by Walt Gragg
“This is your first time in Germany, isn’t it?” the thirty-year-old Fowler said.
“Yeah,” Paul answered. He wrapped his arms around himself in a symbolic attempt to stay warm.
The final battery vehicles exited the C-5s. Two ten-ton tractors pulling Patriot missile launchers eased in behind Fowler’s truck. A huge wrecker joined the end of the line. Identical convoys belonging to the other three batteries of the Texas battalion finished forming around them on the well-lit tarmac.
All sat waiting. Ninety-six noisy engines idled in the bitter cold. While they waited, Fowler continually pumped the gas pedal, revving his faltering truck.
A quarter mile away, a trio of commercial airliners were loading passengers. Twenty yards to Fowler’s left, the battalion commander and the battery commanders stood talking near the Bravo Battery column. The quick meeting broke up. Captain Allen, Charlie Battery commanding officer, walked to his Humvee. He said a few words to the first sergeant. The first sergeant got out of the Humvee. He marched down the line of vehicles tapping on the hoods and motioning for the drivers to get out of their trucks.
“Fowler, shut it down and head up to the command vehicle,” the first sergeant said as he passed by. “The battery commander wants to talk to all the drivers and officers.”
Fowler turned off the engine, shoved open the door, and climbed down. Head bent, he walked through the falling snows past the twenty battery vehicles in front of his own. Cold or not, it was exhilarating to get out and stretch his legs after twelve hours crammed in the noisy passenger compartment of a C-5. Two dozen drivers and a handful of officers crowded around the grim-looking captain. The fierce winds kicked up. The snows grew heavier. To see, the late-arriving Fowler was forced to peek over the top of a camouflaged shoulder.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Captain Allen said, “we hadn’t told you earlier, but just over an hour ago, the Russians attacked Germany. From what we’ve been able to find out, this is an all-out assault.” In the bitter cold, the battery commander’s breath was visible with every fateful word. “We’re involved in a war here. So far, the Russians have confined themselves to sabotage and a massive ground thrust into Germany. The battalion commander just received word that at this moment, the Russians are pushing through the border in a number of places. They’re beginning to drive west.”
Captain Allen paused. He needed to ensure his people grasped the seriousness of the situation. As he looked at their stunned faces, there was no doubt everyone understood. Each face stared into his in disbelief.
“The Warsaw Pact air forces haven’t been heard from yet. That, of course, is subject to change at any moment. A massive air attack is expected sometime in the next few hours and could occur at any time. For that reason, we’ll be moving out without delay.”
Thirty sets of eyes nervously scanned the low-hanging heavens.
“Here are the assignments the battalion commander handed out. Alpha Battery will go north to reinforce the 5th German Patriot Battalion at Munster. Bravo Battery stays in the middle of Germany to support the American 3rd Patriot Battalion at Giessen. Delta Battery is to remain here at Rhein-Main in reserve. Charlie Battery . . .” Everyone strained to hear their unit’s assignment.
“. . . everything south of Heidelberg. Our job’s to reinforce the American 6th Patriot Battalion. Alpha Battery, 6th Battalion’s Engagement Control Station is deadlined awaiting parts and is out of action for at least five days. We’ll be traveling to Stuttgart to take their place. Ladies and gentlemen, we’re going south.”
“Sir, how far south is Stuttgart?” someone asked.
“About one hundred miles straight down the autobahn,” Captain Allen said. “Here are the engagement-team assignments.” He glanced at the list he’d hastily prepared. “Lieutenant Miller and Staff Sergeant Magruder. Lieutenant Morgan, you and Sergeant Fowler will pair up. Lieutenant Little and Sergeant Owens. Should we need a fourth engagement-control team, Lieutenant Smithson and Staff Sergeant Cherno. Does everyone have that?” Captain Allen searched their faces. When there was no reply, he said, “Good. Get ready to pull out. We leave for Stuttgart immediately.”
