by Walt Gragg
Behind the tanks, five BMPs slithered to a stop. Each began discharging its infantry.
“Tony, get ready! Looks like they’re going to rush us again.”
One of the surviving Russian soldiers on the right chose that moment to race forward and wrestle an antitank missile from the clenched hands of his dead comrade. Richardson’s attention was focused on the armored force building on the other side of the glen. The infantryman’s movements went unnoticed. The soldier dove into the snows. He grabbed the missile, raised it to his shoulder, and fired.
The missile slammed into the logs in front of the M-1. A powerful explosion ripped at the protective fortification at the base of the Abrams. The thunder of the detonating ordnance echoed throughout the tank.
The Russians instantly recognized the unexpected opportunity. All three tanks fired. Around the Americans, the world erupted as the T-72s’ massive shells slammed home. The earth heaved and sighed beneath them. It threatened to swallow the beleaguered defenders whole. The forest behind them was ripped and shredded. Inside the Abrams, horrific sounds tore at their eardrums. The tankers screamed until every last ounce of air was expelled from their lungs. Deep within its earthen womb, the American tank somehow survived the intense assault.
With Richardson’s crew pinned down, the T-72s roared out of the trees. They rushed forward to destroy the rattled Americans. Behind the steel giants, thirty-five soldiers raced across the snows. Having disgorged their infantrymen, the BMPs entered the meadow fifty yards behind the tanks.
“Everybody all right?” Richardson asked.
“Yeah,” was the response from the driver’s compartment.
“I guess so,” Warrick said.
“I’m okay,” Vincent added.
Richardson peered at the meadow. The Russians were speeding across the bloody ground.
“Oh, shit! Tony, they’re right on top of us!”
Richardson opened fire on the charging infantry. Death’s leering face entered the morose scene once again. His machine gun cut down one after another of the running foot soldiers.
His senses partially restored, Warrick took aim at the middle T-72 as it rumbled across the open ground. At this close range, the M-1 wouldn’t miss.
Warrick fired at the gray tank coming at him from two hundred yards away. “Whoosh!” the M-1’s main gun screamed. The T-72’s turret was sheared off by the powerful blow. The tank exploded. The Russian crew’s death was immediate. And appalling.
Vincent hurried to load another round.
Richardson’s machine gun continued to chatter away. Its power fell upon the enemy soldiers, filling the hideous midnight battle with further suffering.
Two BMPs found a clear lane. They fired Spandrel missiles at the American fortification. One went just high, barely missing the top of the tank. It ripped into the dense forest behind the M-1. The other hit the dirt mound scarcely two feet below the tank’s turret. The missile brought all the horrors of hell down upon the floundering tankers. Once more, the earth around them shook and trembled. Sounding thunder reverberated throughout the enclosed space. The Americans inside the tank instinctively dove for cover.
The missile tore at the thinner layer of logs and dirt at the top of the embankment. High explosives clawed at the heavy armor on the front of the M-1. The plating held fast. It resisted the near miss and protected the embattled crew. Large metal fragments from the exploding missile reached out for the American tank. The fragments tore at the Abrams’s turret. Still, the daunting armor didn’t yield. Had they been in one of the inferior Russian tanks, they’d all be dead by now.
The missile’s fierce impact knocked the tanker’s helmet from Richardson’s head. The helmetless figure was slammed against the sophisticated equipment in the commander’s station. A three-inch gash opened in the center of his forehead. Blood gushed from the new wound. It washed down his nose and tore at the sides of his face. Dazed and disoriented, he struggled to gather his wits. Through unfocused eyes, he fought to regain control of his fragile world. He sensed the overpowering presence of death reaching out to crush him. The grappling sergeant swiped his sleeve across his battered face. Thick red ran down his jacket.
Richardson blinked rapidly, desperately trying to clear his vision. Through the red haze, he peered toward the killing ground. His machine gun, which served the dual purpose of defending against ground forces and acting as the tank’s primary antiaircraft gun, had been destroyed. Shredded pieces of the gun hung from the tank’s turret.
