by James Rosone
Jackson smiled. He had used one of his battalions as bait the day before, and now the enemy was advancing right into his well-laid trap. “I knew they would go for it,” he thought.
“Excellent, Paul,” Jackson responded. “Send the order to the rest of the division. The enemy has taken the bait. Prepare for contact.” It was now a matter of letting things play out and adjusting to the enemy’s movements and countermoves.
*******
Captain Bennie McRae, captain of Charlie Company, yawned. He had just finished brushing his teeth, so he quickly spat the toothpaste residue out onto the ground in front of him. He reached over, grabbing his canteen. He took in some water, sloshing it around in his mouth before spitting it out as well on the ground as well. That task complete, it was time to do a quick shave before they moved out. McRae grabbed the portable electric shaver from his little toiletry bag and ran the vibrating blades across the stubble that had grown in during the last thirty hours. “This might be the last time I shave for the next couple of days,” he thought as he ran over the day’s plan of action in his head.
His battalion was going to be advancing to contact with the enemy. Once they ran into the opposing force, his battalion would conduct a fighting retreat, hopefully luring the enemy to the well-placed trap the division had set up.
“You ready to get moving, Sir?” inquired Captain McRae’s gunner, Sergeant Justin Spence.
Placing the last few items back in his bag, McRae looked up with a grin on his face. “Yup. Face is as soft as a baby’s butt,” he replied as he ran his hand across the now-stubble-free skin on his face.
Sergeant Spence shook his head, sporting a half smile. Then he placed his foot in the cable stirrup hanging from the bottom of the front ballistic skirt, reached for the metal handle welded to the top of the fender and pulled himself upon the hull of the tank. He climbed onto the turret, dropped down the loader's hatch, and moved to his gunner seat, which was positioned in front of the commander's position.
McRae did likewise, and less than a minute later had plopped down in the commander’s position in the tank. Reaching over, he grabbed his CVC helmet, placing it firmly on his head. He attached the communications cord to the vehicle’s communications system and then did a quick crew report check with his crew before reaching out to the other vehicles in his company.
“OK, guys. Let’s get this bad boy ready to go,” McRae announced. “It’s nearly time to roll out. Crew report!”
A few minutes went by as the individual crewmen ran through their various checks to make sure the targeting computer was up and running, the radios were set on the right frequencies for the day, and they had entered in the various navigational waypoints they’d be working off of for the next couple of days. Having completed their checks, all three crewmen reported ready, and it was time to get moving.
Changing to the company net, Captain McRae called out to his company, “This is Black Six to all Guidon elements. We’re moving out in three mikes. I want a wedge formation with Blue Platoon in the middle, Red Platoon on the right and White Platoon on the left in echelon formation. Acknowledge and send Redcon status.” he inquired of his platoon leaders.
“This is White One. Roger, Second Platoon is Redcon One,” said Sergeant First Class Mark Moore, who commanded Second Platoon.
“This is Blue One. Acknowledged, and we’re at Redcon One,” said Sergeant First Class Bobby Rickets, the sergeant in charge of Third Platoon, which consisted of the attached infantry platoon in the Bradleys. The Third Platoon also had the company artillery LNO, riding in his own fire support team vehicle, a Bradley Fist, which was why Captain McRae wanted them placed in the center of their formation.
“This is Red One. Red is Redcon One and ready to get some,” answered the young second lieutenant in command of First Platoon.
"Black Six, this is Black Five. We are Redcon One," reported his executive officer, First Lieutenant Charley Smith.
"Roger, Guidons, begin your movement," said Captain McRae.
In short order, his company team of tanks and Bradleys quickly formed a wedge and moved forward down the side of the P-258 highway toward the enemy. Intelligence said they were roughly sixty kilometers away, so they had a few minutes before they would run into each other. As his company of tanks and Bradleys continued to move toward the enemy, Captain McRae couldn’t help but think back to just five months ago.
