Escalation

by Peter Nealen

  “As you can see,” Rybàr said, in English, “The enemy has most of the roads blockaded, but they have left large gaps to the north. This is by design.” He pointed to the road leading off the 499 to the northeast. “We have the routes to Sìpkovè heavily mined with artillery shells, anti-tank mines, and improvised bombs. They attempted to push in on us from that direction about eighteen hours ago, and took heavy casualties. When the militias fell back, French bomb disposal units attempted to clear the road, but we drove them off with mortars and sniper fire.”

  I was getting the picture. “So, that IED alley gives you a fallback route to the north,” I said. He nodded.

  “We have vehicle caches in Sìpkovè,” he said. “They are not military vehicles, but they should suffice when mixed in with our up-armored trucks and the handful of scout cars that we have here in Vrbovè.” He looked me in the eye.

  “This is the plan,” he said. “We will send more ammunition and Matador anti-tank rockets with you to take to the rest of your men. At…” he checked his watch, “0330, we will launch a diversionary attack on the cordon between Vrbovè and Stràže. We have sowed enough improvised explosives along that approach that any attempted counterattack should be severely slowed, if not stopped cold.

  “At the same time, I need your men to attack the checkpoint on the road leading toward Prašnik. We will do the same; if we attack along the road, and your men attack from the flank, up the hill, we should be able to catch them in an L-shape. We will have SA-18s and the mounted Browning M2s to keep any air attack at bay.

  “Once the checkpoint is broken, we can begin to move out to the north. We will link up on the road, and your men can load into the trucks.”

  “That’s assuming that they haven’t already reinforced that part of the cordon after we shot our way in through there, not to mention the IED that blew up that AMX,” Scott pointed out.

  “Of course,” Rybàr replied. “Which is why we are sending ten Matadors with you, along with more rifle and machinegun ammunition.” A faint, cold smile might have quirked his mouth beneath his mustache. “You will need it.”

  “I thought you said that you were running low on supplies,” I pointed out quietly. It was a risk, calling him out like this, but I’ll admit that I was nervous about this whole situation. And I’m no diplomat; that’s why I carry a rifle for a living.

  “We are,” he replied. “But mostly the rockets and mortar bombs that are keeping the enemy back. And the anti-air defenses that are keeping the sky a little clearer. We have plenty of small arms ammunition; we have not needed it just yet. But when they come with armor, we need to have left.”

  “And what about the townspeople?” Scott asked. “Are we taking all of them with us?”

  Rybàr didn’t look happy. “No,” he said. “We simply do not have the transport. But,” he continued, raising a hand to forestall any objection, “we are not simply going to leave them to the enemy. They will be leaving the town when we do, to scatter to the other towns nearby. It is no guarantee that they will not be targeted, especially by the black-asses. But it is the best we can do.”

  I just nodded. It was true enough. Someone else might have objected to Rybàr’s men making their stand in the town in the first place, as common as it had become in modern warfare. In my experience, it was often a case of using the local civilians as human shields.

  But that was usually in the case of fanatical insurgents fighting for some ideology. Communists and Islamists, mostly. If Rybàr and his men felt they were fighting for their country and their people against invaders on their soil, and given some of what had already happened at the hands of the militias and even the EDC in Slovakia, they may have fortified Vrbovè to try to defend the people there.

  I was sure that, even if that weren’t the case, Rybàr and Skalickỳ would insist that it was. And I had no way of knowing, one way or another. But the bitter truth is, when you’re in a crack like we were, you can’t afford to be too picky when it comes to allies.

  Just don’t make the mistake of trusting them too far.

  “We’ll load up and head out, then,” I said. “Though we may need some kind of diversion; they’re going to be on the alert now.”

  Skalickỳ had been getting agitated again, and spat something in Slovak. He was just being a dick at that point, because I knew he spoke perfectly good English.

  Rybàr turned to look at him and said something gruffly in the same language. But Skalickỳ didn’t seem deterred. He pointed at me.