“Shit! My gun is gone.”
He glanced to the left. The loader’s machine gun had also been destroyed.
“Vincent’s gun’s gone, too!”
“What about the main gun?” Warrick asked. “Can you see if it’s damaged?”
Richardson blinked again and again. “It looks okay from here. I can’t tell for sure.” The T-72s and BMPs were bearing down on their position. “We don’t have any choice. We’re going to be dead if we don’t do something. Damaged or not, fire the damn thing.”
Warrick targeted the tank on the right. The T-72 was barely a hundred yards away and closing fast. The Americans knew that if they fired a damaged main gun, the shell would blow up inside the tank. Finding its path blocked, the projectile would explode in the firing chamber. The tank’s crew would be hideously killed. It was quite possible that in the coming moments, the tankers were going to suffer a horrendous end from their own weapon. But at this point, they were out of options. In seconds, they’d be dead at their own hands or the hands of the Russians. It no longer mattered. If the main gun was damaged, they’d never know what hit them. Warrick swung the massive cannon toward the T-72. His mind went numb.
“Tony, don’t think about it, just fire,” Richardson said. “Might as well go down fighting.”
Warrick fired the cannon.
The shell tore from the undamaged barrel and roared toward the enemy. In a fraction of a second, the T-72 was engulfed in a raging inferno. Four foot soldiers had been using the mauled tank to shield them from Richardson’s machine-gun fire. The infantry were torn into a thousand pieces by the razor-sharp shards of molten metal that leaped from the defeated tank.
Warrick’s machine gun was out of ammunition. And both supporting machine guns had been destroyed. They still had a dozen cannon shells for the main gun. So they could continue to battle the opposing armor. But nothing remained in their arsenal with which to stop the infantry.
The game was nearly over.
Vincent slammed another eighty pounds of horror into the firing chamber.
The final Russian tank stopped at close range and prepared to fire. The T-72’s gunner had them in his sights. With the American machine guns silenced, two infantrymen knelt in the middle of the open field. They brought their antitank weapons up to their shoulders and took careful aim. A BMP’s Spandrel missile had the Abrams in its crosshairs. Helplessly, Richardson watched.
Tony Warrick swung the turret toward the remaining T-72. But the Russian had beaten him to the draw. Long before he could target the tank, he knew the enemy would fire.
It was too late to climb out and run. Ripe for revenge, scores of eager rifles would cut them down before any of their feet reached solid ground. They were trapped. Their lives were over.
Despite his rising panic, Warrick rapidly prepared to fire at the T-72. Maybe the Russian would somehow miss.
Richardson didn’t have any such luxury. With nothing to do but watch through blurry eyes, he braced for the end.
The Russian tank suddenly erupted. Caught in the open, it had been sliced in two by an Apache’s Hellfire missile. The tank’s ruptured workings spewed forth upon the frozen ground. The second Apache fired. A hail of rockets ripped into the BMPs. Three of the armored vehicles were chewed to pieces by the lethal fusillade. The BMPs’ smoking hulls moved no more. The remaining pair of Russian personnel carriers
hurriedly backed toward the protection of the woods. A Hellfire pounced upon the slower of the duo and devoured it. The second was fifty yards from the safety of the trees when a barrage of rockets fell upon it.
In a handful of flittering heartbeats, the Russian armor had been destroyed. The lethal Apaches’ chain guns started thundering mayhem upon the exposed infantry. In abject terror, the soldiers ran toward the evergreens. But the safety of the forest was much too far away. And none would escape the determined assault. In less than a minute, the slaughter was complete. The dead and dying were everywhere.
Three T-72s, five BMPs, and thirty-five foot soldiers had entered the meadow intent on destroying the last American tank. Not one had lived to tell about it.
The Apaches dropped into the trees to wait for anyone insane enough to enter the caustic glen. For twenty solemn minutes, Richardson’s crew sat in their ravaged hole, viewing the unholy scene in the meadow.
