by Peter Nealen
Then the sloped, sharp-edged prow of a BVP infantry fighting vehicle loomed around the curve, the rattle and squeal of its tracks reaching us faintly from two hundred yards away.
“Oh, shit,” Chris muttered. While it wasn’t a tank, that 30mm cannon could still do a number on our position, especially since we hadn’t fortified it with more sandbags.
But Biskup was grinning. “Perfect,” he said. He had something in his hand, and pressed a button.
Something on the side of the road blew up with a puff of dust and smoke and an ugly thump. The BVP rocked, sparks flying from its flank, and slewed to a halt halfway across the street. The commander’s hatch opened and a figure bailed out, just as the vehicle started to burn.
I didn’t see anyone else make it out.
There was a momentary lull after that, but it didn’t last long. While no more infantry or vehicles showed themselves, the drones over the traffic circle suddenly went nuts.
“Down!” Chris yelled, and the three of us were suddenly trying to cram ourselves under the desk as a drone dove at the window.
Three drones hit the side of the building. The one aiming for our window almost killed us. If the operator, or the AI, had been just a little more precise, it would have.
Instead, it clipped the open window with a wing and smacked into the window frame before detonating. The heavy, tooth-jarring thud of the explosion shook the room, and fragmentation pattered against the walls, but we’d gotten low enough and had enough of the desk between us and the explosion to avoid the worst of it. I still felt a fiery sting in my leg, and had to reach down and check that it hadn’t clipped anything that was going to leak too much. My hand found the rent in my trousers and the piece of viciously hot frag underneath it, and I was able to pull it out myself, though it hurt like the devil to do it.
We stayed down, contorted into painful positions against the base of the wall as we tried to stay as small as possible, waiting for the other shoe to drop.
But it didn’t. Whether they didn’t have enough drones to try to clear out the whole building, or they just weren’t exactly sure where the snipers or trigger man were, no more suicidal RC airplanes came at us.
My paranoia was finely-tuned enough that I just knew that the enemy were moving on us while we had our heads down. It’s basic combat tactics. So, I forced myself to get up, levering my OBR up over the shrapnel-pocked desk, and got back on glass.
Just in time to see the front of one of the buildings that Bradshaw’s guys had occupied disappear in a blast of grit, smoke, and fire as a tank shell blew half the wall apart.
I didn’t have a great view, so I had to hear about what Bradshaw did later.
I didn’t see him grab three Matadors and charge out of his own hide site, despite the protests of his Slovak counterpart. Nor could I see him take a knee in the middle of Štùrova Street, calmly take aim at the T-72 that had just shot at his boys, and slam a 90mm HEAT round into its flank. He dropped the tube, grabbed another one, and shot the BVP behind the tank, even as the giant plume of flame—which I could see, even through the dust and smoke—shot up out of the T-72’s turret.
The Slovaks and other Triarii opened fire on the advancing enemy to cover the crazy American as he dashed toward the wrecked building, still lugging the third Matador.
I couldn’t see him start hauling mangled bodies out of the remains of the building’s front, helped by blood-smeared and shell-shocked men, even as more maneuvered out to provide covering fire. I did see the blast as he got his third armored vehicle kill of the evening, though. The flames rose like a roman candle above the parking lot.
***
“Deacon, Flat.” Bradshaw’s voice was almost unrecognizable, hoarse and scratchy.
“Send it, Flat,” I replied.
“Štùrova Street is blocked,” he reported. “They’re trying to maneuver around it. We’ve had to fall back to the marshalling area.” He paused for a moment. “I’m down four guys.”
I could hear the pain in his voice, as hard as he tried to hide it. It had been a hell of a blow, and he’d lost men on this op already. If I remembered the numbers right, his section was down to about two thirds strength.
“Roger,” was all I said in acknowledgement. Bradshaw understood. We could mourn the men who died later. Right now, we had a battle to fight.
