by Walt Gragg
Goodman and Wilson sat waiting in an idling Humvee.
“Come on, Rios,” Goodman said. “The 82nd Airborne’s going to relieve us for a while. Let’s grab some food and get a little sleep while we’ve got the chance.”
“Yeah,” Wilson said. “Let’s go find out if the Russians got the mess hall.”
In a fog, Rios staggered over to the Humvee. The weary airman, numb in body, mind, and spirit, crawled into the backseat. Hot food and a soft bed were far more than he’d dreamed he’d ever see again. At least in this lifetime.
The Humvee headed toward the smoldering flight line. After hours of battling the intense fires that raged all over the base, the firefighting crews were letting the final ones burn themselves out.
Wilson leaped from the Humvee the moment they reached the mess hall. “Let’s go. I don’t care what they’ve got on the menu—I’m having two of everything.”
“Man, look at that,” Goodman said. He pointed to the bullet holes and burn marks on all the buildings in the area.
Rios stared at the smoking rubble down the street. A few hours earlier, a huge, four-story building had stood on the spot. “Goodman, our barracks is gone!”
“Christ, all our stuff was in there,” Goodman said. “What are we gonna do now?”
“This place sure got hit hard,” Wilson said. “How many planes did the driver tell you we lost?”
“I think he said thirty or forty on the ground and another sixty in this morning’s air battle,” Goodman said.
They threw open the mess-hall doors and entered. Inside the warm building, Rios stripped off his tattered gloves and parka. For the first time, he got a good look at the nasty burns on his forearms. The sudden warmth of the mess hall caused his frozen hands to ache. The heat began bringing each swollen finger back to life. Fourteen hours in the bitter weather, and the intense battle with the parachutists, had taken a severe toll on the young airman.
Wilson sauntered up to the chow line. With his M-4 slung over his shoulder, he looked every bit the savvy combat veteran. He surveyed the long row of steaming food.
“Give me a little of whatever you got. Then give me a whole lot more.”
While they ate, Wilson jabbered on about anything and everything. Goodman enjoyed the comfort of a full belly and the relief of being alive. He often pushed his ill-fitting glasses up on his nose, and occasionally added something to the conversation.
The significance of what he’d done this morning was slowly sinking into Rios’s muddled mind. He heard little of the conversation and said even less.
When the feast was over, Goodman looked up at the mess sergeant. “Hey, Sarge, our barracks burned down. Where can we find a place to sleep?”
“Hell, there are so many dead, all you have to do is go to any barracks and climb into whatever bunk you want. No one’s going to care.”
Wilson and Goodman picked up their M-4s. The trio wandered over to the nearest barracks. With the exception of a few soundly sleeping airmen, the building was deserted. Each picked out an inviting bunk. They pulled off their parkas and stripped off their boots. All three lay down on a soft mattress. In minutes, Rios was fast asleep.
• • •
At the same moment the 24th Infantry’s Bradleys and tanks, and the 82nd Airborne’s Humvees, drove through Ramstein’s main gate, five hundred miles east, the final regiment of the 103rd Parachute Division entered their transports. The cargo planes were soon heading down the Ukrainian base’s runways. In two hundred aircraft, twenty-four hundred men and four hundred combat vehicles headed into the late-afternoon sky. Their target was the American air base at Ramstein. Two MiGs flew on every transport’s wingtips to protect them from the enemy’s planes and air defenses.
The regiment’s soldiers had sat on their parachutes all day, eagerly waiting to join in the fight. Word had arrived in midafternoon. Ramstein still stood. The highest-priority target had been severely damaged. But it hadn’t been destroyed. The regiment’s orders were clear—eliminate the American air base at all cost. While they hooked up their static lines and prepared to jump, the parachutists were convinced they wouldn’t fail. All traces of the enemy base would be wiped from the face of the earth by the time an early moon rose into the night sky.
The regimental commander was completely unaware that the Americans had diverted a battalion of their best soldiers to protect the embattled fighter base.
While the parachutists flew across Germany, the American air forces were licking their deep wounds. Ramstein’s runways were still out. Nearly half the Patriot air-defense systems were nothing more than unrecognizable wreckage littering the scarred snows. This time, there was little organized resistance to challenge the Russian transports. A few fighters out of Lakenheath met the incoming threat. The escorting MiGs chased the F-35s off with minimal losses. A handful of air-defense missiles reached up from the surviving Patriots to snatch the plodding transports from the heavens. Yet for most of the regiment, the American defenses turned out to be little more than a minor irritant. Twenty-two hundred parachutists survived the perilous journey through the enemy skies. With dusk fast approaching, the final regiment’s parachutes cascaded down upon the broad fields of western Germany.
For the most part, the drop went well. The regiment’s losses were minimal. Over two thousand attackers rose from their drop zone northwest of the base. They hurried to their vehicles. In another hour, darkness would be full upon them. The time had come to wrap their powerful coils around Ramstein and swallow their vulnerable victim whole. Within minutes of the first parachutist’s feet touching the snows, the regiment moved toward the southeast with single-minded focus.
