Red Metal

by Mark Greaney

  Sabaneyev grabbed the commander by the shoulder and together they ran up the steps and inside the nearest building.

  The Russians in line for fuel began turning their vehicles and rolling off in different directions. Order evaporated as Russian soldiers variously ran back to their vehicles or mimicked their leaders, looking for shelter. The advancing American fire, in spite of the Russian defensive volleys, blasted overhead.

  Tanks and Bumerangs dashed for copses of trees, behind decorative brick parapets, and in a few cases behind or into the brick buildings themselves, seeking shelter from the American guns.

  Too many Russian tanks were unfit for battle, and too many of the Bumerangs had already fired off the last of their anti-tank missiles. They needed fuel and rearmament, right this moment, or they ran the real risk of being overrun by the invaders from the West.

  * * *

  • • •

  Once inside the building, Sabaneyev grasped the collar of the Belarusian colonel. “Where are your war stocks?”

  The Belarusian officer shook his head, his mind still racing to comprehend that his base was under attack. “I am sorry, comrade. I am not authorized to—”

  “I don’t need your fucking authorization. I need an answer—now! Where are they?”

  “They are not here.”

  “Lies! This base is full of munitions given to you by Russia to be accessed in a time of critical need for our region. I know the weapons are here. Where the fuck are they?”

  More crashing tank rounds impacted outside. Outgoing fire boomed in a chaotic fury.

  The colonel said, “They were here, but everything was trucked off to Minsk this morning.”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “An order came from Command. My government does not choose to be a participant in this failed military attack of the West. Russian forces are not to use Belarusian—”

  A high-explosive tank round slammed into the side of the building, shattering glass, shaking walls, and knocking men to the floor. Old masonry crumbled and dust filled the air.

  Sabaneyev stood his ground, as did the Belarusian colonel. They could barely see each other for a moment through the haze.

  “What do you have?” the general asked.

  When the colonel did not immediately answer, Eduard Sabaneyev shoved the smaller man up against the wall and pulled his pistol from its holster. Jabbing it under the man’s chin, he shouted, “I will shoot you myself this instant if you don’t answer me!”

  The man shielded his face in terror as he answered. “A couple hundred high-explosive rounds for our T-72s and T-80s, Comrade General. That’s it. I swear it. The live shells are crated and secured in accordance with the protocol for the combined exercises, in an ammunition bunker a kilometer from here.”

  The T-80’s main armament was the 125mm smoothbore cannon, the same size as Sabaneyev’s T-14s’ guns.

  After another round hit the building, the general let go of the colonel’s tunic and lowered his weapon, but kept his pistol at the ready by his side. “You will personally lead my XO, Colonel Smirnov, and whatever tanks I still have mobile to the ammo stores. We’ll fight off the Yankees from inside the base until we can get fuel and leave. Your men will cover our withdrawal. Do you understand me?”

  Several more loud explosions, all incoming tank rounds, hit in front of the building. Shrapnel tore through the hallway where the general and the colonel stood, sending them both diving to the ground. A young radioman who’d dove into the building for cover was immediately hit in the arm by a fragment, ripping flesh from the elbow to the hand, and he began rolling on the floor in agony as blood drained from his arm.

  Sabaneyev ignored the soldier’s wound and pulled the radio handset from where it was hooked on his load-bearing vest. “Smirnov? I’ve got ammunition but it’s one kilometer away. What the hell is happening out there?”

  No reply came for several seconds. And then: “The command vehicle has been destroyed!” came an unknown voice over the radio. A pause. “I don’t see the colonel . . . but no one could have survived!”

  “Shit!” shouted Sabaneyev. Into the radio he said, “Get me another APC and drive it to the front door of the command building. I’m coming out in thirty seconds, and all tanks not engaged now will follow my vehicles to the ammunition!”

  He tossed the radio handset on the ground beside the writhing young man, grabbed the Belarusian by the shoulder, and pulled him back up to his feet. “You will take me to the main gun rounds now, Colonel.”