And I could already hear the squeal and rattle of tracks on the other side of the trees, in the mall parking lot. With the left flank having fallen back, we were now Target Number One.
Chapter 27
I pulled back from the window and turned to Biskup. He was still down on the floor, while Chris and I had popped back up to be able to see and shoot.
“We need to relocate,” I said. “Fast. If they’ve already got this building targeted with drones, they’re going to follow up with something heavier, soon enough.”
He didn’t argue, but started toward the stairs, keeping low. “There is a trench just past the corner,” he said. “It leads to a better street crossing.”
I hoped that that street crossing had some cover, but even if it didn’t, we were out of options.
We just about flew down the stairs as another flight of drones slammed into the top floor. At least one made it through the open window, the thud of the explosion shaking the entire building as shrapnel sleeted through the air and shredded everything in the office we’d just vacated. Smoke, dust, and whirling debris boiled down the stairs after us, and we dropped onto the ground floor in a hot, choking black cloud.
“Everybody out!” I bellowed. “They’ve got us zeroed!”
“This way!” Biskup yelled, grabbing Chris by the arm as we started toward the door we’d come in through. “There is a back door!”
We hustled after him, joined by his Slovak Nationalists, who were lugging the vz. 59s and a collection of AKs, Bren 805s, and vz. 58s.
Biskup threw the door open and plunged out, which might not have been the wisest course, but as a tank shell obliterated the room we’d been using for overwatch, clearing the immediate area outside the door suddenly seemed to be a lot less of a priority. We followed, even as a sharp crack sounded behind us.
Biskup was already down in the trench that had been hastily scraped in the ground behind the building, leading across the yard in front of the neighboring office building, running in a half-crouch. There wasn’t anything to do but follow him.
The trench wasn’t that deep; it might have gone down about four feet. Which was better than nothing, but it only provided so much cover, and running bent over gets taxing very quickly, especially if you’re already running on fumes beforehand. But we got to the crossing, which was partially covered by a hasty barricade set up with cars flipped on their sides and the liberal application of barbed wire, just before a missile streaked down out of the sky above and smacked into the already burning building we’d just vacated.
I hadn’t heard a fast-mover or a helicopter, so my guess was it had been launched by a high-flying, stealthy drone. Something small enough that the remaining SAM teams would have a hard time spotting it before it delivered its payload.
Biskup paused just before the crossing, scanning the sky overhead. I did the same, but neither of us could see the UAV that had launched on the building. Fortunately, there were a lot of trees that hadn’t dropped their leaves yet, so we had some overhead concealment. Less than we might have liked, but there was nothing ideal about this situation. The EDC wanted the Slovak Nationalists crushed with a quickness, and they were expending a lot of firepower to do it.
Fortunately, they seemed to have assumed that their plans were going to work as they’d drawn them up, which was why we’d managed to slow them down as much as we had already.
“That noise,” Biskup said quietly. “That must have been one of the mines at the edge of the circle.” I nodded. It made sense; the Nationalists had probably sowed the treeline around the edge of the mall parking lot with anti-tank mines and similar nasty surprises.
Without waiting for any further acknowledgement, Biskup got up and dashed across the street, keeping low behind the barricade. A moment later, I waved at Phil to follow him, only crossing myself once Phil and another one of Biskup’s guys were across.
It was hardly the first danger area crossing I’d done, and far from the widest. It still felt far more dangerous than anything I’d done before. No danger area I’d seen in Africa, or even the no-go zones Stateside, had ever had tanks and drones hunting me as I exposed myself.
Still, I got across and found a reasonably covered spot near the two-story apartment building on the other side, taking up security as I waited for the rest of the team and the Nationalist fighters to cross.
I was pleasantly surprised that we all made it without being fired upon. Maybe the enemy thought they’d gotten us with that drone’s HOT-3 missile. I doubted it, but things had to be pretty confused in the EDC/Slovak headquarters by then. The Nationalists had already bloodied the offensive badly, just in the first few hours of the push.