The radio suddenly came to life. The tension in the battalion radio operator’s voice was unmistakable. “This is Echo-Yankee-One. Urgent. To all units. Everyone except Sierra-Kilo-One-Two is to fall back immediately. Head for Highway 19. Once there, each crew is to make it on their own the fifty miles to Heilbronn. The battalion will re-form on the eastern end of that city. The artillery’s moved forward. They’re preparing to fire. The planes are in the air. Get as far away from the front lines as you can. ‘The Final Ace’ has been called for forty-five minutes from now. Repeat. Get away from the front lines immediately. Countdown for ‘The Final Ace’ has begun.”
“Echo-Yankee-One, this is Sierra-Kilo-One-Two,” Richardson said. “What about us?”
“Sierra-Kilo-One-Two, you’re to hold your position for ten minutes to allow the battalion to escape. Ten minutes, no more. Then get the hell out of there as fast as you can. Do you copy?”
“Roger, Echo-Yankee-One. We’ll try to hold on here. But be advised, all of our machine guns are out of commission. Only our main gun’s working.”
The radio operator conferred with the battalion commander. “Sierra-Kilo-One-Two, the Apaches will stay with you for the next ten minutes.”
“Roger, understood. With the Apaches in support, we’ll attempt to hold on here for the next ten minutes, then retreat to Heilbronn.”
“Roger, Sierra-Kilo-One-Two. We’ll see you there.”
From the small trails and thick woods for ten miles north and south of Highway 19, the ragged vestiges of the battered battalion scurried for an entrance onto the narrow highway. Retreating behind Richardson’s protective screen, each entered the winding road west.
• • •
Forty-five minutes from now, as part of their plan to stop the Russians and save Germany, the Americans were going to unleash their immense arsenal of tactical nuclear weapons. Without consulting with their German allies, the Americans were implementing a plan they’d developed nearly seventy years earlier at the direction of President John F. Kennedy.
For over six decades, the Americans had understood their only real chance of winning a ground war in Europe would be by escalating the conflict with the explosion of hundreds of small tactical nuclear devices. This was going to be America’s final grasp at changing the tide in a war they hadn’t been ready to fight.
Two days earlier, the Russians had severely increased the stakes by introducing nerve gas and a handful of nuclear weapons onto the perverse fields. Now it was the Americans turn to up the ante. They’d play the only card they had left if they were going to win the grievous conflict. They’d play their final ace. In forty-five minutes, the fires of an unspeakable hell man’s imagination was unwilling to address would rain down upon central Germany. The Americans were going to explode score after score of nuclear devices over an area one hundred miles long and twenty miles wide.
In forty-five minutes, two hundred thousand Russian soldiers were going to be consumed in a nuclear holocaust. Another two hundred thousand would find themselves piteously begging for death from the effects of the radiation poisoning seeping through their skin.
To have any chance of saving Germany, America was going to be forced to destroy it.
• • •
With the menacing Apaches lurking in the trees, Richardson’s tank crew waited to repel any further attackers. But none came. The Russians weren’t going to risk any additional charges into the meadow until their own air support arrived to deal with the deadly Apaches.
One by one, six hundred seconds torturously ticked past. Richardson kept a bloody eye on the cracked crystal of his watch. It slowly slid toward the moment when the final American tank would be allowed to retreat.
The instant the ten minutes were up, Richardson’s crew sprang into action. The last thing they wanted was to die beneath the destructive power of their own nuclear weapons. The tank crawled from the hole it had been sitting in for the past thirty hours. Jamie turned the Abrams and carefully picked his way through the evergreens until they reached the beckoning highway. Back on the slender ribbon of asphalt, the M-1 rushed west. It trailed far behind its fleeing comrades. As the last tank disappeared, the Apaches pirouetted and roared away.
There were thirty-five minutes before America would play its final card.
CHAPTER 56
February 1—12:25 a.m.
