Red Metal

by Mark Greaney

  He could tell this war had made her do ugly things, but he could also tell that, underneath, she was full of kindness and caring. A tenderhearted girl tossed into combat unprepared but doing her best by steeling her heart against damage.

  Shank was no psychologist, but he’d been involved in war his entire military career. He had the sudden impression that she had lost someone extremely close to her in all this.

  He reached up and touched her cheek. Again, as when he had rubbed away some tears out on the battlefield, she leaned into his hand, almost like a cat. This time she added her hand to his, clutching it and pulling it into her face.

  Shank blinked his right eye in surprise.

  Something changed in the room. Shank felt as though this had been planned. This wasn’t about changing his bandages. Maybe she was just a girl, lost in the hate and terror and wanting an escape, even if it was just for a night. An escape she would never allow her squad to see—couldn’t let them see.

  Paulina swept aside the covers, and with gentleness she threw a leg over him and laid herself against him. She lowered her lips slowly toward his, her warm breath against his face, and she kissed him.

  She leaned into his ear and whispered, “Captain Vance, you are . . . you were much odwaga today.” She brought her hands up to his face and held it as she placed her elbows on the bed, careful not to put any weight on his wounds but resting atop his supine frame.

  He’d heard that word before. Odwaga.

  The one her troops had used for her.

  “Courage.” He hadn’t thought of it, but coming from her—a natural leader, a woman warrior—it was the finest compliment he’d ever received.

  Downstairs the militia laughed and sang as the celebrations continued, louder and more boisterous than before with the arrival of more wine. And both downstairs and up, the night was electrified with the joy of being alive.

  * * *

  • • •

  MOUNT KENYA

  30 DECEMBER

  Mount Kenya was a massive 17,000-foot mountain, beautiful and green around the sides and dense with trees that continued halfway up its slopes, but the top of the mountain itself was bald, craggy, and covered in snow.

  Colonel General Lazar looked from inside the BTR-82A turret up at its impressive peaks in the distance. In another life he would have loved to climb them and enjoy their majesty.

  The reports had been coming in for hours from his reconnaissance forces claiming the Americans were arrayed in and among the foothills of the mountain. He could envision this American game with ease. They were goading him into a fight, knowing that he would determine that these forces would simply attack his rear if he tried to bypass them.

  And, obvious to Lazar, there would be more defenses set up at the mine to the south. He had satellites working to determine their positioning and strength now.

  Well played, Marines, he thought.

  Dark clouds surrounded the distant peak, suggesting rain was imminent. He reached inside the vehicle and felt for his poncho.

  “Dmitry, order the artillery into position. We will blast those Marines out of our path.”

  Colonel Kir nodded. “Yes, sir.”

  “And make sure all our air defenses are lined up. These Americans think a lot of their air units, but we will hit them hard and send them running as we did up in Moyale.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Just over six kilometers away, Apollo spit on his hands and rubbed them together, his energy renewed by the strenuous work. He hefted the pickax and swung it down, dislodging another large chunk of the hard-packed red earth. Up and down the line, other tools clawed into the earth as the men hastily improved their positions.

  Clods of red dirt had been packed into sandbags, three wide at each position. Brush and greenery had been cut and set up in front of the positions.

  Apollo’s unit had come to Africa vastly underarmed in comparison with the hulking Marines working around them. Every Marine, it seemed, carried an anti-tank weapon, and there were medium and heavy machine guns every ten to twelve meters along the rocky jungle ridgeline.

  Lieutenant Colonel Connolly came over to his position to check up on him. “Captain? Are you okay? Ready for this?”

  “I am, sir. We all are.”

  The buzz of something overhead caught Connolly’s ear and he looked up. It took a moment to find it; he and Apollo saw it at the same time. A drone. First one, then at least four more. No bigger than a few feet in size, they came from out of the sky and buzzed north to south, then began circling. This was the first time either the Americans or the French had seen an enemy drone. Many stopped digging in and began looking skyward.

