Red Metal

by Mark Greaney

  Colonel General Sabaneyev packed his leather map case, helmet, and pistol. He had been planning a leisurely movement across Belarus, but now he was steeling himself for further action.

  As he stepped outside into the frozen night, he glanced to the east. Several flashes of light flickered behind a distant wood line, and then, three seconds later, tank rounds slammed into the rolling pastureland just south of the castle. The closest was no more than two hundred meters from where Sabaneyev stood.

  Smirnov grabbed his general by the arm, swung him around, and pulled him back into the castle. He shouted to the radio operators, “Order the general’s Bumerang to pull up to the door! The Americans have us on three sides now!”

  Sabaneyev was slow to put this together, still utterly stunned by his change of fortune. After a moment he said, “South is clear. South is still clear.” He looked up at Smirnov. “What’s to the south?”

  “The Ukrainian border, Colonel General.”

  Sabaneyev was not going to invade Ukraine to escape a motley collection of American armor and a few aircraft. He shook his head. “Withdraw to the east. They can’t have gotten much armor behind us this quickly. We’ll punch out and kill Americans in the process. Get moving!”

  * * *

  • • •

  NORTH OF MRIMA HILL, KENYA

  31 DECEMBER

  Lazar held the encrypted military satellite phone to his ear, and the message came in clear. It was Army general Korotkov, the commander of all southern forces, under whose command Lazar now fell for the conduct of his mission in Africa.

  Korotkov said, “Comrade General, I must inform you that the West has crossed into Belarus and currently has Sabaneyev’s forces partially surrounded.”

  Lazar closed his eyes in utter frustration. He looked over at Colonel Borbikov, who seemed to already be aware of that information.

  Lazar wondered to himself about Borbikov’s magic trains, which were supposed to protect Sabaneyev, but he said nothing.

  Korotkov continued. “We’re trying to get Eduard reinforced, but the Kremlin is losing its mettle in all this. They are worried about the loss of tanks, and they are worried about the fact that Eduard was stuck in Poland for two days on the return. They are talking about a political solution while Eduard is under fire from main tank rounds. The Belarusian army—what there is of it, anyway—so far has not provided any help.”

  Lazar realized the European portion of Red Metal had turned into a disaster. An American invasion of Belarus threatened a wider war, and the Kremlin surely must have realized a large-scale counterattack from NATO right now could be repelled only with nuclear weapons, because a large portion of Russian armor was otherwise engaged.

  Nuclear war on two continents seemed entirely possible now, and Lazar put all the blame for this on the Spetsnaz colonel in the corner, conferring with his men.

  The older general kept his tone even as he spoke into the sat phone. “I understand you, General. What are your orders?”

  “Boris, we are out of bargaining chips here. Things have just gotten very ugly, my old friend. Get us that mine. No matter what.”

  “How does our seizure of the mine change the equation, General?”

  “We have nothing now. Nothing to broker with except that mine and its impact on coming generations. Nothing will settle the West down like the knowledge they’ll have to be our business partners. Sure, Sabaneyev still possesses a handful of American and NATO superior officers as prisoners, but we do not occupy any ground with which to trade.”

  Korotkov added, “I must tell you, Boris, the Central Committee has been talking of launching tactical nuclear weapons to stave off the attack. Things are at a critical state here.”

  Lazar closed his eyes slowly. Utter madness.

  “So here it is, my final word: Boris, take . . . that . . . fucking . . . mine.”

  “I understand, sir,” Lazar said, and hung up the receiver.

  Colonel Borbikov stared at him a moment. Soon the younger man began speaking in a slow, measured, if not condescending, tone. “Comrade General Lazar—”

  Lazar saw it coming and held up a hand and cut him off. “This was your plan, and it is turning into shit on every possible front.”

  Lazar and the men would fight, and many more would likely die, and then, if he interpreted General Korotkov’s words correctly, the Russians might give the mine or a portion of its bounty to the Yankees for political concessions. Lazar was not sure Borbikov had fully registered that yet.

  General Lazar turned to Colonel Kir, who had been standing behind them, listening intently to everything Lazar said.

  Kir threw his shoulders back. “Your orders, General?”

  * * *

  • • •

  NEAR BREST, BELARUS

  31 DECEMBER

  Sixty minutes after Sabaneyev and his HQ section left the castle, Tom Grant’s command vehicles rolled up the drive toward the stately structure. Grant saw that Captain Brad Spillane had climbed off his vehicle and was running up toward the lieutenant colonel’s tank.

  Grant could hear the fight raging in the forests to the east. The Russians were probing up different roads, trying to move past the Americans who had flanked them. He knew his battalion positioned in that direction wouldn’t be able to hold off the regiment of Russians, but Grant was pleased to hear new reports every few minutes about his force taking out individual enemy vehicles. And the Russians were doing more running than fighting at the moment, which was saving his tanks from weathering a full-on battle.

  The one advantage for Grant so far had been a distinct lack of Belarusian resistance; the local forces seemed content to stay the hell out of this fight, although Grant figured the diplomatic fallout of this for Minsk in its relations with Russia would probably exceed any military damage done to the tiny nation in battle.

