Neither Denight nor Val had any delusions of retaking or holding the forward buildings. Russian dead littered the front gate area, but the OPs reported at least one fresh company forming in the woods, while the American garrison’s medics were patching up the wounded that flowed back. The best thing we can do is cost this guy time, Denight told himself. That seems to be what he doesn’t have a lot of, not with this frontal assault. And the best way to cover setting up the next line is to attack.
~*~
Under the cover of their supporting fires, the Hornets raised a ladder and went in the building’s third-floor windows. They worked each room methodically, insuring the top floor was clear before they went downstairs. Two floors below them, four nervous Special Security soldiers heard the clump of footsteps above and the blasts as grenades tumbled down the staircase. It was too much for the leaderless Russian privates. They carefully backed their way towards the front door, then bolted towards their own lines. They made it ten steps before they were cut down.
The assaulting Hornets continued their by-the-numbers clearing of the building. On the way, they stopped to check their three dead comrades who’d waited too long to move. The Hornets would find no enemy, and they would not know that the four Special Security soldiers who decided discretion was the better part of valor had fallen victims to a nervous Russian machine gunner.
Chapter Twelve
Infernesk Forest
In front of Dimonokov the slaughter he had come to see was indeed great. He sat in his vehicle on the shoulder of the main road, just over two hundred meters from the depot’s gate, but the haze from a dozen smoke grenades obscured his view. From inside the low-lying cloud occasional desultory shots rang out. To his left and right, a few machine guns sputtered lamely. In the woods his troops milled about, many wounded, most confused and leaderless, all shocked at the defeat they’d been handed. With his mind numbed from the confusion of battle and the cumulative effects of alcohol and chemicals, the Special Security commander could neither think nor act.
~*~
A thick depression settled in on Konstantin Stanev as he and his two soldiers covered the kilometer between the vehicle dismount point and the attack’s jump-off line. Now and then he heard a rifle shot or a machine gun burst, and to him these signaled the attack had carried forward.
Ravchuk and Volodymr were right, he thought sadly, his eyes staring at the ground. They have their place in history as heroes, and I have mine as useless, disgraced baggage.
“Captain,” said his radioman, pointing ahead. “There is Colonel Dimonokov.”
Stanev raised his eyes and saw not only Dimonokov’s vehicle, but the chaos around him. He took in the scene as he closed on the colonel’s command car, shocked both at the sight of the battered companies and at his leader. The folds of his bloated figure spilling over the edges of the vehicle’s seat, Dimonokov sat passively, even though his troops needed a leader to rally them. Stanev halted behind Dimonokov’s vehicle and soaked in the grim spectacle.
In the short space of a few minutes, Stanev passed from disbelief to pity, then to silent rage, and finally to a fatalistic determination. He felt a deep sense of professional tragedy that the disorganized Special Security soldiers’ finely honed skills were going to waste. He felt their disappointment and disillusionment, and he knew that only strong leadership would remedy those aches. He grew angry, grinding his teeth and convinced that had his skills been employed, had he been in charge, this tactical disaster might well not have happened. Then his anger cooled, and he saw opportunity in the situation. He reasoned that if he could set the units straight, if he could help them recover and fulfill the mission, then not only would he regain his standing in Dimonokov’s eyes, he would also validate his way of training, teaching, and caring for soldiers.
Ignoring Dimonokov, he beckoned to the soldiers accompanying him and set off towards the units in the woods. These soldiers desperately need someone to take charge, he told himself, and it appears that I am that someone. It took him almost an hour to bring some order out of the chaos. When he felt satisfied the reorganization was underway, he hiked back to Dimonokov.
At the radio next to him, Dimonokov’s operator was coaxing information out of Second Company. The company’s survivors were still scattered but were now under the command of a sergeant and making their way back to the main positions. There were no officers. Just inside the forest’s edges, Fifth Company and the remnants of First Company waited for orders.
Their soldiers moved forward, helping their comrades from the assault companies carry back the wounded. Several of First and Fifth Companies’ NCOs and officers were helping direct the evacuation efforts.
Dimonokov stirred from his waking coma to take them all to task for violating Special Security policy. Stanev touched him lightly on the arm. The colonel jerked to look at him. Dimonokov’s swollen face and rabid stare so startled Stanev that he took two steps back. For a few seconds the two stared each other down, and in those seconds Stanev decided that from that moment forward he would have to carefully blend forcefulness with diplomacy and obedience with initiative.
“Policy should be only a guide,” Stanev said. “We have the time to bring them back and it appears we have not yet accomplished our objective. Once they receive treatment, many will be useful in the final push.”
Dimonokov’s face reddened in growing anger, but Stanev raised his hand.
“You would inspire the troops to even greater efforts, Colonel, if you allow them to continue. And you will not allow their weakness to be an excuse for inaction.”
The dual-edged appeal seemed to have an effect on Dimonokov, who also seemed to accept Stanev’s self-advancement.
