by Mark Greaney
“We place the Marines and their French allies in the horns of a dilemma. How will the enemy commander divide his few aircraft? Until the carrier arrives, he has only the few planes the Marines have on board the Boxer. He does not have the sortie generation rate, and if he brings them in small numbers, our antiaircraft fire will smash them. Where does he place his anti-armor missile systems? We identify them and take them out. Then we look to see which side of his defense is breaking and we attack there with everything in the reserve.”
Kir said, “We penetrate and we annihilate.”
“Da,” said Lazar.
* * *
• • •
POLISH-BELARUSIAN BORDER
31 DECEMBER
Nearly fifty M1A2s hid behind the various hills on the western bank of the Bug River. The air sparked with continued sporadic fire, but the battle was at a stalemate. To Grant, it seemed the Russians planned to stay at the border and lob shells as long as they knew there were targets within range, and this had bought him the time he needed to put his plan into action.
The radio in his M1’s headset crackled with the call from the commander of 1st Battalion. “Courage Six, this is Bandits Six.”
Grant keyed his radio while standing in the turret and looking out into the snowy night. “Bandits, Courage. Go.”
“Copy. We’re set. Time now.”
“Understood. Awaiting the call from Dukes. Once they are in position, we will commence the attack.”
Instantly a new voice crackled. It was the 2nd Battalion Commander. “Courage, this is Dukes. We’re in our cold positions. All ready to go here.”
“Copy, Dukes. Commence your support by fire.”
“Courage, this is Dukes. We’re commencing our fires, time now.” Within seconds of his radio call, the sharp blasts of thirty U.S. tanks firing their 120mm main guns erupted, and simultaneously coaxial .50-caliber machine guns began chattering all over the Polish side of the river. The cacophony of the U.S. suppression fire and the arc of tracer fire electrified the night. The Russians were slow to respond, but soon they began firing back with their own guns. Occasionally an anti-tank missile crossed the open terrain and rocketed over the narrow river.
But Grant wasn’t watching the tanks. Instead he was eight miles to the north, peering through his night-vision optics at a distant rail bridge that crossed the river into Belarus. To the south he heard the battle resume with new vitality, but on the far side of the Bug here he counted only four Russian tanks, a single platoon, guarding the bridge.
He assumed they would have wired the iron-and-timber trestle bridge to blow sky-high in the event the Americans tried to cross, but he suspected the Russians weren’t expecting any crossings.
Especially not here. This bridge was old, and it didn’t look heavy enough to accommodate more than one piece of armor at a time. It was, Grant’s scouts determined, a passenger-train-only bridge, unable to handle the much heavier loads of rail cargo.
The lieutenant colonel peered through his thermal sights as a small group of his scouts crept through the fields on the Polish side, then began shimmying under the bridge. His heart threatened to beat out of his chest as he watched the men crawling along, clinging precariously to the undersides of the spans. Their gear and equipment plainly visible in his thermals, they made their way in silence and in darkness, hoping like hell the Russians were scanning deeper into Polish territory for tanks and Humvees, and not looking under the bridge for individual sappers.
Grant checked yet again into Belarus, but still there was no reaction in this sector. Either his plan to paralyze their headquarters with an immense fusillade was working, or any second he would watch a platoon of his best scouts evaporate in a ball of fire.
He held his breath when a soldier’s foot slipped on ice, and the man nearly fell forty feet to the hard, frozen river below. He managed to get caught in rigging attached to two other men as he fell, and the other young soldiers were forced to grab tight on their own spans, holding on for dear life as the man hung there for a moment before pulling himself back onto a lower metal beam. Quickly, Grant scanned the four tanks in their dug-in emplacements to the north and saw no evidence that his men had been spotted.
The team radioed back that they had discovered multiple explosive charges. Grant didn’t have the resolution in his night optic to see them clipping the wires, but they stopped at different points along the bridge, worked intently for a moment, and then moved farther down.
The distant sound of heavy cannon fire and the flashes and flames lighting up the night to the south were incessant.
After what seemed like an eternity to Grant, the scouts radioed that they had clipped the wires at all five charges under the span.
Now the second squad, their Javelin missiles clearly visible in the thermal contrast on his goggles, crept slowly across the ice covering the Bug River on the northern side of the bridge, out of the view of the tanks, which were positioned on the train tracks as well as to the south. The squad was well led, and in minutes they were across the frozen expanse.
Finally the third team moved out, following the first, only this one crawled along the top of the bridge, and some of the men hauled the big Javelins along with them. The men were dressed head to toe in white, and with the snowfall all around and their careful movements they remained undetected. Soon they reached their position and lay prone, hidden behind the wooden beams over the bridge.
Grant breathed a sigh of relief.
The firing to the south intensified, low reverberations of cannon reports and explosions continuing, but here, in the snowy woods miles to the north, all was still.
Then Grant heard a faint rumbling behind him that grew in volume by the second. The ground began to vibrate, and snow fell in clumps from the trees.
Grant called over his radio.
“Hit ’em.”
An instant later six FGM-148 Javelin anti-tank missiles rocketed atop fiery blasts from the dense brush and high reeds of the far bank. A second later six more were fired from the middle spans of the bridge, where the second scout team had crawled.