  “How do we know?” he demanded, this time in English, apparently to make sure that we understood. “Once we provide their diversion, how do we know that they won’t simply run away? They are Americans. They’ve already sided with our enemies. ‘Peacekeeping!’ Agh!” He spat. “Keeping us under the ‘European’ boot under the guise of ‘keeping the peace’ that was already shattered by Berlin and Paris! Because how dare we take up arms to protect our country from foreign invaders and globalist extortionists!”

  I just gave him a heavy-lidded stare. “Seems to me like you’ve got that kind of backwards,” I said after a moment. “We came to you for help. I’d be a lot more worried about you lot letting us get stuck in and then running for it while we’re keeping the enemy busy.”

  “Yes, now you need our help,” Skalickỳ said acidly. “After your ‘allies’ turned on you. If not for that, you wouldn’t care about our people being raped and murdered by the black-asses. You would be right there on the cordon, watching while they do it, making sure no one escapes!”

  That pissed me off. I took a half a step toward him, my hand tightening on the pistol grip of my rifle. “Is that so, tough guy?” I demanded. “Remind me just why the EDC decided to sneak-attack the US peacekeepers here. Go on. Tell me.” He stared at me angrily, his lips tightly pressed together. “Oh, now the truth ain’t so convenient for your little narrative is it, fucker?” I stabbed a finger at him. “Americans stepped in to protect your people, and every American soldier in-country paid the price for it. Don’t you fucking forget that.”

  Rybàr had stood with his arms folded across his thick torso, watching and listening impassively, letting it play out. His eyes were unreadable, but before Skalickỳ could summon up another verbal salvo, he lifted a hand to forestall any more argument. “Matthew is right, Filip,” he said. “But there is another concern.” He looked me in the eye. “Coordination. While timing can accomplish a great deal, I think you understand, as I do, that the fog of battle can create problems when attempting to coordinate such an attack as we have planned here.” He shook his head. “One or two of you need to stay here, with me, so that we can be sure of communications between your people and mine.”

  While his tone was even and amiable, there was something in his eyes that made me wonder just how much he was telling the truth, and how much he was siding with Skalickỳ, and just wanted a hostage. Despite the, generally, noble stated goals of the Nationalists, they’d done dirt a few times in the last few months, which had eroded some of the sympathy for them among the US forces.

  Let’s just say that the “migrant” militias weren’t the only ones with the blood of women and children on their hands.

  But I had the lives of almost sixty Americans in my hands at that moment, and if making myself Rybàr’s hostage was what it took to get them out, then that was what I had to do. I didn’t like it. I really didn’t like it. I doubted that he was going to disarm me, but one man with a rifle surrounded by hundreds with rifles and machineguns wasn’t going to be much of a threat. If it came to it, I might take a few with me, but that would be the extent of it.

  Don’t get me wrong; if it came to it, I was definitely taking those few with me.

  “I’ll stay with you, then,” I said, as Scott looked at me sharply. He didn’t want to get into an argument in front of our newfound allies, but I knew that if we’d been in private, he would have asked me if I was out of my damned mind. Not unjustifiably, either, but desperate times call fo
r desperate measures.

  I turned to him, seeing the worry in his eyes. “Just make sure my ruck doesn’t get left behind,” I said. I checked my watch, then turned to Rybàr. “If we’re going to kick this pig at 0330, then I need to get my men moving back to the linkup site.” We had less than two hours.

  He just nodded. I jerked my head at Scott to precede me out the door. He watched me for a second, a faint frown on his face, but finally turned and left the room.

  I followed, though not without a last glance at Skalickỳ. There was no friendliness in his eyes. I made a mental note not to turn my back on Skalickỳ once the shooting started. Intel had picked up some faint whispers about Russian operatives in Slovakia, and if they’d gotten to Skalickỳ as thoroughly as it appeared, well. There was no love lost between Russia and the US in recent years, between clashes with Russian PMCs in Syria and Africa, and the consistent holding up of the Russian bogeyman as a political scapegoat for everything bad that happened Stateside for most of the last decade.