“See to it that the wounded are tended to, as long as it does not interfere with the operation. The units must be reorganized immediately. Have a call placed to the School, I want the regiment, the entire current class—with all their trainers, all of them—transported here immediately. What is your unit’s status?”
“Continuing its assigned mission,” Stanev said, thinking that in the same call he would also have the School’s physicians brought up. He was unaware that due to the effects of Dimonokov’s genetic and chemical tampering, most wounds would prove fatal.
Dimonokov shook his head. “I am changing their mission. They will participate in the next attack. Prepare a plan for another attack. I wish it to commence within three hours.”
“That is very little time for either planning or reorganizing, Colonel.”
“You should need very little time to determine the best methods to evict the American bitches from their buildings. You will see to it that the time is sufficient.”
Dimonokov finished and seemed to lapse back into his trance. Stanev saluted and started to move off, but Dimonokov began again.
“However, I do not wish to travel the same ground again. We have offered these women an opportunity to come to combat on honest, reasonable terms. I will be reasonable, I will allow for their weakness, no longer. In this next attack you will assign each company the task of expanding the footholds we have, and of eliminating as many of the whores inside as possible. Tonight, when the reinforcements from the school arrive, they will attack alongside your company and we will end this nonsense.” He leaned back in satisfaction. “Let the soldiers’ attacks tire the Americans’ bodies. I have a plan to defeat their minds.”
Infernesk Forest
Somebody has to report what’s happening, Wolfe told himself. Somebody has to direct traffic when reinforcements come in. That somebody is us. The logic and correctness of his words failed to console him. Wolfe hated being on the sidelines, and his inability to do anything but watch and wait was maddening.
“Looks like they knocked the shit out the Russians,” Wolfe’s observer said, rolling out of his prone position and sitting up. “That ought to teach them a thing or two.”
“That’s what I’m afraid of,” Wolfe said.
~*~
Stan
ev’s debriefings of the surviving assault company soldiers and leaders gave him critical information. The Americans were tied to the depot by the munitions inside it, and so he had little fear from an attempted breakout. Counterattacks were another matter, but while the Americans had shown their willingness to contain any of his forces that gained a major foothold inside the depot’s main area—and to punish them if they tried to expand those footholds—the defenders seemed reluctant to strike beyond the installation’s fenced borders.
Then, too, he reasoned, his company was now forward, digging into security positions along the wood’s edge, and the few stay-behind detachments who’d survived the morning’s botched charges continued to stand their ground and report. That they reported only glimpses of the Americans—ones and twos moving about—told him little.
So we have security, he thought, limited observation of the enemy, and jumping-off points for the next attack. Too easy, he told himself. Just like this morning. I will need to know more. He dismissed his runner and walked alone to think.
After several minutes, he shook his head at what he realized was a blinding flash of the obvious. So as long as we stay in the forest, he concluded, we are safe. As he made the checks that a good officer should make and looked into the eyes of the soldiers, the looks on the faces of both those wounded and those still whole told him that his understanding had come late. The Americans, he acknowledged bitterly, had gotten their message across well.
Safe in the woods, thought Stanev as he walked, with some time. The units are reorganizing, the sergeants are doing their business—I must do mine while we are still safe in the woods. Yes, he decided, several things must happen at once.
His purpose and vision—if not his exact plan of attack—clearer, Stanev hiked quickly back to his waiting runners and staff. To the companies he sent orders for their leaders—old and new—to assemble at a central location. He sent one runner to the meager field aid station, carrying the message that any officer or NCO who could walk or talk be brought to the operations section area.
To the three companies holding outposts inside the American compound, Stanev issued orders that those outposts be reinforced. His instructions, which he first wrote down and handed to the messengers, then had them read back to him three times, specified that the reinforcements were to cross the open areas—those separating the outposts from the main body in the forest—in random combinations of ones, twos, and threes. As his runners read back the orders, Steglyr overheard. He waited until the messengers departed, then the veteran Special Security operations sergeant approached the officer.
“I am concerned, Captain.”
Stanev turned. “What now concerns you so?”
“Sending men across open areas in small groups is a good way to get them killed. You know that the enemy will miss the first man, but that man will attract attention. The enemy will be waiting for the second or third. In cityfighting it is wise to cross open areas quickly, and in a group.”
“Steglyr, you are correct as always. But I need to reinforce the outposts, and not only must I not telegraph to the Americans which way our next attack is coming, I must have information. I must know which routes they are watching the most closely...”
“And so the troops will learn by dying. There are other ways of conducting reconnaissance.”
“Not in the time allocated.” Stanev was surprised that he could say so without regret.
“Success in urban combat may take hours or days. Failure takes only a few moments.”
“We do not have days. We have only a few hours. The leaders will arrive soon; we must take what time we have to learn all we can about the Americans’ methods.”
Steglyr knit his brow. “You intend to conduct instruction in the middle of a war?”
From the direction of the depot, sounds of rifle fire floated through the forest. Stanev and Steglyr turned their heads towards the noise. Even though the trees muffled the weapons’ retorts, the two could tell that only American M16s were firing. In his mind’s eye Stanev saw the bullets strike and Russian soldiers fall. Slowly, he turned back to his operations sergeant.
