The Loyal Nine

by Bobby Akart

  “Amerykans’kyy? I didn’t see any Americans here,” said Nomad, as the tempo of fighting rose to a crescendo along the highway.

  Chapter 9

  December 16, 2015

  Mariupol, Ukraine

  A sharp pain creased Lieutenant Miroslav Lazarev’s right arm, causing him to reflexively drop the wooden flagpole he’d held propped against the vehicle’s hull. The blood-spackled flag momentarily draped across the open hatch in front of him before it slipped down the side of the BTR-82’s armor, pulled to the pavement by the weight of the pole. The sound of distant small-arms fire reached him, jerking his attention to the bridge. A snap passed in front of his face, barely drawing his attention away from the mayhem unfolding more than a kilometer away.

  A massive concussion rippled through the vehicles in front of him, immediately knocking him against the BTR’s remote-controlled turret. The armored personnel carrier screeched to a halt on the road, flinging him forward against the lip of the metal hatch. The lieutenant’s body-armor kit absorbed most of the impact against his chest, dropping him into the vehicle as metallic chunks pinged off the frontal armor.

  “You’re hit, sir,” said the driver, leaning over to pull the lieutenant’s hatch shut.

  Lazarev touched the bloodied rip in his camouflage-patterned, heavy-weather jacket.

  “I’m fine,” he muttered, listening to the discordance of panicked voices squawking on the company command frequency.

  “None of this makes any sense,” said Lazarev, straightening his helmet before peering through the small ballistic-glass windshield.

  Pieces of the bridge fell in the river, chasing a wall of water that raced up the Kalmius, swamping the tree-lined field between the riverbank and the highway. That was a big fucking blast. Ukrainian attack aircraft? The battalion’s arrival in Mariupol was supposed to be unopposed.

  “Shut your blast screen, sir,” said the driver, pulling a latch that slammed a heavy metal shutter down over the ballistic glass in front of the driver’s seat.

  Without thinking, Lazarev did the same, catapulting the front compartment into darkness. He pulled the rotating viewport down and leaned into the binocular-style eyepiece, hoping to make some sense of the bridge’s destruction. With the cold metal pressed against his cheekbones, he searched for signs of the bridge, finding nothing but jagged concrete and twisted metal where M14 once crossed the river.

  “I hope we didn’t have any vehicles on the bridge. It’s gone,” said Lazarev, not sure if the battalion commander had reached the first span when the explosion occurred.

  “What’s gone?” asked the driver, hunched forward to peer through the semicircle of fixed viewports.

  “The bridge!” said Lazarev, twisting in his seat to switch the radio to the battalion command frequency.

  Confusion reigned on the battalion net, with multiple stations trying to contact the battalion commander. Lazarev raised his handset and gave it a try.

  “Liberator, this is Liberator Three One. Over.” No response.

  He wasn’t sure if his request had transmitted over the net. Too many voices competed over the single frequency.

  “Everyone has lost their shit—and we have zero situational awareness,” said Lazarev, kneeling on his seat and raising the commander’s hatch.

  “That’s not a good idea, sir!” protested the driver.

  Lazarev raised his helmet-protected head far enough to see beyond the lip of the hatch.

  “There’s nothing going on out—”

  The BTR-80 directly ahead of them disappeared in a blast of dirt, smoke and asphalt—emerging moments later in a midair spiral toward the riverbank. Dust and fragments pelted the front of Lazarev’s vehicle as the young lieutenant dropped into his seat.

  “Get us out of here!” screamed Lazarev.

  The vehicle lurched forward and turned left, stopping a few seconds later.

  “We don’t have anywhere to go!” yelled his driver.

  “Hold on!” said Lazarev, poking his head through the hatch against his better judgment.

  Bullets ricocheted off the turret and hull of his vehicle while he scanned the road ahead. Several vehicles lay shattered on both sides of the road, their hulls pouring thick black smoke. To his left, Lazarev spotted muzzle flashes in the upper floors of the rusty, four-story industrial buildings.

  “Gunner!” he screamed into the hatch. “Targets bearing left. Upper levels of the buildings. Engage!”