The quick meeting broke up. The soldiers hurried back toward their vehicles. Lieutenant Barbara Morgan reached out and grabbed Fowler by the sleeve when they neared the rear of the convoy. Beneath her cap, her bobbed red hair was visible as it cradled her attractive neck. The ruddy-faced Fowler could see the freckles running unimpeded across the bridge of the pretty lieutenant’s nose.
At five feet seven, Fowler stood eye to eye with her. Although he’d never admit it, he had a tendency to overcompensate for his lack of height, especially when dealing with women.
“Sergeant Fowler.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Have you ever been to Germany?”
“Yes, ma’am. Before I went to Fort Bliss for Patriot training, I spent a couple of years in Ansbach.”
“Good. Then at least one of us will know what they’re doing.” She gave him a captivating smile. The sweet smile hid her growing apprehension.
Fowler scrambled back into his truck. The lieutenant climbed into the passenger seat of the Humvee in front of him. He felt good about drawing her as his partner. Working with her had always been easy. And they’d made quite an effective team at killing the enemy during the mock battles the battery had fought against the computers. He hoped their successes wouldn’t change now that the enemy could shoot back.
Besides, she was extremely easy on the eyes—an important thing for a newly divorced man to consider, even in the middle of a war.
There had already been some indications that Lieutenant Barbara Morgan held similar thoughts about the sergeant with whom she would share duty in the Engagement Control Station. After one too many drinks at last month’s battery Christmas party, they’d found themselves parked on a lonely desert road in the backseat of her car. An hour of alcohol-induced embraces had ended with fifteen minutes of heavy groping but no more.
Since then, she hadn’t been cool toward him. But neither had she given any sign that the relationship would go any further. For the past five weeks, she’d acted as if the Christmas party had never happened. She hadn’t been hostile, but she hadn’t been particularly friendly, either. For whatever reason, since Christmas she’d treated him in the professional manner officers had of dealing with NCOs.
Fraternization between officer and enlisted soldier was certainly more common than it had been. Nevertheless, it remained officially unacceptable behavior. As far as either knew, no one suspected there was anything between them. For that matter, at this moment neither of them knew themselves if there actually was.
All around them, the vehicles came to life. “All right, let’s roll,” Fowler said. He restarted his truck’s engine.
The three convoys crept toward Rhein-Main’s front gate. Fowler followed Lieutenant Morgan’s Humvee. Her Humvee followed a ten-ton tractor pulling a Patriot launcher and its four deadly missiles.
When they neared the gate, the bright lights on Rhein-Main’s tarmac suddenly went out. The lights inside the passenger terminal also were extinguished. Thousands of cramped men, women, and children were plunged into darkness.
A mile east of the air base, the north–south autobahn waited. Ahead of them, Alpha and Bravo Batteries turned left and headed north. Charlie Battery swung south onto the snow-covered autobahn. The six-lane roadway was deserted. For Fowler, not having to deal with the insanity of German drivers while trying to guide his truck in this horrendous weather was a relief in itself.
In Charlie Battery’s twenty-four-vehicle convoy, a dozen huge tractors pulled the launchers and replacement missiles. Using only the sliver of illumination provided by their blackout lights, they felt their way south at twenty-five miles per hour. The vehicles spaced themselves two hundred yards apart. The convoy’s drivers soon discovered that even at this snail’s
pace, there was no sure way of stopping in the snow and ice.
If a Russian air attack was imminent, they needed to get to Stuttgart as quickly as they could. They were sitting ducks as they chugged down the eerie autobahn. They understood that if the Russians caught them on the empty roadway, their lives would soon end. Spread out or not, a handful of determined MiGs could destroy the entire battery with relative ease. Nevertheless, with their massive loads, they couldn’t go any faster than they were.
It was better to make twenty-five miles an hour than to helplessly stand by the roadway while the wrecker fought to pull a ten-ton tractor out of a snowbank. Worse yet was the possibility of sliding a tractor into a ditch and watching as four missiles, each with two hundred pounds of high explosives in its nose, slid off your trailer and bounced along the ground.