  No, I would be keeping a very close eye on Filip Skalickỳ.

  ***

  “This is fucking nuts, Matt,” Dwight growled. “You know he wants a hostage.”

  “Yeah,” I replied. I was leaning against the wall, mainly because I was tired enough that sitting down probably wasn’t the best idea right at the moment. Not that I would have passed out for long; I had enough stress and anxiety racing around inside my skull that I’d wake right up again. Nor would any of my guys necessarily take much notice; they were all just as tired, and we were all too old and too seasoned to worry all that much about private-level leadership examples. I still had to lead by example, but a moment’s weakness of the flesh, after all we’d been through, wasn’t going to suddenly lead to a complete breakdown in team discipline. Cats and dogs living together, mass hysteria.

  No, I was more concerned with the Nationalist fighters out in the hallway seeing it. My guys might forgive a moment’s fatigue. We couldn’t afford to let the Nationalists see any such display of weakness.

  “I know,” I continued. “And Rybàr knows that I know. But what other choice do we have? They could always side with Skalickỳ and tell us that we’re on our own. They might even be able to draw the EDC’s attention toward our position, just to give themselves an opening to break out. All it would take would be one armed drone in the right place.” I didn’t know that they had any, but it seemed like just about everybody going into combat, whether state or non-state, had more drones than anything else anymore. “Believe me, I don’t like it. I didn’t exactly like handing Scott my rifle and ‘surrendering’ to their outer security, either. But once again, what other choice do we have?”

  “We could just slip out and try to make it on our own,” Reuben said. “These guys ain’t angels, and if they’re already borderline hostile…”

  “We could,” I agreed. “But how much farther do you think some of Killian’s kids are going to make it on foot? Not to mention the wounded?”

  That gave everyone pause. Dwight grimaced behind his salt-and-pepper beard, which accounted for most of the hair on his head. “Not far,” he said.

  “Bitches are weak.” That was David, of course. Though he wasn’t wrong. All of the females and about half the males had been flagging for the last couple of nights, cutting the distance we could cover almost in half. If the Nationalists had vehicles for us to ride in, it would help a lot. As things stood, if we tried to make it on our own, we’d probably end up having to go firm for several days to let everyone rest. We didn’t have the supplies to be able to afford that. Furthermore, staying put for long was just going to get us spotted by a drone, after which we’d either be bombed, strafed, nailed with a HOT-3 from a drone, or surrounded and killed by militia or EDC regulars.

  Working with the Nationalists wasn’t exactly ideal, but it was the best option we had out of a plethora of shitty ones.

  Scott finished topping off his last 25-round PMAG and straightened up. “Everybody set?” he asked. “If we’re going to do this, we’d better do it quick.”

  The rest of the team hastily finished jamming mags or stuffing belts and started slinging the Matadors. The 90mm, disposable anti-tank/anti-door launchers were bulky, though they weighed about the same as the older 84mm AT-4s. They could do a number on an Infantry Fighting Vehicle, which was why I was glad enough to have them. Scott shouldered two, taking one for me, though I wouldn’t be in a position to use it. They’d spread them around Bradshaw’s section. None of us entirely trusted any of Killian’s troops with one. They weren’t trained on them, and there wasn’t time to get them up to speed.

  We weren’t exactly trained on them, either, but we’d cross-trained enough that you could trust a Grex Luporum Triarius to pick up just about any weapons system and figure it out after a few minutes, if that.

  “Let’s move out,” Scott said, looking down and checking that his radio was on, his headset in his ear. “Radio check,” he murmured into his mic.

  “Roger,” I replied. I still had a couple hours of life on my battery. I hoped it would be enough. The Nationalists had batteries to restock our rechargeable battery packs, but we hadn’t brought them; those were in our rucks.

  The team filed out of the room, meeting up with the liaison Rybàr had appointed to get them through friendly lines, a fresh-faced kid by the name of Bartoš. As they passed, there were murmurs of “Good luck,” or just a thump on the arm, which I usually returned, with bruising force in Dwight’s case. The guy had hands the size of hams.