  Another salvo from the American Abrams tanks hit the building, but Sabaneyev ignored the debris and more fallen men in his path and ran for the door, still holding the colonel by the sleeve of his tunic.

  They burst through the building’s entrance, out into a smoke-filled gloom. They ran down the steps to the road in front of the fueling area, and only then did the smoke clear enough that they could see their way forward. In front of them were six destroyed Russian vehicles. More tanks engaged distant enemy targets over and through the metal fencing at the edge of the base. The whine of tank engines and the rumble of racing Bumerangs filled the air. Vehicles jockeyed for position to shoot back at the Americans.

  This normally sleepy Belarusian base, with its carefully winterized lawns, neat brick façades, and orderly streets, was now a chaos of smoke and fire.

  Sabaneyev saw only his own vehicles inside the wire. No Belarusian armor. “Where the fuck are your forces, Colonel?”

  The Belarusian simply said, “We’ve been ordered not to assist. I . . . I . . . Comrade General, what will you have me do?”

  The general had experienced many forms of combat before but realized this man in front of him had never heard a shot fired in anger.

  Dropping the man’s sleeve like one would a piece of garbage, the general turned and looked for the vehicles that were supposed to pick him up. The Belarusian colonel, his usefulness no longer required, raced back into the dust-filled building.

  Standing amid the explosions of incoming and the boom of outgoing, his pistol drawn, General Sabaneyev glared angrily into the smoke, his last order apparently being disobeyed as the remnants of his regiment fought individual battles of survival.

  In seconds he heard a growing rumble from his left, then another from his right. The high-pitched whine sounded different from the diesel engines of his own armor. From both directions, American Abrams tanks of the U.S. Army rolled into view, their main guns trained on Russian targets near the base entrance.

  Sabaneyev spun around to run back inside, but the horrific ripping-canvas sound of a .50-caliber machine gun stopped him in his tracks. The automatic fire tore into the doorway, just ten meters up the stone steps from him.

  The firing stopped, and the general turned back to the horror around him. In claps of thunder several T-14s down the block went up in flames, but with their magazine compartments dry of any ammo, so Sabaneyev was spared the roiling blasts of secondary explosions that he’d grown accustomed to in the past days.

  A pair of German Leopard 2 tanks flashed by in pursuit of the retreating Russians, firing their cannons as they went.

  Sabaneyev looked up and down the war-torn streets, disoriented by the smoke and debris on the unfamiliar Belarusian base. Could he link back up with some remnant of his fighting force? He tried to think clearly about what to do next.

  But before he could decide, the hulking form of a U.S. M1A2 SEP Abrams rounded the corner of the building he stood in front of. The giant metal treads clanked along, half on the sidewalk and half in the street. Hugging the side of the building, pointing its 120mm barrel down the street a mere twenty feet away, it then pivoted in place, gouging the concrete until its full mass and its main gun pointed directly at Sabaneyev. A Yankee tank commander was up in the turret, a weathered and grim expression across his face, his pintle-mounted M240 machine gun t
rained on the general’s chest. The young tanker seemed to be debating whether it was better to gun him down with the machine gun or just slice him in half with a main gun round.

  Colonel General Sabaneyev dropped his pistol onto the frozen steps and raised his hands, a bewildered expression on his handsome but exhausted face.

  CHAPTER 79

  JOMBO HILL, KENYA

  1 JANUARY

  The tent flaps burst open as the three men entered, a gust of hot evening wind followed them in.

  The Russian headquarters staff turned to see a wounded Colonel Kir flanked by two medics holding him up, one on each shoulder. The colonel’s face was covered with blood and dirt; he had a shell-shocked expression and his mouth hung open. His left leg bled freely.

  Several majors and captains rushed to him.

  One of the medics said, “He would not allow us to take him to the medical shelter. The colonel insisted on coming here even though he is badly wounded.” The man’s frustration with his orders was evident.