From there, we started bounding from house to house, in twos and threes. It was dark, and all the lights in the city were out, except for the lurid orange glow to the northwest, from burning buildings and burning vehicles. It was an eerie, hellish scene, even in the white phosphor glow of my NVGs, as we moved through what had clearly once been an affluent, modern neighborhood, while the industrial area beyond burned, along with the bodies of those who hadn’t made it out of their steel tombs.
We paused in the trees, just before crossing Pàrovskà Street to the VBC building, which had been sandbagged up inside and outside. They’d hardened it as much as possible, including boarding up the top windows to keep the flying glass down. Unlike our previous position, there would be no mistaking this place for anything but a strongpoint.
If this went on much longer, there wouldn’t be a building standing that wasn’t a strongpoint, even if it had been blasted halfway to rubble. The Nationalists seemed entirely willing to turn Nitra into a miniature Stalingrad.
Not that I could blame them.
Biskup called ahead on his own radio, and only after he got a response did he stand up and wave us forward.
He’d gotten halfway across the street when a buzz penetrated my battered hearing.
I grabbed Phil and threw him back down, even as I lifted my rifle, searching for the drone. There. It was already on its dive, and I knew I was probably too late as I snapped the weapon to my shoulder and took a snap-shot, barely using the sights at all.
By some miracle, I hit it, and it spun out of control. But it was already on its terminal dive, and it exploded six feet off the ground, shrapnel sleeting into Biskup as he ran. He crumpled in a heap on his face, blood quickly darkening his camouflage fatigues.
Two of the Nationalists were already running down the steps to grab him. I swept the sky with my eyes and my rifle, but the drone seemed to have been a singleton. That time. There was no telling that there weren’t another two dozen just around the corner, already zooming in on the sound of the explosion.
“Move!” I was yelling at the other Nationalist fighters as well as my own team. “Get off the street!”
Of course, Dwight didn’t entirely heed me, instead taking up a position near my and propping his Mk 48 against a tree, covering up the street in the other direction. “I’m getting too old and slow,” he growled. “I need a breather.”
Being Dwight, his fatigue and age had little to do with it. He wasn’t going to run for cover while I was out there with just a rifle, covering the rest from the drones.
Still, especially with Chris and Scott helping herd the Slovaks, we got everybody across in seconds, crowding into the VBC building. “Matt!” Scott yelled from the doorway. “Turn and go!”
I thumped Dwight on the shoulder. “Let’s go, old man,” I barked. “Don’t let me beat you to the door.”
Dwight heaved himself to his feet and sprinted. He was still pretty quick for a man of his size, but I could still outdistance him quickly. I didn’t. There was no way in hell I was running to cover and leaving Dwight in the open.
We got to the door as I thought I heard a dopplered buzzing behind me. “Move! Get to cover!”
The entryway had been turned into a firesack; there were sandbagged positions at the doorway itself, then another set just a couple yards inside. We dove for the second set, even as the Nationalist soldiers in the entryway lifted what looked like a makeshift armored door, cut out of half-inch steel.
The door rang like a bell, flame and smoke spurting around the edges, and one of the Slovaks yelped, snatching a bloody, mangled hand back from the edge. Smoke poured in, but the door had done its job. The drone had vented its fury on the outer entryway, instead of shredding us inside.
Jordan moved up to help the wounded man, while the rest of us got ourselves sorted. It was too late for Biskup; one of the Nationalists was pulling a jacket over his face. He hadn’t survived the drone strike that had felled him.
Seeing that there wasn’t room in the entryway for us, I pointed toward the south end of the building. “Jordan, we’re going to see if we can’t help out down this way,” I said. “Catch up when you finish with him.”
Jordan, absorbed in his task, just waved a blood-smeared hand to tell me he’d heard.
The rest of us moved down the hallway, looking for a place to set in and wait for the next blow to fall.
***
But it didn’t, at least not right away.