  Jordan paused and looked me in the eye. We didn’t always see eye-to-eye, but we were still brothers. He clasped my hand. “Stay safe, Matt.”

  I forced a grin. “I’m going to have all kinds of Nationalist meat-shields around me. You guys are the ones who need to be careful.” His return grin was almost a grimace.

  Scott paused for a long moment before he clapped me on the shoulder. “You’d better not let these sons of bitches kill you, you ginger bastard,” he said. “Because you know that, no matter how hard you pray, you’re not getting into Heaven if you die.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” I replied with a half-smile. “I’ve got to have a soul for that.” It was an old joke about my red hair and beard, but it served its purpose. “Don’t worry. If it comes to it, I’ll be sure to steal as many of theirs as I can to sneak in.”

  When he seemed like he wanted to stay, to protest, to insist that he or someone else stay, I punched him in the shoulder. “Get moving,” I told him. “You’re burning through our window.”

  He nodded, and turned and left the room. I waited a second, then went to rejoin Rybàr in the command center, listening carefully to the headset in my ear.

  ***

  Less than ten minutes later, all hell broke loose to the southwest.

  The initial bang of the first RPG-75 shot was almost lost in the sudden roar of small arms fire. The Nationalists were engaging the cordon on the 502, hoping to make the enemy think they were trying to break out there. A salvo of rockets roared off their rails only a block away, streaking on bright tails of flame to hammer at the tank positions in the hedgerows to the south.

  The Nationalists might or might not have had drones, but they weren’t using them for surveillance at the moment if they did. Given the antenna I’d spotted on top of the old police station, there was probably a reason for that. It looked like a drone jammer. And an expensive one. It might have once belonged to the Slovak Army.

  Or, and this was in a way a more disquieting thought, it might have been Russian.

  A few moments later, the sound of small arms fire intensified, and a heavy detonation shook the ground. A shell screamed by overhead with a howling, ripping sound that was audible even through the fortifications in the old police station. Which meant it had been low; probably a tank shell. The sounds of the firefight to the south turned into a steady thunder. The tanks were fighting back. Rybàr and Skalickỳ were listening carefully to the radios, issuing terse acknowledg
ements and orders.

  Scott’s voice crackled in my ear. “Deacon, Weeb. We’re clear, moving up to rendezvous with Doomhammer.” I’d almost forgotten that dumb callsign. We hadn’t had a need to use it for most of the last week.

  I passed the information along to Rybàr, who nodded and waved a hand to show that he’d heard me before returning his attention to the diversionary fight to the south. It sounded like things were slowing down; he was already pulling his people back. Skalickỳ pointedly ignored me.

  I just stood there, my hand flexing around my rifle’s grip. I felt about as useful as tits on a boar hog, and it wasn’t a comfortable feeling.

  I just hoped that we could really get moving quickly, if only so that I could get back with my team and get back in the fight.

  Chapter 20

  It took longer than Rybàr had hoped to get ready to move, even with his subordinate leaders kicking and swearing at their men to get them moving. We needed to be well away from Vrbovè by the time the sun was all the way up, or we were going to have a hell of a time getting away at all.

  From where I waited next to the Alligator 4x4 that was Rybàr’s command vehicle, I scanned the sky above us. There were definitely specks of light moving up there, turning racetracks off to the north and west. Those would be the fast-movers, holding off only because of the SAM threat. And whether the SA-18s could reach that high was doubtful.

  I really, really didn’t want to get caught under another airstrike. But in this Brave New War, that might not be an option.

  There were a lot of things that people like me, who had been trained in a military focused on counter-insurgency for decades, were going to have to get used to. Not having air supremacy was just one of them.

  The diversionary fight down to the south had died away, though the tanks had tried advancing, only to stop when they lost a Leopard II to an anti-tank mine on the road. From what Rybàr had said, it was only a mobility kill, but the road was half-blocked, and the RPG-75 and Matador fire that had at least wounded another tank should have the effect of deterring an advance along the flanks.