. Once the holocaustic heat and furious burst passed, the faltering winds kept the final lethal element of the detonations from dispersing over a widely spaced area. For most of the survivors, the level of radiation poisoning they received was minimal.

• • •

Shortly before noon, the battered Allied line crumpled. In thirty minutes, it irretrievably collapsed.

The 1st Armor retreated. The scattered remnants of the proud division made their way through the 3rd Infantry’s lines.

The cautious American optimism of the previous twenty-four hours now faced the glum reality of a new day. The Americans began to undeniably understand that there was little hope of their holding on for the two weeks it would take to change the face of the war.

Without extreme measures, the defenders were going to find themselves with their backs to the Rhine in the next seventy-two hours.

If they could hold out that long.

• • •

The result was there for all to see. The desperateness of the defender’s situation had finally settled in.

The Russians came on. Within a few hours of the 1st Armor’s defeat, the debate over the need for drastic action was undertaken. America had played three of her aces against the unwavering Slavic invader without achieving success. At sundown on the second day, the American leadership started seriously considering using its final ace.

CHAPTER 47

January 30—4:04 p.m.

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

Three Miles West of the Crossroads of Highway 19 and Autobahn A7

Hidden in the thick forest’s protective cover, Richardson anxiously gripped the handles on the tank’s antiaircraft machine gun as he pointed it toward the treetops.

Four Russian Hind-F Attack Helicopters slowly circled the roadway, scouring the deep underbrush for the American tanks. The platoon was in serious trouble. If they tried to run, the helicopters would find and destroy them. If they remained hidden, the Russian armored column coming up from behind would catch the M-1s in the open and kill them on the ground. There was no time to waste. They needed a miracle. And they needed it now.

“Echo-Yankee-One, this is Sierra-Kilo-One-One,” Lieutenant Mallory said. “Echo-Yankee-One, this is Sierra-Kilo-One-One.”

Fifteen miles to the northwest, battalion headquarters answered. “Roger, Sierra-Kilo-One-One. This is Echo-Yankee-One.”

“Echo-Yankee-One, we’re halted approximately halfway to our secondary position. Four Hinds are circling overhead. They’re obviously looking for us. As of yet, they haven’t located our hiding place in the deep woods covering the highway. But I don’t believe our luck will hold much longer. We need immediate assistance.”

“Roger, Sierra-Kilo-One-One. Wait one, I’ll see what I can do.”

Richardson fearfully scanned the low heavens, watching for the deadly helicopters. Thirty seconds passed. It felt like thirty hours for the twelve Americans trapped in the tanks.

The voice at battalion returned. “Sierra-Kilo-One-One, be advised, we’ve located two F-35s in your neighborhood who tell us they’re itching for a fight. They say they’d be more than happy to kill a few helicopters for you if you so desire. Hang tight, the F-35s are on the way. Their estimated arrival at your position is forty-five seconds.”

“Roger, Echo-Yankee-One. That’s welcome news. Let’s hope we can remain undetected that long. Tell the jet jockeys we’ll greatly appreciate any assistance they can provide.”

“Understood. Keep your heads down and hold on, Sierra-Kilo-One-One.”

Overhead in the growing darkness, the helicopters slowly continued to poke and pr

od at the forest’s canopy as the fleeting seconds passed, searching for the enemy they were certain they’d find if they just turned over the right rock. One of the flying tank killers explored a promising thicket. Richardson watched a set of spinning rotor blades appear over his hiding place. The helicopter couldn’t be more than three hundred feet above him.

The Hind spotted its prey. They were right below. Three American tanks were sitting in the deepest shadows of the twilight forest. The Russian pilot radioed his companions.

“M-1s located beneath my position. Stand off and prepare to attack with antitank missiles.”

The helicopters slid a short distance south. They prepared to rain thunder and lightning down upon the tanks. Each was in place, ready to fire multiple launches of Spiral missiles into the tree line. There’d be no escape for the Americans. Another second or two, and the flight leader would give the order to fire.

Suddenly, the helicopters’ systems screamed that they were being targeted by an engagement radar. The helicopters frantically searched heaven and earth for the source of the threat to their survival.

From seven miles away, a Sidewinder missile leaped from the wingtip of both F-35s. Two helicopters were seconds away from their total destruction if they didn’t do something and do it fast. Both Hinds dove for the treetops, with the Sidewinders in hot pursuit.

At twenty miles per minute, the F-35s sprinted toward the remaining targets. A second pair of Sidewinders tore from their roosts beneath the American fighters. They hurtled toward their victims. The destruction of the tanks was long forgotten. The final pair of helicopters turned and ran for their lives.

The heat from the Hinds’ engines beckoned to the Sidewinders. Like a moth to a flame, the missiles couldn’t resist the siren song of the heat-producing helicopters. The missiles ran true. The helicopters were racing away at nearly two hundred miles per hour. Yet they appeared to be standing still as the Sidewinders rushed at them at ten times their top speed. The helicopters bobbed and weaved. They dove and climbed in an attempt to shake the attackers. Even so, the missiles were unperturbed. They matched their fleeing victim’s every move.