The strike got the job done, but in the end it was massive overkill. The platoon of four Russian tanks dug in across the river never knew what hit them. The T-14 reactive armor fired to diminish the damage done by the Javelins, but the missiles rained down from such a high angle that several of them penetrated the turret hatches.
All four Armatas exploded in fireballs.
Watching and listening to the beginning of the supporting fire attack from 2nd Battalion, Grant transmitted to 1st Battalion, “Bandits, you’re clear. Launch your forces into the attack. The bridge is open.”
“Roger.” An Abrams lurched from deep in the Polish forest and began heading toward the rail bridge spanning the Bug River and then onto the territory of Russia’s vassal state of Belarus.
Behind them the increasing rumble turned into the unmistakable sound of more tanks, and a dozen massive M1s rolled at their top speed of forty-five miles per hour along the cleared forest next to the train tracks, racing to get behind the first to cross the bridge.
And to the south, dozens more American tanks unleashed a continuous hell as the radio call reporting the success of the scouts went out, keeping the main force of Russian tanks heavily occupied.
The first M1 slowed as it arrived at the train bridge, then rolled gingerly onto the span. Keeping his speed down, the commander bravely continued all the way across.
Only when he was completely clear of the bridge on the Belarusian side did the second tank begin its crossing.
More American armor broke cover out of the forest and drove at top speed for the bridge. Again they received massive suppression fire from the south while they, one by one, rolled onto the bridge, each M1 trying the crossing a little faster than the one that went before.
The four tanks on the far side
moved to cover as another two and then two more M1s made for the bridge.
Grant had an understrength regiment of U.S. armor, depleted by the fighting against the Russians over the past several days, but by now these tanks were operated by incredibly experienced drivers, gunners, loaders, and commanders, and they re-formed into platoons and companies easily in the darkness over the border.
Lieutenant Colonel Grant watched from the wood line as all twenty-eight tanks that crossed the bridge made it to cover.
Grant turned to his S3. “I didn’t think we’d make it this far before the Russians figured us out.”
“You and me both, sir. Looks like 2nd Battalion’s fires are keeping them pinned down, but the scouts did a damn good job wiping out anybody who could report in.”
“Let’s mount up and head for that rickety bridge that just had to go through the stress of two dozen M1 crossings.”
“Sounds like a hell of a plan, boss.” Both men began moving for their vehicles.
Boom! A U.S. tank round fired just beyond the bridge on the Belarusian side of the river. This told him his armor had found the flank of the Russian tanks past the now-dead bridge guard platoon.
More pounding erupted seconds later, and within moments heavy cannon fire rippled through the forest from across the Bug, joining the sounds of the continuous fire from 2nd Battalion to the south.
Grant climbed into his Humvee and looked through the advanced optics of his SPI IR 360 surveillance camera system. He could see his cavalry company making their way back over the bridge and finding cover near the bank on the Polish side. Their mission had been a dangerous one. He would talk to the master sergeants later. These guys deserve to be the ones with the big, fat medals, he thought.
Grant’s tank lurched forward now and began racing for the bridge.
He’d just ordered an invasion of another country, and he wanted to get his licks in before he was thrown into the stockade.
CHAPTER 71
WESTERN BELARUS
31 DECEMBER
General Eduard Sabaneyev and his headquarters staff had taken over a medieval castle just south of Brest, five kilometers from the Bug River and the Polish border. It had once been a stately residence of a local prince, but now it was rented out as event space for corporate retreats and the like, and all the furniture looked old and shabby.
But it was a beautiful, comfortable building, so he was in no great rush to break contact with the Americans over the border in Poland. His men had enough ammunition for another hour or two of combat, so fifteen minutes earlier Sabaneyev had poured himself a glass of the Hungarian red wine one of his subordinates found on a rack in the basement, and he sat back on a worn leather couch with it.
He’d listened to the intense American and German barrage and over the radio he heard his forces near the river engaging with the enemy.
He expected the NATO tanks to retaliate for a few minutes, and then he presumed they would withdraw. He assumed his own armor along the river would soon have no more targets to prosecute.
But then new crashes of heavy tank fire reverberated through the ancient stones of the castle, and Sabaneyev rose quickly to his feet. The fighting wasn’t terribly close, was still a few kilometers away, but this new fire was most definitely coming from due north, not west—the direction of the border. He looked over at the radio operators, who were already sending out calls to Dryagin to find out what the hell was going on.
“What the fuck is that?” the general demanded. “That sounded like it came from east of the river. I did not give the order to volley fire again. Find out the unit that broke the protocol. Call Dryagin. He and his forces should not be wasting ammunition!”
The operations officer said, “We’re checking now, Comrade General.” After a pause to listen to the response he said, “The chatter between the companies coming through over the net makes it sound like the Americans have launched an attack.”
The general cocked his head. “They cannot attack with a river in their way.”
Smirnov leaned over the radio table now, trying to listen to a multitude of reports coming in and simultaneously appease his boss’s thirst for answers.
The sounds of a triple detonation rattled the old castle.