“We must not only conduct a class, we must conduct it well. You will debrief the first group to arrive. I will take the second. Then we shall combine the groups, compare notes, and I will issue the attack orders. We must learn all we can in the time we have.” He gestured solemnly toward the depot. “I do not wish to use this method again.”
Infernesk Munitions Depot
The Hornets sat in a semi-circle around the blocks of wood Claire Horowitz had arranged to look like the buildings surrounding the main gate. Small, green plastic toy soldiers marked the support positions, while colored yarn traced the Hornets’ morning route and outlined the enemy location.
“…And once the assault element went in, Corporal Demiliozak,” Horowitz asked, “what did your machine gun team do?”
Sergeant Major Denight was also concerned about lessons learned from the morning’s combat. Unable to pull all the leaders and soldiers in for a group after-action review—they still needed to maintain security and keep the Russians under observation—he organized what he could. As Denight stood outside the circle, watching Horowitz conduct the debriefing, he knew he had little to worry about as far as the Hornets were concerned. By the time he’d returned from making his rounds to the other sections, Horowitz had redistributed ammunition, had her soldiers refill their canteens, reorganized the squads to cover the absences caused by the wounded, and supervised a quick cleaning of the counterattack force’s weapons. Now she conducted the action review as though she were a veteran of five wars, instead of just three skirmishes.
“They went in, and we lifted fire,” Corporal Toni Demiliozak replied. “The assault element masked our fire, so we shut down.”
“Right answer not to shoot them in the back, TD,” Horowitz said, using Demiliozak’s nickname. “But incomplete. What happened next? What was missing?”
She got a circle full of blank stares.
“Who could see the assault element best?”
“We could,” answered Demiliozak. “We had to be in the best position to see them—we had to cover them going in.”
“Who else besides you knew that the assault element had masked your fires? Who else knew they’d made it okay?”
“Uh...”
“That’s what I’m driving at. Once the assault element went in, the support should have done what?”
“But we did do what we were supposed to, Sergeant Horowitz. We searched for other targets, reported to you, then got ready to move.”
“You sure did. How long after the assault element masked your fire did you do so?”
“I dunno.”
“I do. Three minutes.”
“That’s not very long, sergeant.”
“You mean you sat on your butt for three minutes while we were inside that building all alone?” Pfc. Susan Glick challenged from the other side of the circle. “I thought for sure you were coming up to support our asses!”
Some of the other members of the assault element muttered. Denight smiled. So did Claire Horowitz.
“At ease,” Claire said. “Corporal Demiliozak, I rest my case.”
“She was sure as hell resting hers,” someone piped up.
Demiliozak reddened.
“Enough,” Claire ordered. “We’re here to learn so that we can survive. Nobody’s perfect, and in fact you people are pretty damn good. Demiliozak, and all of you,” Claire swept her hand around the circle, “need to stay alert all the time. It’s not over once you stop shooting, you’ve got to see it through to the end, complete all the tasks—pass info back and forth, get ready for the next mission, think about what’s going to happen next and what the women on your left and right need. Just like we all did after we pulled back, you have to do in your own teams. You know what we did and what the M60 team should have done—what else did the teams not do that we need to do next time?”
“‘Next t
ime’, sergeant? We kicked ‘em right in the nuts—you think they’re coming back?”
Somewhere near the edge of the depot two Russian soldiers dashed to reinforce one of the Special Security’s forward position. From an attic firing position a Watchdog sniper squeezed off four rounds. An overwatching Russian machinegun spat a half-dozen bullets at the sniper. Horowitz and her soldiers froze, their ears straining beyond the building’s walls. An American M203 gunner pumped two grenades at the machine gun’s likely position. The soldiers relaxed, the tension off since their gunner seemed to have had the last word. The sound of rifle fire, all of it Russian, made them jump. Then once again all was still.
“They’re coming back,” said Horowitz.
Infernesk Forest
His after-action review completed and his orders issued, Stanev looked at the faces of the Special Security leaders gathered around him, down at his notebook, then again at the soldiers in the ragged semi-circle. Most were senior sergeants who had become their units’ leaders after their officers went down. And most were dirty, their clothes stained with sweat and blood from the morning’s battles. Some still wore the clean, razor-creased uniforms marking them as NCOs from the school. Fresh off the bus with the replacements, they had been pressed into leadership positions when there were no more officers or sergeants.
The Americans seemed to single out officers for attention, Stanev noted from the survivors’ reports, aiming their rifle grenades at the leaders’ positions in the attack formations. Stanev nodded; it made sense from what he had been taught. The American sharpshooters also picked out for special attention those who seemed to be in charge. There were many other notes and lessons that came out during Stanev’s debriefing. Frontal assaults, especially without covering fire and against a seemingly easy target, led to heavy casualties. None of these observations surprised him.
The Best Defense Page 21