  He had just pulled off his helmet, when Spillane arrived. “Brad, whatcha got?”

  Spillane clambered up the side of his commander’s Abrams so he could be heard more clearly above the high whine of the big tank’s gas turbine engine. “Sir, what about using that castle as a temporary CP? It was the Russian HQ just an hour ago.”

  “Watch it,” warned Grant as the turret began rotating, threatening to knock Captain Spillane off. “Anderson is still scanning those trees for stragglers.” Spillane climbed onto the bustle rack at the back of the turret to continue speaking while the huge steel and depleted-uranium turret moved freely left and right.

  Grant peered out into the night, looking at the stone fortress just ahead. It was clearly something from medieval times, and it was also clear from the tracks in the snow and mud that the Russians had been there very recently.

  Grant said, “If it’s good enough for a Russian general, it’s good enough for a tanker like me.”

  * * *

  • • •

  The political decision for NATO to enter Belarus was not made without a tremendous amount of trepidation on the part of the West. When they learned that U.S. forces had pursued attacking Russian forces over the border, they realized they needed to deliver a clear ultimatum via open diplomatic channels. NATO stated that Belarus had knowingly and deliberately allowed an aggressive Russian force to depart its country to attack NATO, and the combined forces of NATO, bar none, collectively held Belarus accountable. They demanded right of passage through Belarus in pursuit of the Russian force.

  Belarus was caught in the middle. If they denied allowing the Americans in, the West would call them complicit and the consequences could be dire. They could not afford to go to war alone with the West, and Russia seemed unwilling to place any further forces in their country.

  On the other hand, if Belarus complied with the NATO demands to let them pursue the Russians, they could never count on support from Russia again.

  In the end, they decided to do nothing.

>   The government in Minsk didn’t respond to political demands from Russia to defend their fleeing forces, and they didn’t tell the West it could not pursue: they merely told their citizens to stay off the major east-west-running highway for their own safety.

  And this was enough of a signal to the West.

  Air support for Grant’s forces came quickly, and ground support was ordered forward. Two brigades from NATO’s immediate response forces had taken days to come online, but they entered the fight now: an Italian light infantry regiment and a composite Belgian and British medium-armored regiment.

  The two units crossed the undamaged bridges over the Bug River sixty kilometers north of where the Russians had disabled the other crossing points, and they raced to catch up to the American and German tank force led by Lieutenant Colonel Grant.

  And the Belarusians did nothing to intervene.

  CHAPTER 72

  MRIMA HILL, KENYA

  31 DECEMBER

  Lieutenant Colonel Dan Connolly, Captain Apollo Arc-Blanchette, Colonel Caster, and Lieutenant Colonel McHale ducked into the command tent of 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines, while touring the northern perimeter defenses of the Mrima Hill mine. A light breeze floated through the open side flaps. Marines outside were busy filling sandbags and cutting branches to further conceal the battalion headquarters’ location from enemy drones and reconnaissance forces.

  The Darkhorse command post was a hive of activity as each officer and staff NCO labored to get the defenses organized. Maps were laid all over the center tables. On the edges of the tent were more tables full of radios, plotting boards, sketches, and timetables for the battalion’s mortars and regimental artillery.

  “Ben,” Colonel Caster said to the commander of the 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines. “Talk me through your defenses.”

  The Darkhorse commander pulled out an acetate overlay and placed it carefully onto the primary battle map in the center of the table. It showed a detailed graphic depiction of his forces down to the squad and machine-gun levels.

  “Sir, here’s us in the northern third. You can see that I’ve tied my western flank in with 1st Battalion and my eastern flank with 2nd. I’ve got a layered defense in depth to deal with most contingencies the Russians decide to toss at us.” He pointed to the symbols for the tanks and LAVs well out in front of his positions.

  For the next thirty minutes the Darkhorse operations officer and operations chief briefed Colonel Caster, Apollo, Connolly, and Lieutenant Colonel McHale, describing their intent for a layered, ringed defensive tactic. If it worked, it would force the Russians to advance through “kill boxes” where the Marines would surgically take out the attacking heavy weapons until Lazar had mostly just infantry left. Then the Marine infantry would do what they did best: kill what remained.

  The first layer of their defense was the Marine reconnaissance units. These were also the farthest away from the battalion’s headquarters high on Mrima Hill. There were several different flavors of reconnaissance scouting for Russians in front of the battalion’s lines.

  Marine Force Reconnaissance, called simply “Force,” had been dropped by helicopter to the farthest layer, about sixteen kilometers away. These teams would identify the incoming Russians, obtaining an understanding of how they amassed and attacked. Force would radio this data back to the Darkhorse command post so the Marines could fine-tune their defenses. The specially trained men of Force would then go to ground, remaining concealed behind the enemy as they passed. Then they’d pop out and hit unguarded vital enemy formations: an artillery section, supply trucks, a radio terminus, or, if they were exceedingly lucky, a headquarters.