  “Oh shit,” said Connolly.

  “Merde,” Apollo added. “That’s not your guys?”

  “That’s the other guys. Take cover!”

  The men heard a boom somewhere in the distance, followed by another and then a third.

  “Incoming!” came the yells from both American and French NCOs up and down the lines as a fresh shrill shriek of incoming artillery filled the air.

  The men raced to their fighting holes. Those Iraq and Afghanistan veterans among the French Dragoons and U.S. Marines got as low as possible, opening their mouths but holding their ears. Experience had taught them that “overpressure” caused by multiple heavy, concussive blasts could cause their eardrums to rupture and noses to bleed.

  The ground shook as the accurate incoming Russian artillery fire slammed into the rocky earth around them. An earsplitting noise and blast waves washed over the men and in some locations the earth ruptured and fighting holes evaporated.

  The drones had done their job, providing accurate target information for their well-drilled artillerymen.

  Dense, dry thickets in the foothills at the base of the mountain began to smolder and burn.

  * * *

  • • •

  General Lazar called the gun line to congratulate them on their accurate barrage.

  “The firing data we received for the targets’ coordinates was exceedingly accurate,” said one of the artillery captains.

  Colonel Borbikov sat next to Lazar, watching and listening, a smug smile on his face.

  “Well done. How is the round count?” asked Lazar.

  “We will use twenty percent of our allotment—unless you wish us to fire more?”

  Lazar said, “No, save some for the next event, and good work.”

  Borbikov turned to him. “Sir, that’s a sizable force there in the foothills. If you allowed thirty-three percent of ordnance expenditure, I am certain we could destroy these battalions, which will greatly diminish the defense of the mines when we—”

  Lazar turned to Borbikov. “Who is in charge of the tactical plan, Colonel Borbikov?”

  “Sir, you are. I just—”

  “And are you suggesting you know more about artillery fires in your Spetsnaz outfit? Tell me, what sort of artillery pieces do you and your boys wear on your backs when you jump out of airplanes or slide down rappelling ropes?”

  Borbikov fumed. “I merely suggest we take advantage of—”

  Lazar turned to the artillery captain, who looked straight ahead, terrified to be in the middle of an argument between President Rivkin’s favorite officer and Russia’s most decorated general.

  “Captain,” Lazar said, “you have your orders.”

  “Sir. Twenty percent and then we cease firing.”

  He left the command post. Borbikov turned on his heel and left as well.

  * * *

  • • •

  As soon as the artillery barrage was complete, a long column of Russian BTR-82s hurtled south along a rocky dirt road, then broke left and right, bouncing up onto the rough terrain while maintaining an impressive clip.

  A Marine LAV TOW gunner was the first to
spot them, and he radioed to the company command post. He and his TOW section had a clear line of sight, and they requested permission to fire.

  The LAV company XO looked to Connolly for instructions. Both men were kneeling in the sandbagged dugout quickly built as a command post. The last hour of artillery had deafened every one of the two dozen men in the trench considerably, and several were dazed from the barrage. But most of the Russian fires had landed near the front line, and this small CP had avoided any heavy casualties aside from some shell shock.

  “They are clear to fire,” Connolly said; then the LAV company XO issued the approval. In seconds a massive salvo of TOW-II missiles streaked over the lush green hills toward their targets approaching on the lower ground.

  And seconds after that, five BTR-82s had been blasted to bits.

  When confirmation came, Connolly keyed the radio. “Oddball, this is Grizzly. You are clear to launch into the attack.”

  When the Russian forces had barreled south down the Kenyan route A2, they had sent their drones forward to investigate the Marines’ positions. The obvious dust clouds of moving vehicles and spoiled earth of hurriedly built fortifications were easy to detect at the base of Mount Kenya, and very quickly the images of the positions were used to build the Russians’ battle plans. But what the Russian drones had not been able to detect from the air was the deep wadi snaking along the flatlands in front of the foothills. An intermittent riverbed, it was dry now but covered with a thick canopy of vegetation, and the sandy streambed was the perfect depth and width to serve as a hiding place for a company of Marine Corps M1A2 tanks.