  As the turret traversed to find the targets in the buildings, two smoke trails launched from the ground floor of the building closest to the bridge, arcing skyward after clearing the windows. For a brief moment, the lieutenant didn’t understand what he’d witnessed, until the missiles reached the zenith of their flight paths a few hundred feet above the buildings—and dove into the vehicles on the highway. Only one type of guided antitank missile on the world market conducted a top-down attack—the FGM-148 Javelin, an American missile.

  Consecutive explosions gutted two BTRs a quarter of a kilometer down the road, showering the highway with smoking metal debris and burning fuel. Several smoke trails appeared simultaneously from the buildings running parallel to M14, leaping skyward to gain altitude. Any one of the missiles could be targeting his vehicle’s infrared signature. Once again, his training kicked in. He pressed the transmit button for the intravehicle communications net linked to his helmet.

  “Smoke screen! Smoke screen! Missiles inbound,” he said, keeping his eyes fixed on the arcing Javelins.

  Just above his head, the turret’s three starboard-side 81mm smoke grenade launchers fired a spread of grenades that exploded in midair twenty meters from the vehicle. Combined with the three grenades fired from the other side of the turret, they created an instantaneous, infrared-opaque smoke screen that rapidly drifted over the vehicle. As the noxious cloud enveloped him, the Javelins reached their targets—Liberator Three One was not one of them.

  The turret’s 30mm gun fired a short salvo through the thinning smoke, its high-explosive rounds tearing chunks out of the concrete next to one of the windows used to launch the missiles. Lazarev wasn’t sure what to do next. The grenades fired by the “Tucha” 902V system generated a chemical cloud capable of obscuring the infrared seeker used by the Javelin missile—but the smoke would clear his vehicle in several seconds.

  “Turn hard right and get us into the trees next to the river. We’re going back the way we came,” he said, feeling the fifteen-ton vehicle respond.

  “We’re too heavy for the riverbank!” said the driver.

  “This thing is amphibious! Just get me into the trees. We’ll run parallel to the highway with a little natural cover,” said Lazarev, bracing himself as the vehicle trampled the guardrail.

  Tracers and rocket-propelled grenades followed them into the sparse row of trees, exploding branches and kicking up the grayish-brown river water beyond the eastern bank. The 30mm turret continued to fire during the maneuver, the remote gunner seated behind him doing his best to keep the gun engaged against targets of opportunity. When they reached the trees, the vehicle turned sharply northeast, putting the thinly spaced tree trunks between the incoming fire and their half-inch-thick armor.

  Smoke screens floated off the highway, passing through the trees ahead of them, as more of the battalion’s vehicle commanders came to their senses. A quick glance at the road revealed five burning vehicles in his company of twelve, including the company commander’s vehicle, which had been flung into the air like a toy right in front of him. Before he finished the mental count, a retreating BTR exploded in flames; its rear wheels lifted several feet off the ground before bouncing against the frozen dirt next to the highway.

  “Enemy vehicles crossing the rail yard, bearing two o’clock. Engaging,” said the gunner through his headset.

  “How many vehicles?” asked Lazarev, peering through the smoke.

  “Two Ukrainian 94s. Where the fuck did they come from?” asked the gunner.

&nbs
p; Lazarev didn’t have an answer for the sergeant. They had been assured safe passage by the Ukrainian government and the psychotic ultranationalists operating in the region. Obviously the cease-fire was bullshit.

  The 30mm automatic cannon fired as they navigated the trees, its outbound projectiles shredding the barren trunks in a desperate attempt to reach the approaching BTR-94s first. Despite the fact that the 30mm cannon packed a more effective punch than the BTR-94s’ twin 23mm cannons, caliber effectiveness played little role at this range. Both calibers would tear right through each other’s thin armor, and the twin 23mm cannons could fire twice as many projectiles in the same time as Lazarev’s gun. Sergeant Bilikov’s skill as a gunner would decide their immediate fate.

  Lazarev spotted the first Ukrainian vehicle as one of Bilikov’s salvos connected with its turret. Sparks and metal pieces erupted, followed by a premature detonation of a turret-mounted smoke grenade. Mission kill. One more to go.