1st Platoon, Alpha Company, 2nd Battalion, 69th Armor, 3rd Heavy Brigade Combat Team, 3rd Infantry Division
On the Road to Heilbronn
The moment they were away, Richardson and Vincent popped their hatches and poked their heads out. Normally, the tankers would have settled in behind their machine guns and prepared to repulse any enemy infantry they might encounter. With both of their machine guns destroyed, however, neither loader nor tank commander could do anything but stare at the road ahead and pray that no Russians had yet infiltrated the highway to the west. As the tank rolled forward, the oppressive night’s brutal cold stabbed at Richardson’s gaping head wound. The cold was helping to slow the flow of blood. But even so, every few seconds the tank commander would take his sleeve and swipe at his eyes in a futile attempt to improve his vision. Until they were well away from the danger area, there would be no time to stop and tend to the wound.
Deep within the sheltering trees, the highway unpredictably twisted and turned. In the driver’s seat, Jamie Pierson fought the unfamiliar pavement and the onerous night. The tank’s broad tracks churned through the sinister forest. He understood that their lives depended upon getting as far away from the target area as they possibly could in the small amount of time remaining. Nevertheless, despite everything Pierson tried, he couldn’t maintain a speed above twenty miles per hour under these conditions.
They hadn’t traveled three miles when they stumbled upon the first group of Americans. Four soldiers had been hiding in a dense thicket near the roadway. They recognized the shape of the American tank. At the last possible moment, they rushed onto the asphalt. Pierson slammed on the brakes. The Abrams screeched to a halt inches from the group.
“Jesus!” Jamie screamed.
Even in the darkness, Richardson could make out the triangular shape of the 1st Armor Division patch on the soldiers’ left shoulders. He could also see that only two of the four had weapons.
“Christ, you guys have a death wish or something?” Richardson said. “Do you have any idea how close you just came to being roadkill? I’ve seen what happens when an M-1 runs over someone. It’s not a pretty sight.”
“Sorry, man,” one of the soldiers said. “We’ve been wandering around behind enemy lines for the past two days. When we saw you were Americans, we had to take the chance. We all figured it was better to get run over by an American tank than to stand in front of a Russian firing squad.”
“Look, I understand. But I’m not sure my driver will. You guys scared the crap out of him.”
It was apparent the ragtag group had been through a great deal.
“We’re the last tank out,” Richardson said. “And ‘The Final Ace’ has been called for this sector in less than half an hour. So we don’t exactly have time to stop and chat. Why don’t you guys pile on and let’s get the hell out of here while we still can.”
For the first time in two days, an exhausted smile appeared on the four filthy faces. Without another word, the soldiers scrambled onto the M-1’s wide hull. The tank lurched forward and headed west once more.
There were twenty-five minutes until the horrors of the nuclear attack.
• • •
In another winding mile, three more ghostly figures raced from the woods. They were added to the tank’s growing list of anxious hitchhikers. And seven minutes later, a group of six appeared from the darkness. Thirteen battle-weary soldiers clung to the broad tank while it rolled forward on the confining thread of asphalt. The top of the Abrams, in front of and behind Richardson, was rapidly filling.
Richardson’s crew wasn’t alone. All along the highway, the remnants of the battalion were scooping up loads of stragglers and rushing with them toward the west.
Fifteen fleeting minutes remained until the mass nuclear detonations. The fresh-faced tank commander knew they were still too close to the target area. But they’d ample time to avoid hell’s unforgiving fires. Even at this plodding pace, he was certain they’d add at least five additional miles to their flight before the first mushroom cloud erupted in the depraved night sky behind them.
High overhead, a circling F-35 spotted movement deep within the forest’s cover. The pilot’s instructions were to protect the retreating Americans from any Russian units giving chase. He’d been told his countrymen would be well clear of this area by now.
The F-35 had previously expended two missiles on an unsuspecting pair of MiG-29s. Its pilot decided to make his air-to-ground attack on the enemy vehicle with his armor-piercing, four-barrel Gatling gun. The fighter entered a teeth-rattling dive. The aircraft rushed straight toward the shadowy movement on the black highway below. As the Lightning II swooped in over the treetops, its cannon started to blaze. A long burst of gunfire spewed forth from beneath the F-35.