  The mobile LAV companies at higher elevation had been the bait, and now, as the BTRs raced into range to destroy the force there, the tanks rumbled out of their positions of concealment on the enemy’s western flank and opened up with a devastating salvo of 120mm cannon fire. The Marine tanks were not as modern or high-tech as the U.S. Army versions, but the Russians were caught focusing on the dug-in Marine defensive line ahead, unaware of the heavily concealed armor to their west until the first massive rounds began striking targets.

  The initial salvo from the fourteen American tanks caught Lazar’s 1st Regiment in the flank; ten BTRs burst into flames as high-explosive shells blasted directly into the smaller, lighter-skinned vehicles’ troop compartments. The Marine Abrams tanks reloaded and fired again, this time while moving forward toward the Russian position. The main-gun fire was markedly less accurate bouncing over the broken and rugged terrain west of Mount Kenya, but they still scored six hits and five kills with their second salvo.

  * * *

  • • •

  Watching through a spotting scope from ten kilometers’ distance, Colonel General Boris Lazar quickly realized that he’d moved forces directly into a trap, but his leadership and tactical sense were equally quick to find a solution. He sent in his second brigade, still traveling south on the A2. They pulled off road in their BTRs and, in a well-rehearsed battle maneuver, lined abreast of one another, rolling and bouncing over the rough terrain even faster than the U.S. tanks. In near unison, every second vehicle fired one of the newly mounted “saddleback” 9M133 Kornet anti-tank missiles mounted on its modified turret, sending jerking, sputtering pinpricks of light across the long, open ground toward the Marine tanks, while the Russian vehicles in between fired smoke dischargers, screening and obscuring the Marines’ view of the enemy advance.

  Three of the Marine Corps M1A2s took direct hits to their flanks from the Russian anti-tank missiles. Two of the stricken vehicles erupted as the ammunition on board began to detonate through the open top hatches. The third took a strike to the turret, which immediately jammed, its barrel dangling, practically blasted free from the hull. The tank sped on with the rest of its pack, but it was out of the fight.

  The rest of the armor weathered the salvo, and the company continued driving and firing, pushing directly into Lazar’s 1st Regiment, taking out armored personnel carriers with each salvo.

  Eight Cobra attack helicopters swooped in from the west, flying just above the growth of the jungle flatlands, firing missiles, rockets, and guns as they approached, holding off any would-be attackers in 1st Regiment and allowing the M1A2s to break away from the attack at their rear and race away at top speed to the southeast, away from Lazar’s 2nd Regiment, which continued in pursuit.

  * * *

  • • •

  “Hit their defenses with more artillery, Kir!” shouted Lazar, as he stormed toward the colonel and the headquarters command unit, standing in the open next to the field radios.

  Kir stood up from where he’d been leaning over a map and looked for his general in the group of men. Seeing Lazar approaching, he said, “The Americans are fleeing. The reports we have from reconnaissance and drones are that the Marine defensive line has crumbled. They are driving south, back in the direction of the mines.”

  Lazar arrived at the table and cocked his head. “Are they fleeing? Or was this their plan? A hit-and-run. Tell 2nd Regiment to keep up the pressure.”

  “I will, sir, but the farther they get from the main body, the more effective those Cobra gunships will be. They are picking some of 1st Regiment off as we speak.”

  “I understand. Pursue as best as 2nd Regiment is able. We will follow. Tell the ZSU batteries to get as far forward as they can. Take out more of those Cobras. One more attack helicopter destroyed today is one less we’ll need to fight tomorrow at the mine. These Marines do not have an unending supply of them.”