• • •
An air policeman rushed into the barracks. “Wake up! Wake up!” he yelled. “Another Russian unit just parachuted in. They’ll be here in a few minutes. Grab your rifles and return to your defensive positions.”
“Rios!” Wilson said. “Wake up! The Russians are about to attack again!”
Rios was more asleep than awake. The half-light of the onrushing night confused him. “What time is it?”
“Almost four.”
“How long was I asleep?”
“I don’t know. About twenty minutes, I guess. Who cares? The Russians have returned. They’re getting ready to attack. We’ve been ordered back to the fence.”
With rifle in hand, Goodman walked up to Rios’s bunk. “Come on, Rios, let’s go. The Humvee’s waiting.”
Rios reluctantly raised himself to a sitting position. He swung his feet over the side of the bed. The dazed airman reached down and slowly started putting on his boots.
“Come on, Rios, hurry it up!” Goodman said.
Wilson and Goodman ran down the hallway and out the door.
• • •
The wind whistled through the Humvee while they raced toward the eastern fence.
“Russians parachuted in northwest of here this time,” their air-police driver said. “The base commander says that after all the planes they destroyed this morning, we can’t afford any more losses. The 82nd Airborne’s going to head out and hit them as far away from here as they can.”
“What about us?” Goodman asked.
“You guys are going back to the same spot on the fence line. We’ve rebuilt all the bunkers along the eastern fence. We’re sending out more airmen to man them. There should be four replacements waiting at your bunker when you get there.”
And there were. The four were standing by the bunker as the Humvee neared. The moment they spotted the Humvee approaching, the burgundy berets who’d relieved them earlier raced off in their vehicle to join their battalion.
The parachutists were seven miles from the base and moving fast. Four A-10s churned down the first of the hastily patched runways. They took to the air. The Warthogs were intent on slowing the Russians long enough for the 82nd to form up
and attack. For the moment, they would keep a handful of the 24th Infantry’s Bradleys in reserve to protect the base against any enemy force that was lucky enough to breach the savage American assault.
The Russian regiment was exceptionally powerful. But the confident Americans were building a force that was more than a match for their opponent. This would be another Kaiserslautern. The Americans were comfortable that they’d win. And win decisively. Their goal was to crush the Russians as many miles from the base as they possibly could. After this morning’s attack, Ramstein couldn’t afford to suffer any additional harm.
It was all a matter of time. A race to see if the American battalion could intercept their counterparts soon enough to spare the base from further damage.
• • •
The four new airmen huddled near the main bunker.
“All right, you guys,” Rios said, “one grenade could get you all. Two of you grab your rifles and take that bunker over there.”
Two airmen ran to the bunker on the left.
“You two, down there.”
The airmen raced to the right.
“Home at last,” Wilson said.
His cheeks were flush from the sting of the crisp winter air. As the sun started to fade, the temperature was steadily plummeting. It was going to be a viciously cold night. But Wilson wasn’t going to let the enemy or the weather change his outlook. His belly was full. And as long as that was the case, a few more Russians coming to kill them weren’t going to spoil his mood.
“Aw, shut up, Wilson,” Goodman said.
Arturo Rios reluctantly slid into his sandbagged world. He settled in behind the all-too-familiar machine gun. His desperate need for sleep clung to the corners of his weary eyes and tugged at his tortured brain. One thing he knew for certain: if he had to kill thirty-three more Russians to get a good night’s sleep, he was going to do so.
CHAPTER 39
January 29—4:10 p.m.
On the Eastern Fence
Ramstein Air Base
The self-assured parachutists raced toward Ramstein. They were certain a great victory would soon be theirs. There’d be no feint this time. The regiment would concentrate its strike at a single point—the northern gate. They’d hit it with an immense blow so intense that the battered air base couldn’t possibly withstand. To do so, the oncoming column was closely bunched.
The Warthogs rushed out to greet them.
At the same moment the initial 82nd Airborne company roared out the northern gate, the thunder and lightning of the A-10s struck the Russian column. The 24th Infantry’s armor was right behind. At top speed, nearly thirty Bradleys and the eight M-1 Abrams tanks joined the Humvees as they sped across the windswept landscape toward the enemy. With the open ground in front of them, the Americans could clearly see the A-10s’ assault five miles away.
As cannon shells poured from the Warthogs’ noses, the leading BMDs burst into flames. New trails of suffocating smoke wafted into the hazy skies near Ramstein.
Another bloody battle for the battered air base had begun.
On the A-10 flight’s first fierce pass, fourteen pieces of Russian armor fell. Eighty-three parachutists perished in a few fleeting seconds. In response, the Russians hurled malice into the skies at the little killer aircraft. The third Warthog in the formation spiraled out of control beneath the mortal blow of a striking air-defense missile. Its flaming fuselage plunged toward the unforgiving ground.
Another airborne company hurried out the northern gate. With their Humvees spewing snow, they hastened toward the steadily expanding battle. The Russians came on. The smoldering American air base was in sight. The A-10s attacked again. Lethal ordnance poured down upon the steadfast parachutists. And still more air-defense missiles were sent into the darkening heavens to greet the stubborn Warthogs. A horrific end reached up to claim a second A-10 pilot.