His Minnesota Army National Guard unit, the 1st Combined Arms Battalion, 194th Armor had just completed an intense armor refresher course at Fort Benning, Georgia. One of their instructors, Major Joe Dukes, or “JD” as he preferred to be called, had been awarded the Medal of Honor. He often regaled them of tales of tank battles he had taken part of against the Russians; McRae couldn’t help but marvel at what this guy must have seen and lived through. What he’d said always carried a lot more weight than any of the other instructors, so at this moment, McRae had his words burned into his mind: “When in doubt, attack without mercy.”
As their tank rumbled down the field next to the two-lane road, his gunner keyed the intercom on his CVC helmet. “Captain McRae, you think your finance job at the dealership will still be there for you when we get back from the war?” he asked, trying to take their minds off the inevitable battle.
The mention of the car dealership immediately brought McRae back home. While in college, he’d worked part-time selling cars for a Chevy dealership in town. Once he’d finished his degree in finance, a position for assistant finance manager at the dealership had opened up. He had talked to the general manager about it and had been hired for the position. Three years later, he had been promoted to finance manager for the entire dealership and had personally been doing extremely well financially. He loved helping families and individuals acquire the financing to purchase the vehicle they either needed or dreamed of having. Of course, being gone and fighting in this war might have placed that position in jeopardy. Someone needed to fill in for him while he was gone, and the longer he was gone, the more the current managers might take a liking to that person over him. It concerned him, especially since he had four little kids to think about.
“I think they will, Spence. At least I hope they will,” said McRae. “I’ve worked with the general manager for eleven years and know the owner well. I send them a short note every now and then to remind them that I’m still alive and kicking. What about you? Is your boss still holding your job for you?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure they will. If they don’t, I’ll sue,” the gunner shot back, which brought some laughter from the others in the tank. Sergeant Justin Spence worked as a pharmaceutical rep for a large drug company. Judging by the Maserati he drove to drill weekends, he must have been pretty good at his job. He always picked up the tab when they’d go to a bar after training in Georgia.
Forty minutes went by as their tank rumbled through the prairie when they heard the first sounds of war. A jet engine roared overhead. “Whoa, what was that?” asked Specialist Gary Kostic, the loader.
“Probably just a jet on his way to attack the Indians,” replied Spence, trying to calm the young kid’s nerves. Specialist Gary Kostic was the newest member to their company, having arrived as a replacement roughly five weeks ago. The team wasn’t exactly coddling him, but they were trying to help ease the transition a bit.
Captain McRae opted to poke his head out of the tank to see if he could catch a glimpse at the aircraft that had just buzzed over them. He heard several jets: some were close, others far off in the distance. Looking to his right, he saw one aircraft explode in the air. That was the first time he had witnessed a fighter plane die, and while it was spectacular to look at, it suddenly sent a shiver down his back. “The enemy must be close,” he said under his breath.
A voice came over the battalion net. “All units, enemy planes in the vicinity. Expect enemy contact at anytime.”
Returning his gaze to the front, Captain McRae caught sight of the silhouette of an aircraft swooping up and o
ver him and several objects falling from beneath its wings, right toward his company of tanks. Reaching for the talk button on his headset, he yelled, “Guidons! Incoming bombs from enemy warplanes!”
He ducked into the tank, and the ground around his tank suddenly rocked hard from one explosion after another. McRae grabbed for anything that would help him stabilize himself as he prayed none of the bombs landed on him or any of his tankers or infantry.
Seconds later, Sergeant Spence yelled out, “Tanks to our front, 3,500 meters!”
Turning to look at the commander's sight extension, Captain McRae at once spotted a line of tanks deploying from a single-file line to a full battle line, just as they had been told a lot of the Russian-equipped militaries did with their T-72s. “Holy crap, that’s a lot of tanks!” he exclaimed.
He switched to the company net. “Guidons, enemy tanks to our front, 3,500 meters. I want all tanks to change formation and move to a line formation. We’re going to snipe at them while they advance. Engage when you see my tank fire!”