  The next layer in the defense, fourteen kilometers away, was the hand-selected and elite men of the light-armored reconnaissance companies. They lived like the cavalry on their armored mounts, and were one of the fastest reconnaissance forces in the world. They had 25mm guns, TOW anti-tank missiles, and their own mortar section. Trained to “shoot ’n’ scoot,” they used a medium array of firepower and worked to flank their opponent. If the Russians chased them, they would remain elusive and then request a sheaf of artillery to be dropped behind them to “close the door” as they withdrew. Overhead throughout the operation the Marines had their own mini Air Force: AV-8B Harrier II strike jets. Also, thanks to the Marine VMFA-121, the Green Knights squadron, a host of F/A-18s had flown over in advance of their carrier, which was still too far to support directly.

  The next defensive line was the heavy firepower of six Javelin missile crews and a platoon of four Abrams tanks. The operations chief briefed that teams were still digging in eight kilometers away with the support of the regiment’s engineers. The anti-tank missile teams and the M1A2s would work together to take out as many of the Russian BTRs as they could.

  Each tank had one “cold” position, where it would remain concealed until the right time. Then it would drive up to its “hot” position, a dugout where only the turret was exposed so the crew could fire freely. They’d send two or three rounds, then reverse back to the “cold” position, where, even if they were spotted, they would have some defense from Russian missiles.

  The last line of defense was the hard-core, disciplined fighting men of the Marine Corps infantry, armed to the teeth with AT-4 and SMAW anti-tank rockets; the reliable, heavy Browning .50-cal machine guns, capable of penetrating light armor; medium 7.62mm FN M240s; and the light 5.56mm M249 SAW and M27 IAR machine guns.

  The Marine infantrymen were heavily concealed in the thickest parts of the woods at the base of Mrima Hill. They dug vehicle ditches and laced the roads with explosives, claymore mines, and barbed wire designed to halt Russian vehicles and snare the Russian dismounts. Every obstacle was covered by a machine gun so that when the BTRs were bottlenecked or halted, the Marines could blow the explosives, then cut the infantry in half with machine-gun fire.

  Behind them on the hill were Darkhorse’s heavy 81mm M252 mortars, dug into pits in clearings in the woods. The M252s were ready to rain down steel explosives the size of whiskey bottles onto the enemy. They also possessed illumination rounds to light up the skies in the likely case of a nighttime attack, and high-concentrate smoke to obscure the movements of the Marines.

  * * *

  • • •

  As the briefing wrapped up, Apollo felt a buzzing in the cargo pocket of his uniform pants. He felt inside his pocket and found his phone was ringing.

  Apollo looked down at the number. It was his father.

  Finally!

  He leapt up from his little chair, excused himself, and stepped outside the tent.

  He answered with, “Papa?”

  There was a brief pause on the line; then an unfamiliar male voice spoke in French. “Bonjour, monsieur. Am I speaking with the son of Pascal Arc-Blanchette?”

  Apollo felt his legs weaken. He continued walking away from the command tent. “Oui.”

  “Monsieur, my name is Arthur Caron. I am calling you from Djibouti City. I am a cultural attaché at the embassy here.”

  The French captain’s mind knew exactly where this was going, but his heart tried to tell him he was wrong. Still, his face morphed into a mask of pain, and tears welled in his eyes.

  “I am afraid,” Caron continued, “that I am calling with terrible news. I don’t know how else to put it.”

  Apollo sniffed now, lifted his chin, forced his eyes to sharpen as he blinked out the tears. “I will spare you of the need, monsieur. You are calling to tell me that my father is dead.”

  Caron hesitated—perhaps he was surprised—but finally he said, “I am afraid that is so.”

  Apollo’s jaw muscles flexed.

  “His body was found with those of three other French nationals in a restaurant at the edge of town. He has been brought back to the embassy, and will be returned to France immediately.”

  “How did he die?”

  “We
ll . . . I . . .”

  “How . . . did . . . he . . . die?”

  “He was tortured and then shot. I am sorry.”

  Apollo closed his eyes a moment, then said, “I assume you worked with my father.” The French embassy had cleared out days ago. If there was someone claiming to be a French cultural attaché in Djibouti now, then Apollo was certain he was not a French cultural attaché.

  “Well . . . as I said, I am an employee here at the embassy. I knew him in passing only. A very fine man. I am truly sorry for your loss.”

  Apollo lowered his voice an octave. He spoke now not as a heartbroken child of a deceased father but as a military officer on a mission. “I assume you worked with my father, monsieur.” Apollo knew Caron would be loath to admit this to anyone.

  But the situation and the captain’s tone both compelled him. “Oui. That is correct. We both work for the same department.”

  Apollo knew this was DGSE. French foreign intelligence.

  “My father was a hero of our nation,” Apollo declared, the pride and the sadness welling up within him in equal measures.

  “Unquestionably,” Caron said immediately. “I cannot speak more about this, you understand. But he worked diligently until the very end.”

  Apollo was certain he was talking about the transmission of data on the Russian brigade.

  Caron added, “He has done much more than I during the current conflict, than any of of us—that I freely admit.”

  Apollo nodded at the phone. “Well . . . at least you’re there, which means you didn’t get on that plane full of French government personnel that left my father behind the other day. You have my respect. Thank you for your call, Monsieur Caron.”