Smirnov held his hand to his earpiece, then spun up to look at Sabaneyev. “Report coming in that the front line is collapsing at the border! The Americans are across the river, eight kilometers north!”
Sabaneyev was stunned. “How did they . . . They have invaded a sovereign nation! Do they wish to start a full-fledged war? Contact Moscow right away. We need air support immediately.”
Sabaneyev had not counted on the Americans being so brazen as to continue hostilities against him once he made it into Belarus. Moscow and the general had both relied on the West’s reluctance to cross the border into a country that most certainly would follow Russia’s lead.
Over the next few minutes the fighting intensified outside, and Smirnov received more reports. “They used a rail bridge. We had assessed it unsuitable for tanks. It is just north of—”
Sabaneyev said, “I know the damned bridge! I ordered it guarded and wired with explosives. I ordered Dryagin to cover it with tank fire and drop it into the river as necessary.”
“Sir, I believe he had done so—wired it, that is. The Americans sent scouts over the river, eliminated the guard force there, and cut the explosives on the east side.”
“But tanks! Tanks, man—how did the Yankees cross with tanks? Where was Dryagin’s observation post? Where were his tank crews guarding the bridge?”
Smirnov said, “Dryagin had limited forces. He placed a platoon of T-14s at the train bridge, but they were wiped out. The colonel believed it wiser to dig in the bulk of the heavy armor farther south, thinking most of the Americans were arrayed there.”
Sabaneyev stormed around the floor of the command center. “Then he’s a fool! He may have cost us today’s fight, but I will guarantee he will not lose us even more. Get him up here. And send word to his forces: I am now directly in command of the unit. The commanders will only take orders from me and my headquarters. Is that understood, Colonel Smirnov?”
“I am clear, sir. I am understanding the general has just relieved Colonel Dryagin of his command.”
“Yes, I will tell him in person.”
A radio operator looked up to him. “Sir, reports from the 2nd Battalion, to the northwest. They have American tanks mixed within their position. He is requesting permission to turn his tanks away from the M1 road bridge so he can face the attackers.”
“Damn it! Is there no one left with the stomach for this? Tell him to get off the damn radio and turn his ass around and fight! What’s 1st Battalion doing?”
“He has made no reports, sir.”
“Tell him he is to mount a force to support 2nd Battalion immediately. We’ll pummel these bastards back to fucking Poland!”
The message was relayed, and when the reply came, the radio operator said, “Sir, 1st Battalion is still pinned by direct and accurate fires from the Americans on the other side of the river. His dug-in positions are the only things keeping him intact. He cannot move or he will lose tanks. Also, sir, he says his men see Western air units overhead. They have been hit twice by accurate bombing runs by F-35 jets.”
The radios broadcast constant transmissions as reports came in rapidly, one after another. The exact location of the Americans was still presumed, but 2nd Battalion continued to report heavy contact by Abrams tanks. Additionally, all up and down the line, they reported accurate attacks from U.S. Apache helicopters.
The parting shot back over the border into Poland had been a mistake, Sabaneyev now saw. But he wasn’t going to take the blame for it. No, none of this was his fault, he told himself. He’d place the blame for all this on those below him, like Dryagin, and those above him, the ones who overestimated the Ame
rican desire to negotiate peace.
And Dryagin wasn’t the only one on the general’s mind. He shouted, “I will flog that bastard Borbikov myself when I see him. He gave me assurances about this operation!”
Minutes later, Colonel Dryagin stormed into the bustling command post almost at a run. Pulling off his snow-covered hat and his thick gloves, he looked around the room.
Sabaneyev stood by the roaring fireplace, still listening to the radio reports coming in from the action now four kilometers to the north.
“Colonel General, I must protest! This is the worst timing. We are in the middle of—”
Sabaneyev spun around to him. “You are relieved for incompetence, Colonel. Move to the supply headquarters and make yourself useful organizing my logistics. Our forces are now divided due to your lack of attention to my orders. I made it clear to guard the passenger rail bridge as well as the heavy-vehicle bridges and by your failing to do so we now are faced with a flood of American tanks.”
“But, sir, we had . . . that is, the American tanks are heavier than ours, and we determined—”
“Leave now, Colonel, or you will return to Moscow in chains!” Sabaneyev shouted, then turned his attention away from his former senior commander and back to the radiomen.
Dryagin stared a moment at the general’s back. Seeing the futility in protesting, he saluted out of habit and then turned about, drained and empty. He walked in silence to the door, the radios alive with reports of his men in the fight, who were his men no longer.
A radio operator looked up to Sabaneyev. “Sir, I have Moscow. The deputy commander orders you to withdraw into the interior of Belarus, then back to Smolensk. He says to make no more delays.”
“Give the command for withdrawal, Smirnov. It will take the Americans some time yet to cross the river in any great numbers, and we will be gone by then. If the Yankees will not respect the soft border of Belarus, they will certainly respect the hard border of Mother Russia. We’ll drop a curtain behind us once we receive air cover. Tell the deputy I want Russian jets to line my path as we head out of this mess. If the enemy continues to pursue, we will choke him to death in the Belarusian interior.”