  Multiple supersonic cracks passed overhead, forcing Lazarev to duck inside the vehicle. He turned in his seat to address the gunner when jagged holes punctured the far right side of the vehicle’s hull—shearing limbs and exploding body-armor-encased torsos. Blood sprayed the tight compartment, covering the hull with a thick layer of crimson gore. A second burst of 23mm projectiles struck just behind the gunner’s station, dismembering a young soldier firing his AK-74 through the forwardmost gun port. A few explosive rounds struck the turret’s hydraulic mechanism, adding a fine mist of hydraulic fluid to the panicked interior.

  Lazarev pulled the shell-shocked gunner forward, anticipating another burst of 23mm cannon fire from the Ukrainians. The vehicle jolted and swerved for a few seconds, without taking more hits. Frantic moans filled the armored personnel carrier as the wounded survivors recovered from the initial shock of the attack. There was nothing he could do for them right now, besides get Liberator Three One to safety. He pushed the gunner back into his seat and squeezed next to him.

  “Is the turret down?” asked Lazarev.

  The gunner gripped the controls and checked the digital targeting display, which appeared undamaged. When he tried to move the turret with the thumb switch, the hydraulic spray intensified, and the turret gears failed to turn.

  “Down hard, sir!” said the gunner.

  “Fuck!” said Lazarev, returning to the commander’s seat. They were out of the fight.

  He stuck his head out of the hatch and scanned for the Ukrainian BTR, finding it in flames on the highway between two of the battalion’s burning vehicles. Someone had saved them. But who? He didn’t see many surviving Russian BTRs. A quick count through the trees accounted for ten of his company’s vehicles; all destroyed. He needed to get them out of here. They were easy targets, even in the trees. He quickly assessed his options, coming to a grim realization. They had one option left, and it wasn’t a good one.

  “Hard left. We’re crossing the river,” said Lazarev, pulling his hatch shut.

  “What? We’re full of holes, sir?” asked the driver.

  Lazarev twisted the small wheel above his head, tightening the hatch’s seal.

  “Just do it,” said Lazarev, pressing the transmit switch. “Button up! We’re going into the water!”

  Bodies scrambled behind him, preparing the BTR for an unsure venture into the freezing waters of the Kalmius River. Lazarev examined the compartment, noting the location of the holes. Most of them would take water since the BTR rode extremely low in the water. All he could do was hope they didn’t take on enough water to capsize.

  “Submerging!” said the driver, moments before Lazarev was thrown against the metal dashboard.

  He felt a sudden drop when the BTR sank below the surface of the Kalmius. A bobbing motion quickly replaced the sensation as the vehicle settled on the surface and the rear-mounted propellers pushed them forward through the water. He said a small prayer for the engine, hoping that it didn’t choke on the backflow of water entering the topside exhaust vents.

  “We’re leaking!” screamed one of the soldiers behind him.

  Lazarev took a quick look, grimly noting several steady streams of water shooting across the compartment.

  “Sergeant, get back there and help them jam something in the holes. Anything!” he said, turning to the driver. “How fast are we going?”

  “Eight kilometers per hour. I think we’re fighting the current,” said the driver.

  The soldier was probably right. In addition to the bobbing motion, he felt the vehicle yaw left and right as the water rushed by. He didn’t remember if the river was ebbing or flowing, but he hoped it was flooding. He didn’t want to be pushed anywhere near the demolished bridge.

  Lazarev opened his hatch and checked on their progress. The vehicle drifted upriver, which meant it was a flood tide. Good news, even though it could take them more than a minute to ford the two-hundred-foot distance between riverbanks. Assuming they didn’t sink.

  He lifted himself out of the vehicle, taking a seat on the hatch’s lip. From his vantage point, he searched the trees for surviving BTRs. A smoke trail caught his attention, flying erratically over the barren trees and slamming into the water less than five meters from the left side of the vehicle. A cold spray blanketed the front of the BTR, dousing him with freezing water. Someone had fired one of the Javelins in direct-attack mode, which meant they couldn’t lock onto the vehicle’s mostly submerged infrared signature.