He turned his attention next to his FIST team. “Black Eight, this is Black Six. I need a fire mission. Get us some arty immediately!”
Captain McRae then switched back to the battalion net, sending a quick message to his commander letting him know what they were seeing and asking if it would be possible to get some air support.
“Captain those tanks are charging!” alerted Sergeant Spence. “They’re crossing 3,200 meters.” The turret turned slightly to the right as it tracked their first target.
Looking into the commander's sight, McRae saw the cluster of T-72s his gunner was tracking, and he picked out the one with the most antennas on it—it was probably the company or battalion commander's tank. “Gunner Sabot Tank!" he ordered.
"Identified!" exclaimed Sergeant Spence.
Specialist Kostic yelled, “Sabot up!”
"Fire!" screamed McRae.
"On the way!" shouted Sergeant Spence.
Boom!
The cannon fired, recoiling back inside the turret as the vehicle rocked back on the tank’s tracks. The spent aft cap of the sabot round clanged on the turret floor as the turret filled with sulfuric fumes after the round was fired.
McRae watched the round fly out from his tank, the flat trajectory crossing the distance in a couple of seconds, only to see the round sail right over the tank and hit the dirt harmlessly, right behind the tank.
“Crap! We missed,” he yelled. “Load Sabot. Spence, manually adjust for the speed of the enemy tank and lead it a bit.”
Now that he had led the way and fired the first shot, Captain McRae watched the rest of his company fire on the enemy. A couple of his fellow tankers also missed their targets, but many more found their marks. The turrets of some of the T-72s blew clean off from the sheer force of the Sabot rounds, slicing through their armor and setting off their own ammunition. He made a mental note to ensure that all his tanks do a complete boresight when time permitted, to avoid further misses in any future engagements.
“Sabot up!” shouted the loader as he pulled up the arming handle.
"Fire!" ordered McRae.
“On the way!” yelled Spence as he depressed the firing button again.
This time the round found its mark, and the tank they had originally aimed at took a direct hit. The enemy tank slowly came to a halt. Seconds later, the top hatch opened up, and as McRae watched the enemy soldier try to get out of the vehicle, it blew up. A flaming jet of fire shot through the enemy soldier and blasted past the turret, blazing at least ten feet in the air before the entire structure of the tank was ripped apart by another explosion.
“Good hit, Spence! New target identified. Load Sabot,” he bellowed.
While Captain McRae’s company was steadily picking off the attackers, their tanks received a series of enemy artillery rounds, indicating they had stayed still in one place for too long.
“Guidons, pop smoke and fall back two hundred meters,” he directed over the company net. They needed to obscure the enemy artillery observers and back out of their crosshairs.
Crump! Crump! Crump! Crump! Explosions continued to rock their area as pieces of shrapnel pinged off their armor shell.
"Doppler, back us out of this artillery," McRae said to his own driver as he toggled his own tank's smoke grenade launchers.
“Those tanks are now 3,100 meters. We’ll be in their range momentarily,” Spence yelled to be heard over the roar of enemy artillery going off around them.
“This is all happening too fast,” muttered McRae.
Looking through the commander's sight extension, Captain McRae found the next target just as he observed a series of their own artillery rounds landing amongst the enemy tanks. Some of the rounds scored hits, while others did not. Taking his eyes away from the commander's sight, he looked at Spence. “I need you to take over calling targets and engaging them. I have to start managing the company,” he said. Then he turned his attention his computer tracking system, which let him see an electronic overview of where his tanks were.
He needed to get a status on his platoons and find out how many of his tanks had been hit. In all the confusion, he had neglected his duty to make sure the other platoons were doing what they were supposed to do. As he made contact with his platoon leaders, he learned they had lost two tanks to that enemy air attack. One other tank was destroyed during the enemy artillery bombardment and one more damaged. He quickly got on the radio relaying the information back to battalion headquarters, once again requesting an air strike to hit the enemy force advancing on him. He also ordered his medics and first sergeant to evacuate as many of the wounded as they could. The dead would have to wait.