We could still hear sporadic gunfire and explosions, but they came in short bursts and sudden, single reports. From our vantage point, Štùrova Street was still clear, except for the half-dozen cars and buses we could see, including one bus that had been parked across an entire lane. I could only imagine how much explosive had been crammed into those buses. After what I’d seen, the Nationalists hadn’t left anything on the street without a purpose.
Still, it had been over an hour, with no follow-on attack forthcoming. I didn’t think that we’d hurt the enemy badly enough to make them give up, but it definitely seemed like they were reworking their plans.
We’d set up shop in a ground floor office, with two windows facing down Štùrova Street toward the enemy positions. It was big enough for the whole team, plus the half-dozen Nationalist fighters who’d already been occupying it.
“Scott,” I called, turning away from the slit left in the sandbags stacked against the window. He hurried over. “Let’s go to fifty percent,” I said. “Nobody drops gear or takes their boots off, but if we can get a little bit of sleep before the next push, let’s do it.” We’d been moving and fighting for a long time, and as we’d seen just a little while before, it was taking its toll. “I’ll take the first watch, so get the rotation started, then you go down, too.”
He looked like he was going to object, but I stopped him. “My team, my call, Scott. Just set it up and get some rest.”
He nodded heavily, and turned away as I looked out at the deserted street, dimly lit by the distant flicker of the fires.
In less than five minutes, half the team was down, finding any semi-comfortable spot. Dwight started snoring like a runaway chainsaw in moments.
***
I let them sleep for just about two hours. The time mostly passed in silence; none of us who were still up were in a talkative mood, not after all that had happened, and what was sure to happen again soon. The stillness and lack of activity immediately started to get to me, and by the time I shook Scott awake, my eyes were aching, and every fiber of my being was ready to fall down and sleep for a week.
It took a minute for Scott to get coherent enough to start waking the rest. After that, I made sure the others who’d stayed up went down before I finally found a stretch of floor with a sandbag to use as a pillow, wrapped my rifle sling around my arm, the OBR against my side, and closed my eyes.
***
I was back in Baltimore, on some hit that I knew I should remember, but somehow didn’t. Everything was
just slightly off. I knew it was Baltimore, but it looked like Seattle.
Phil and I were at the door, ready to breach. Dwight, Scott, Reuben, and Tony were on the cordon. I looked at Phil, who had his rifle leveled at the door, and gave me the nod. I pivoted and donkey-kicked the door.
It cracked, but held. I kicked it again. It still didn’t open. I could hear movement and yelling inside. I kicked it a third time, and it still held shut. Then a burst of gunfire tore through it and blew Phil off his feet with a spray of blood.
I kicked the door again and again. For whatever reason, I just kept trying to get the breach open, even as Jordan dropped, blood spurting from a bullet wound in his throat.
A drone dropped out of the sky and blew Dwight and Reuben to bloody doll rags. I kept frantically kicking the door, frozen in place otherwise.
The sound of an armored vehicle rumbled down the street, shaking the entire house, which now suddenly looked like my parents’ place. A T-72 was rolling down the streets of Baltimore, fire flickering from its coax PKT machinegun. Bullets tore Scott and Tony to pieces, and tracked up onto the porch, searching for David, Greg, Chris, and I.
***
I forced my eyes open. My heart was pounding. I stared at the ceiling, or what I could see of it. There wasn’t much light inside the VBC building.
I struggled to breathe slowly and deeply. Just a dream. Just a dream. We were still alive. Despite everything that had been thrown at us over the last week and a half, we were still alive.
But for how much longer? Even as relief that the dream had been nothing more than that flooded over me, the real depth of our plight came crashing back down. We were in the middle of a besieged city, surrounded by enemies and not-quite-friends. The entire city had been laced with explosives. And the nearest real friendlies were a long, long way away.
Lord, I don’t want to fail. Please, please, whatever happens to me, don’t let me die letting my guys down. I know it’s selfish, but if we’re going to die, please let me go first. I don’t want to watch that for real.