  Kir was helped over to a folding chair and he collapsed into it. His breathing was labored; he gripped his knee where the uniform pants had been torn off. Blood seeped through his fingers. Soon he looked away from the wound, put his head in his bloody hands, and rubbed his eyes.

  One of the majors handed him a canteen of water, which he drank from while a medic knelt and began dressing his knee.

  Kir looked up from the canteen. “You men there . . . have you heard from the general?”

  A radioman shook his head. “We have not, sir. Glatsky’s XO has reported that the lead company of 3rd Regiment has been practically wiped out. The general was with 1st Company. That is all that has been reported at this time, sir.”

  Kir just sat there a moment. Finally he said, “Tell Glatsky to suspend the attack. Pull back and reconsolidate his forces. And tell him to find General Lazar.”

  Colonel Yuri Borbikov, flanked by four Spetsnaz officers, stormed into the command tent while Kir spoke. All five wore body armor and weapons.

  “Belay that command!” He looked around the room quickly. “Where’s General Lazar?”

  No one answered at first; then a major said, “He went with 3rd Regiment. He is not reporting in.”

  “So . . . he’s dead?”

  “We do not know. We haven’t been able to raise him since American aircraft attacked Glatsky’s advance.”

  Borbikov stood near the flap to the tent, taking in the dimly lit space in front of him. He turned to Kir. “Colonel, you are wounded. I insist you go to the medical shelter immediately.”

  Kir looked up at Borbikov, his daze quickly fading. “I will do nothing of the sort.”

  The Spetsnaz colonel boomed in a deep and commanding voice, “Colonel Kir, you are relieved of your responsibilities, now and on this spot! You are in shock and your actions are causing panic in the ranks. This is unforgivable in the face of the enemy.”

  Without waiting, he turned to the radioman. “Tell Glatsky he can take a brief tactical pause to reconsolidate his forces and to search for the general’s body. We will reinstitute the surge on the north side of the hill shortly. Inform him that I am sending him a battalion of paratroopers.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Fedulov, the airborne battalion commander, stood at a map table with a cluster of captains. He looked up at Borbikov in surprise at this. He’d been told they’d be used only in close quarters, for “mopping up” on the hill, and defending the mine once it was taken.

  Fedulov said, “Sir, the infantry’s BTRs are armored and are better suited to punching through the American lines than my paratroopers.”

  “The arrival of you and your men will embolden Glatsky and his soldiers forward.”

  “Respectfully, Comrade Colonel, providing inspiration to the infantry is not our role.”

  Kir stood up on his wounded leg now; the medic had not finished tying off his bloody bandage, and the wrappings unwound and fell to the floor. Pointing a finger at Borbikov, he said, “Under what authority do you issue such a command, Colonel? Your only role here is as a headquarters advisor, and only an advisor.”

  Borbikov replied, “You are the one who no longer has authority, Kir. Your commander is lost and you are wounded and unfit for command.”

  Kir wiped blood from his eye and shouted in a loud and agitated voice, “Watch officer!”

  “Here, Colonel,” said the captain, just meters away.

  “What is the report? Do we have any unit commanders in the northern sector responding after the American strikes?”

  “We do, sir. Two of the commanders report present. Second Regiment has halted their attack but is firing onto the Marines as the general ordered. First Regiment is making slow progress, and they continue to receive attacks on their BTRs from dismounted anti-tank weapons. Both regiments have suffered heavy casualties. Nothing further at all from 3rd Regiment yet. The commander reported the lead company destroyed, then went off the air.”

  Kir turned to Borbikov. “There you have it: the next field commander is 1st Regiment’s colonel. He will come and take command of the brigade while I receive treatment.”

  Borbikov shook his head. “Nonsense. Captain, call the medical orderlies back and have this man escorted from the tent. Note in the logbook that under the authority from the Group South commander, I am taking command of the brigade at this time.”