The final two companies of burgundy-bereted soldiers rushed out the western gate in their Humvees. The battalion’s plan was to ensnare the parachute regiment between the two formations. Once within the Americans’ mighty grasp, the slaughter would commence. To the last man, the enemy would be systematically destroyed.
The Bradleys and M-1s pinched in toward the parachutists’ column. They would hit the enemy head-on. Eighty Humvees were right with them. The American trap was about to be sprung.
The Russians spotted the overwhelming force heading toward them across the frozen landscape. The regimental commander had no idea from where the enemy had come. But he instantly recognized that he would likely be outgunned by the daunting American weapons. The enemy armor, with so many Humvees in support, would decimate his regiment. In minutes, they’d all be dead if he didn’t do something. Even as his men struggled to fend off the persistent A-10s’ attacks, he issued new orders to them.
He picked up the microphone in his command BMD. “M-1s, Bradleys, and Humvees approaching from Ramstein’s northern and western gates. Implement alternative plan C. Say again—implement alternative plan C.”
The parachutists instantly responded to his directive. One hundred and fifty vehicles spread out across the open ground. In a wide, straight line, they surged forward. They’d make a suicide attack on the Americans to tie them up. Behind the attacking line, the remaining vehicles split. Nearly one hundred turned south. An identical force swung to the east. Both groups sprinted across the white fields at breakneck speed. Six miles away lay the protection of the heavy woods on the far ends of the sprawling air base. As the identical columns raced for safety, every two miles, five Russian vehicles turned back toward the enemy to protect their comrades’ escape. The regiment’s absolute precision was a thing of beauty to behold. They realized they were in deep trouble. But they also knew they could still win the battle if the fleeing columns could outflank the Americans and reach the thick forests surrounding the far sides of their objective. Once into the trees, the parachutists would wait for nightfall. In an hour, the world around them would turn pitch-black. They’d then assault the eastern and southern fences on foot.
Rather than destroying the air base with brute force, they’d become saboteurs. They’d arrived at Ramstein as ruthless bullies. Now, they’d changed into thieves in the night. Stealth, not power, would win the day for the Russians. Despite their tenuous position, their mission wasn’t yet lost.
The Americans raced toward the screening line of armored vehicles. The widely spaced Russians came straight for them. None of the onrushing parachutists could be allowed to penetrate their defenses and gain access to the base. Behind the oncoming line, the Americans could see the other columns escaping in both directions. Even so, the burgundy berets had no other choice. They’d first have to deal with the immediate threat provided by the approaching attackers. Only then could they turn their attention toward the significant groups racing east and south.
The regiment’s strongest elements, the fierce BMDs, were in the attacking force. The two opposing lines roared forward. Second by second, the deadly foes approached each other until less than a quarter mile remained between them. The Russians suddenly stopped. Each BMD began discharging its five infantrymen to support their attack.
“They’re preparing to fire their missiles and main guns,” the American battalion commander said. “Halt, release your TOWs, then charge the sons a bitches. Don’t let a single one escape.”
The M-1s, Bradleys, and Humvees screamed to a stop. Despite the clear threat, the Russians ignored the combat vehicles directly in front of them. Instead, they aimed at the weaker side armor on the Bradleys to their north and south. Missiles flew across the snows in both directions. The Bradleys’ and Humvees’ TOWs, and the BMDs’ Bastions, spun through the rapidly closing darkness. Bushmaster cannon fire, M-1 cannon shells, and searching Russian armaments carried their lethal warheads through the frost-tinged twilight. Machine guns spewed death in every direction. Scores of vehicles on both sides
exploded at nearly the same instant. The violence overwhelmed them all. It carried to the far corners of the battered base and well beyond. A startled Rios turned toward the earth-shattering sound. He watched as countless new fires grabbed at the blackening heavens.
The pair of A-10s swung in behind the enemy. They tore at the rear of the Russian line. The monstrous M-1s fired cannon shell after cannon shell. They churned toward the enemy. Both their online TOWs fired, the surviving Bradleys lunged forward, determined to eliminate the direct threat to the air base. The Humvees were right with them, firing their machine guns as they went. There was no time to waste. The Bradleys would reload their TOW firing tubes on the run. They clawed at their foe with their Bushmasters. A life-taking curtain of piercing cannon fire and whizzing bullets ripped through the battlefield and tore into the BMDs’ thin armor. It felled the Russian soldiers on the merciless ground in countless numbers. The parachutists futilely tried to answer back. But it was no use. The BMDs crumpled beneath the powerful American assault. The Russian line faltered.
In five minutes of sheer terror, 150 attacking vehicles were reduced by two-thirds. The remaining fifty fought on. It wouldn’t be long before the entire parachutists’ line was annihilated. The American battalion commander began preparing to hunt down the enemy columns disappearing in the east and south.
The fleeing Russians were three miles nearer to the woods than they’d been five minutes earlier.
After seven minutes of battle, only eleven of the attacking parachutists’ vehicles survived. Still, the eleven continued to fight. Their refusal to surrender bought further seconds of precious time for their comrades.
The beckoning woods were a mile closer.