  “Yes, sir. What then?”

  “Then . . . then we stop and lick our wounds. We walked into a trap with those tanks. We must carefully consider our next moves.”

  * * *

  • • •

  Connolly watched the Marine M1s following him and the rest of the LAVs as they sped south through a narrow but well-maintained jungle road toward the mines and the Marine Corps’ final defensive line. Sporadic long-range Kornet missiles fired from the Russian BTRs slammed into trees, the road, and occasionally American vehicles while those Marine tanks that were still operational, their turrets to the rear, kept launching 120mm return fire at the pursuers.

  Russian artillery dropped in and around the American tanks, but the M1s somehow managed to drive through the waves of heavy fire unscathed.

  After twenty harrowing minutes of close retreat, the Americans worked their way clear of their pursuers and made it to the B6 highway, where they sped south even faster en route to the mine.

  Connolly heard from Caster’s intelligence officer that the Russians had ceased their pursuit at the edge of the jungle. But this wouldn’t last long. He knew Lazar would only pause to regroup before beginning an orderly approach to Mrima Hill.

  CHAPTER 68

  BELARUSIAN-POLISH BORDER

  30 DECEMBER

  Colonel General Sabaneyev stood outside his GAZ Tigr all-terrain infantry mobility vehicle, snowfall covering his shoulders and his helmet, as the last T-14 tank crossed the Polish border into Belarus. It was difficult not to breathe a sigh of relief, although he hid his emotions from his subordinates.

  The tanks from the fighting battalions had shown their effectiveness in combat, they had accomplished the mission, and now virtually all of the once brightly painted and new precision instruments bore the effects of battle: scratches and giant dents from the hard combat in the concrete jungle of Wrocław; layers of mud churned up from battle across the Polish fields; and, on virtually every piece of armor, small pockmarks and large, jagged scars exposing bare steel, gained from strikes from RPGs, machine-gun fire, and 120mm tank fire.

  A long line of BTRs crossed the bridge next, weary infantry mounted atop them, glad to be catching a ride from their armored brothers.

  Sabaneyev and his staff had already crossed, and now they observed the movement from the crest of a small hill outside Brest as the columns of armor and men drove past. As t
hey watched the column, a T-14 missing its entire turret drove past, a crew of infantrymen hanging off the top, the vehicle’s function transformed from battlewagon to a simple but overengineered tracked cart for moving personnel. The turret of this tank had been blown off in combat in what was called the jack-in-the-box effect, a result of enormous overpressure, usually caused by a detonation inside the vehicle. Often this killed the entire crew instantly, but sometimes, as was the case here, the vehicle remained roadworthy, just lacking a turret. Often, within its cramped quarters, the gruesome remnants of its former occupants bore witness to their final horrible moments.

  But for the group of exhausted infantrymen sitting on the vehicle, men who’d seen enough of combat, this battered tank was just another way to get home.

  Upon watching the sad sight roll on a few seconds more, Sabaneyev realized this tank was an obvious symbol that they were no longer the attackers, the wolves on the prowl. Now they were fleeing, the victims of a series of battles that had left them crippled and worn.

  He reached out and took Colonel Smirnov by the arm.

  “Feliks, tell that unit to abandon that tank; it will have a terrible effect on the men if they see it.”

  “Sir . . . for them that is now a viable alternative to walking. If I ask them to abandon that tank, those men will be forced to continue on foot, and it will slow their company’s rate of march.”

  “I don’t care if they crawl to Moscow from here, Feliks. We are in friendly territory and we must consider our next stage. We will throw up a line at the border. I want those Yankees and their Polish dogs to pay a final price. We will fire across the border when the enemy arrives, cause maximum damage with whatever munitions we have remaining, then continue our march back to Russia. Do you understand?”

  “Da, sir,” said the operations officer, sensing that now was not the time for any dissent. “I will make the necessary arrangements to fight once more, then withdraw.”