  The captain looked back and forth with wide eyes at the two senior officers; he was clearly conflicted and momentarily unsure about his chain of command.

  Borbikov didn’t wait for further debate; he signaled to the Spetsnaz in the tent, one of whom radioed to others outside. In moments, four more of Borbikov’s men with AK-12s entered, making eight in all. Two grabbed Colonel Kir by the arms and led him from the tent, muscling him out despite his loud protestations.

  None of the headquarters staff got in the way of the big special forces soldiers.

  Borbikov grabbed the radio from the stupefied twenty-four-year-old watch officer and began a broadcast. “All stations, all stations, this is Colonel Yuri Borbikov. It is with great regret that I announce the death on the battlefield of comrade Colonel General Boris Lazar. I have assumed command of the brigade. We must now come together, comrades. We shall mourn the passing of our great leader and friend when this is all done. In the meanwhile, Moscow and Mother Russia expect every man to complete his mission. Acknowledge.”

  The officers of the headquarters section just stood there looking at the radio. For a moment the only sounds were those of the distant battle; Glatsky’s forces intermixed in the Marine lines remained in heavy contact.

  Soon, one by one, responses came over the radio.

  “First Regiment acknowledges,” came the strained voice of Colonel Nishkin.

  “Colonel Klava acknowledges the order,” came the subdued response from the 2nd Regimental commander.

  “Third Regiment acknowledges receipt. This is the operations officer. Colonel Glatsky has just been confirmed dead on the front lines, but as yet we still have not found General—”

  Borbikov interrupted. “I understand. Everyone now has sacrificed deeply, but it is time to fight. To accomplish the task at hand so these sacrifices are not in vain. I will provide instructions in a moment, but expect the offensive to resume within two hours. We will use our elite paratroopers to assault the enemy’s position, timed with reattack against all frontages, by all regiments, to pin the enemy down.”

  Colonel Borbikov put the radio down and turned to the men of the command post.

  “You have heard the plan for this evening’s attack. I want you to prepare all forces. Get me a count of casualties.” He turned to the paratroop commander. “Lieutenant Colonel Fedulov, you have your orders.”

  The square-jawed thirty-eight-year-old held his ground against the senior officer. “Colonel, the reports from the front are dire. Third
Regiment has been badly battered. Do you really believe we can make the progress you require to seize the mines?”

  “The situation is not dire and you will not use such terms.”

  “I only mean that the other regiments—”

  Borbikov cut him off. “The other regiments will hold and pour fire onto the Marines. You will then be clear to advance.”

  “But—”

  “Enough of this! Do you not understand the simple advantage we have? Even just in numbers?”

  “I’m not questioning the mission, but the tactics appear questionable. I have been told the other regiments are severely depleted as far as the light armor necessary to close the distances successfully goes. Our artillery has been all but wiped out.”

  Borbikov glared at the paratroop commander, and he knew what the man was thinking. He was insinuating that Borbikov did not understand the master workings of tactics as well as General Lazar had.

  Borbikov did not confront his allegation head-on. He just said, “The Americans will have another carrier battle group here in a day, and they will fill the skies with ground-attack aircraft. Once we take the mine, they won’t be able to dislodge us, but we must take the mine.

  “You and your men are to be my shock troops for the final assault. If you can’t handle that mission, Lieutenant Colonel, I’ll take over command of your men just like I did with Colonel Kir’s troops.”

  The battalion commander from the 23rd Air Assault Regiment of the 76th Guards Air Assault Division knew the conversation was over. He nodded and reached for the radio to send the logistics forward into pre-assault positions to support the paratroopers’ attack.

  Borbikov sighed. Now even the most loyal men were questioning their orders. It was time for the final push, to hit these Marines with everything, and if these paratroopers failed to make the gains he demanded—failed to penetrate the Marines’ perimeter—then he would have to resort to more drastic measures to defeat the enemy.

  * * *

  • • •