  Unguided rocket munitions poured out of the tree line, skipping off the water or detonating harmlessly under the surface. Lazarev checked again for Russian vehicles before shutting the hatch and sealing it. The river’s waterline had risen significantly against the BTR’s armor in the short period of time he’d been topside. He pushed the latch to open the front windshield’s blast screen, noting that a thin line of water covered the very bottom of the window. His driver glanced through the window, sharing a doubtful look.

  “It’s going to be close,” said Lazarev.

  “And wet,” added the driver. “Very wet.”

  “Let’s hope not,” said the lieutenant.

  They looked into the rear compartment at the same time, and Lazarev grimaced. Six inches of water sloshed around on the metal deck.

  “Get us to the other side. I don’t care if we lodge into the side like a torpedo. Tell me when the water is over the windshield,” said Lazarev.

  “Yes, sir,” said his driver.

  Lazarev planned to open at least one of the top hatches when the water climbed over the window, hoping to expedite the full flooding of the compartment. The concept went against all conventional logic, but the BTR’s hull was airtight when it wasn’t full of 23mm holes. Submerged with the hatches sealed, they wouldn’t be able to force the hatches open until water from the holes filled the compartment, equalizing the pressure. By that time, they’d be at the bottom of the Kalmius. He needed to get them as close as possible to the opposite side of the river before abandoning the BTR.

  He spent the next thirty seconds helping his soldiers plug the holes with wooden plugs supplied from the vehicle’s flooding kit. They sliced their hands on the jagged holes, struggling futilely to block the relentless flow of frigid water. Crouching in the rising bloodstained pool, Lazarev floated a headless body toward the front of the vehicle.

  “Lieutenant, the water’s over the window!” said his driver.

  He nodded at the driver before turning to the infantry sergeant next to him.

  “Tell your men to remove their body armor and helmets. We might have to swim ashore,” said Lazarev.

  The sergeant stared at him for a second before barking orders. Within moments, the five surviving soldiers started to rip the Velcro latches securing their body armor. Lazarev opened the centermost hatch, peering outside. They were less than sixty feet from the western bank, drifting rapidly upriver. He felt hopeful until he saw a thin film of water break over the top of the hull. We aren’t going to make it. They’d submerge too far from the river’s edge.<
br />
  “Sergeant, get your men topside! We’ll ride this thing as far as it takes us, then swim the rest of the way,” he said, wading through the water to get to his driver.

  “Dmitry,” said Lazarev, “open your hatch and gun the engine for the western shore. We’re going topside. I’ll pull you up when it’s time to jump.”

  “No. I can’t swim,” said the driver.

  “Dmitry, I’ll swim your ass to shore. Point this bitch west and gun it. I’ll be right back,” said Lazarev, returning to the rear compartment area.

  After he pushed the last soldier through the hatch, he scanned the interior for any wounded soldiers that could be moved—finding nothing but partially submerged bodies. Water poured over his head, warning him that it was time to go. Lazarev squeezed through the hatch as a one-foot wave of water washed over the BTR. The muddy water rushed through the opening, creating a hissing vortex of water over the hatch.

  He climbed over the turret, splashing to the deck next to the driver’s hatch. Already submerged below the waterline, water poured violently through the oval hole, obscuring the driver’s head. Lazarev dropped to his knees and reached both hands into the vehicle, grabbing his driver by his tactical vest. Coughing and spitting, Corporal Dmitry Kaparov surfaced from the whirlpool, squinting in the bright light. The lieutenant quickly removed Kaparov’s tactical vest, discarding the heavy body armor over the side of the vehicle. By the time he finished, the water tugged at their thighs, as the driverless vehicle lost its direction and turned with the current. Time to go.

  When Lazarev hit the water, clutching his driver, the cold knocked his breath away like a gut punch. He submerged two feet below the surface, momentarily wondering if it was worth the effort to kick for the surface. The excruciating cold squeezed his exposed head and hands in a painful embrace, adding to the hesitation. Kaparov’s muffled underwater screams brought him back from the dead, and he started frog kicking. He broke the surface seconds later, taking a frozen breath before pulling for the shore. The sinking BTR scraped against them, headed wherever the tidal flow commanded it. Lazarev and his men were at the mercy of the river—and his weakening limbs.