When Captain McRae was just about finished relaying the information to his battalion commander, his tank was jarred hard. He knocked his head against the commander's extension, causing him to momentarily see stars.
“It bounced off our armor,” someone yelled as McRae tried to regain his composure and continue to relay his report. It took a second for his mind to register what had just happened.
His battalion commander interrupted his fuzzy thoughts. “Charlie Six, I’m ordering your unit to withdraw to rally point Bravo now. You guys are about to be overrun. Fall back now!” he yelled.
Realizing his commander was right, McRae snapped out of his head fog and sent a message out to the rest of his company to fall back to rally point Bravo.
Their driver plugged in the coordinates, and they began a fighting retreat rearward. As they fought their way back, they would eventually cross the next line of American tanks as they continued to make their way further back in the intentional bulge in their lines they were letting the enemy carve out. Once the Indian forces had pushed their way deep into the bulge, the division would close the trap, and if the Americans were lucky, they’d destroy a large chunk of the Indian Army in Russia.
*******
Russian Far East
Mukhorshibir, Russian Steppe
General Jackson looked on in amazement as the tank battle continued to unfold on the digital monitor they had set up in his makeshift 4th Armored Division headquarters. His forward tank elements did a phenomenal job luring the enemy in. The Indian Army seemed to sense hesitation on the Americans’ part; once they saw a battalion of American tanks retreat, they must have assumed they had broken the Americans will to fight and now wanted to press their attack. They ordered one brigade after another into the ever-growing bulge in the American lines.
Five hours into the attack, it looked like the entire center of the American lines was in the process of falling apart. The division’s PSYOPS and signals intelligence group were sending out frantic calls for reinforcements, saying that the tanks were running out of ammunition and fuel. They did their best to spread general hysteria over the open net and frequencies they knew the Indian Army could intercept. This must have caused the enemy commanders to believe they were on the verge of an American collapse if they could just press the America
ns a little further.
Six hours into their offensive, the Indians sent in their third brigade of enemy tanks into the bulge, which had now expanded to fifteen miles deep.
Jackson turned to his air operations LNO. “I think it’s time we send you flyboys into the soup,” he said.
The LNO smiled. The Air Force had a couple squadrons of new tank busters they wanted to test on the Indian Army. He made a call to the airfield to release the hounds.
The Air Force had been terribly short on ground-attack aircraft since the commencement of the war, and there weren’t enough A-10 Warthogs to go around. The A-10s had also been taking some terrible losses in Europe and Asia, which were taking a long time to replace as older airframes were still being pulled out of mothball and made ready for combat. Searching for a stopgap, the Air Force had ordered 1,000 Beechcraft AT-6 Wolverine turboprop ground-attack planes.
The Wolverine was unique in that it was the first turboprop aircraft the Air Force would be using in combat since the Vietnam war. It had a large glass bubble canopy, which provided exceptional visibility for both the pilot and the weapons officer. Because it was a turboprop as opposed to a jet engine, it could land and take off on a much shorter runway. It could also operate on some pretty rugged airstrips, which made it highly suitable to the hostile environment of Siberia. Although the Wolverine was incredibly inexpensive in comparison to its jet counterparts, it still packed a lethal punch.
Once the Air Force had torn into the enemy tanks, it would then be time for the four battalions of tanks that General Jackson had lying in wait on the outer edges of his flank to move into position and prepare to close the trap.
For the next forty-five minutes, the brigade he had at the center of his line continued to fall back, giving ground to keep drawing the enemy in. Then the two squadrons of Wolverines swept in and began to hit the enemy positions. Each of the Wolverines had been armed with four Hellfire antitank missiles and antimateriel rocket pods. The 32 turboprop planes flew in fast, just above treetops, hitting the enemy’s frontal attack units with their Hellfires and then hammering the rear-echelon units with their rockets.