Even a gentle touch of the brakes became an adventure. While they fought to cover the treacherous miles, more than one of the convoy’s drivers watched in terror as the trailer he was pulling passed in front of the tractor he was driving.
Ten minutes into their dangerous run, Fowler spoke his first words since beginning the journey. “Put a clip in my M-4.”
“What?”
“I said, put a clip in my M-4. And while you’re at it, put one in yours, too.”
“Why?”
“Because, my friend, you and I are at war. The Russians attacked over an hour ago.”
Without another word, Paul reached over and loaded thirty-round ammunition clips into the pair of M-4s sitting between them.
The relentless storm pelted the windshield. It overwhelmed the wipers, making it impossible for Fowler to see. He could neither locate Lieutenant Morgan’s Humvee in front of him nor the launcher that trailed two hundred yards behind. In the middle of the convoy, he drove on alone.
Fowler fought every inch of bleak roadway, doing all he could to keep his precious cargo safe. Without the Engagement Control Station nestled on the back of his truck, the trailerloads of deadly missiles would be worthless. He strained with the last of his fading strength, fighting the merciless elements with nothing but his blackout lights to guide him. Every few minutes, he would signal his companion to take a rag and swipe at the windows.
Jet lag sank deep into the canyons of Fowler’s weary mind. Exhaustion washed over him. He’d never been more miserable in his life. He tried with all his might to ignore the undeniable fact that in the past day and a half, he’d hardly slept. A couple of catnaps were all he found time for while his unit furiously prepared to rush to Germany. Now, at least, he understood the urgency.
Ever so slowly, the horrid miles slid past for Fowler and the convoy while they drove through the night toward an unknown destiny.
Inside the truck, Fowler’s thoughts were racing.
Outside, the world was strangely quiet.
CHAPTER 16
January 29—12:58 a.m.
On the Flight Line
Ramstein Air Base
With his parka pulled tightly around him, Airman First Class Arturo Rios drove a small tractor across the snow-covered tarmac. It was one of those little yellow tractors used around airports to take luggage out to the planes. But Rios wasn’t carrying luggage. Behind his tractor trailed a long line of two-thousand-pound bombs.
Twenty-year-old Arturo Rios worked as an armaments loader for a wing of F-16 Falcons. Mainly, he drove the yellow tractor back and forth to the ammunition-storage area in an isolated corner of the base. There, while the young airman sat daydreaming, a crew of loaders would prepare his lethal convoy. Rios would then carry death across the base to the flight line. At the flight line, others waited to take the bombs and attach them to the belly of an F-16.
It wasn’t a glamorous job. And if Rios ever made a mistake, it wasn’t going to be a job with any longevity.
Tired of his mundane life in Miami’s Little Cuba, Rios had joined the Air Force to see the world. In eight months in Germany, he hadn’t seen much of the world yet. But he’d seen the two miles between the ammunition dump and the flight line often.
For the young airman from balmy Miami, this first, frigid German winter was pure misery.
In the past few days, he’d noticed a marked increase in the activity on the base. There was a definite sense of urgency in the work on the flight line. But so far, no one had bothered to explain why. His hours in the blizzard’s bone-crippling cold had grown longer. And his trips to and fro with his lethal cargo had become nonstop.
Three squadrons of F-16s from South Carolina had arrived at Ramstein earlier in the day. Rios had spent the last five hours taking munitions to the South Carolina fighters.
Rios pulled up in front of a reinforced bunker where a South Carolina F-16 waited to receive the last two bombs from this tractorload. Master Sergeant Arnold, chief of the flight-line crew, spotted him. Arnold walked through the falling snow to where Rios sat in the open tractor.
“Rios, I’ve been looking for you. As soon as you drop off these bombs, you need to report to the base armory.”
“Why? What’s up?”
“I don’t know, but we got word a few minutes ago that all augmentation air police need to report to the armory. Your name was on the list. You did two months of augmentation training, right?”
“Yeah, back in September and October.”
“Well, then get over there as soon as you finish here.”
“Okay, Sarge.”
• • •
Fifteen minutes later, with his head down to shield his face as he trudged through the blowing gale, he started the lonely walk to the base armory. When Rios arrived, a madhouse greeted him. In rapid succession, people hurried in and out the doorway to the modest room that served as the base’s weapons-distribution center. Inside the dingy room, Rios passed a dozen airmen sitting cross-legged on the floor, furiously disassembling, cleaning, and reassembling boxloads of never-before-used M-4s. An air policeman in a wire-mesh cage motioned the bewildered airman over.
“Name?” the air policeman said.
“Arturo Rios.”
“Rios . . . Rios,” the air policeman said, while scanning a lengthy list on his clipboard. “Ah, here we are . . . Rios, Arturo J. Let me see your I.D. card.”
Rios dug into his pocket, withdrew his identification, and handed it through a small opening in the screen. After a cursory glance, the air policeman returned it.
“Okay, Rios, wait here while I get your equipment.”
The air policeman disappeared through a doorway into a weapons-storage area. In less than a minute, he returned with a large, heavy machine gun cradled in his arms. In each hand, the air policeman carried a metal ammunition container. He clumsily opened the door through the screen and brought out the machine gun and ammunition. He placed them in Rios’s arms. At over 125 pounds, the gun and its tripod weighed nearly as much as the slight airman.
“You’re checked out on .50 calibers, aren’t you?” the air policeman asked.
“Yeah, I spent two weeks on them during augmentation training.”
“Good. There’s a Humvee waiting outside. Go out there and tell the driver to take you to defensive position fourteen on the eastern perimeter of the base.”
“Why? What’s going on?” Rios asked.
“Man, didn’t you get the word? The Russians attacked the border over an hour ago. We’re expecting some kind of attack on Ramstein anytime now.”
• • •
Unlike the Army, which took the position that every soldier was an infantryman first and whatever else he was second, the Air Force’s approach was to concentrate on making their airmen proficient at the primary job they performed. Without the distractions his Army counterpart faced, an Air Force technician was hands down more proficient at performing the same tasks. The downside to such an approach was that should it ever come to ground combat, the airman, while not completely help
less, was nevertheless at a severe disadvantage.
The Air Force’s solution was to leave the primary combat role to the air police. The air police would be supplemented by the air base’s augmentation force, individuals who’d been released from their primary duties and given a period of combat training. Only in a dire emergency would the average Air Force technician be compelled to fight.
Army and Marine Corps Vietnam veterans were ripe with stories about Communist attacks on air bases. Inevitably, two little guys in black pajamas would sneak through the wire of an American air base and attempt to destroy an airplane or two. As soon as the fighting started, airmen from all over the base would race to the scene of the battle—with their cameras.
There was even a recorded case where a pair of malnourished figures attacked the world’s largest B-52 base. At the moment of the attack, there were five thousand airmen on the base. The base’s commanding general called a small Army camp five miles away for reinforcements.
As was typical of most air bases, on the evening of January 28, the M-4s of the thousands of Ramstein airmen were still sitting in their original grease and wrappings in unopened containers.
• • •
The Humvee stopped in front of a heavily sandbagged, horseshoe-shaped position on the isolated eastern end of the sprawling base. The bunker was directly in front of the air base’s primary runway. It was less than fifty feet from the chain-link and barbed-wire security fence. Thirty yards beyond the fence lay a dense woods. The air policeman helped lift the machine gun from the vehicle and assisted Rios in setting it up. The task completed, he shoved the metal ammunition containers into the airman’s hands. Without another word, the driver got back into his Humvee and disappeared into the blizzard.
Rios adjusted the machine gun’s positioning. Satisfied, he opened one of the containers. He removed an ammunition belt and placed it in the machine gun. The confused airman did a little housekeeping, brushing away the snow from the top of the sandbags. Then, all prepared for an attack, he sat wondering what else to do.
