The terrorists heard the sound of the pin being removed, but identifying a single sound when the world is blowing up around you was not easy. In the background Fitzduane could see the breath of a dragon as an A10 blasted uranium-depleted shells at a terrorist tank.
The tank exploded as Fitzduane threw the grenade.
As the missile left his fingers he drew his pistol and fired twice at one terrorist who had been turning toward him. The rounds hit the man in the face and snapped his head back just as the phosphorus grenade exploded.
Two terrorists were left standing as white smoke eddied around them. Both were burning, one screaming terribly.
Fitzduane fired again, double-tapping head shots.
Both figures slumped.
A smell of still-burning flesh wafted toward him. The phosphorus burned at 5,000 degrees Fahrenheit and was nearly impossible to put out.
He cut his M16 out of its case with his fighting knife and jacked in a round. The A10s and C130 Spectre gunships were pounding the perimeter, but unless requested the center belonged to the airborne.
Despite the background of flashes, it struck him that the place was damn dark, and then he remembered the night-vision goggles on a cord around his neck under his shirt. He pulled them out and clipped them on his Kevlar.
His heart gave a sudden start.
Half a dozen infrared-detectable laser beams were focused on his torso. That they had not fired already was encouraging, but the thought that six charged-up paratroops had him in their sights was a little chilling.
"Dead woodpecker," he croaked.
"Fuck ‘em all, Colonel," said Brock cheerfully.
His shape detached itself from the ground, moved forward, and then went down again.
I'm up, I'm seen, I'm down. You took longer, and if your enemy was remotely competent you died. And God will miss you. Only the glint tape on his helmet — detectable solely with the night vision goggles and the air force's equipment — gave away his position. Brock was one mean mover, and judging by how little Fitzduane could see of his platoon as he looked around, he had trained his men equally well.
"Situation?" said Fitzduane. Carlson had remarked that no matter how much you prepared, command during the first thirty minutes of a large-scale drop was at best all about managing chaos. Even in a tight insertion, heavy equipment ended up in the wrong place and units got horribly mixed up. Enemy fire and other hostile action compounded the confusion.
An airborne assault initially tended to be a controlled mess. Resolving that mess was less up to the commanders than to the initiative of little groups of paratroopers. In the opinion of the airborne's critics, it was a horrible way to run a war and alarmingly untidy.
The only thing that could be said in its favor was that it worked.
"I've rounded up most of the platoon," said Brock. "Two are still missing, but they know the objective. Sorvino caught one from that emplacement." He made a gesture toward the smoldering ruins of the heavy-machine-gun position. "He's dead."
"Cochrane?" said Fitzduane.
"We've got him," said Brock.
"Give me the rest of it," said Fitzduane.
"The air force have well and truly worked over the heavy hostile positions," said Brock, "but there are a lot bad guys out there spread out in small groups and moving around through linked spider holes and tunnels. That means you don't know where they are going to pop up. If their shooting was a little better we'd have to earn our pay, but as it is they tend to fire high and don't live long enough to adjust. But we're taking some casualties. There is just too much hot metal flying around. It will get easier when our heavy stuff cuts in. It will get a whole lot worse if a reserve starts to throw at us. It's their armor that worries me. They're supposed to have it, but I don't see it. So where is the stuff? It's a fucking shell game."
The RT operator called Brock and he took the proffered microphone.
Around their position Fitzduane could hear and see the volume of fire emanating from the 82nd rapidly increasing as units and impromptu fire teams got their bearings. Targets were being identified and M60s were methodically clearing out their designated sectors with SAWs, rifle fire, and grenades. Bunkers were being taken out with AT4s and the smaller LAWS.
On a terrain or model map, Madoa airfield encased in its perimeter defenses had seemed a neat, manageable size.
On the ground, it was brought home to Fitzduane just how large any full-size airfield really was. Two brigades of the 82nd had dropped onto the place, and now, from his ground-hugging position, the area looked surprisingly empty. True, competing tracers sliced the air and there were constant flashes and explosions over a background of machine-gun and rifle fire, but there were almost no people to be seen.
They were surrounded by thousands of troops trying to kill each other, but from his position they were invisible. It was disconcerting. Fitzduane was used to special-operations missions where your own group was so small virtually your entire focus could be on the enemy.
In this situation, managing your own team was almost an end in itself. It was a whole new layer of worry, and it brought home just what conventional command in combat was all about. There was a paradox in the situation. Special operations were intrinsically much more difficult — but also they were easier. Your training was better, funded, your equipment was normally better and your focus was tighter. Your main area of responsibility was destroying the enemy. It made life simpler.
Debris fountained fifty feet away, and the blast made Fitzduane hug the ground.
Four further explosions were even closer, but the line of impacts as the mortar bombs were walked in passed in front of them.
"Eighty-two millimeter," said Brock. "Ten to one they're moving the damn things around. "Counterbattery takes care of that shit, but that's not going to be a player until we've cleared the airfield. The CB is like... delicate."
Fitzduane smiled despite their decidedly hairy situation. Dirt was still clumping down on his Kevlar. A minor adjustment to the mortar's aiming mechanism and the Scout Platoon would have to be raked up before being body-bagged.
The counterbattery radar was the one and only item that the airborne did not parachute in. It could track an incoming round in flight and direct return fire before the enemy shell had even landed, but it was sensitive equipment and needed to be flown in. That could not be done until a safe landing zone was cleared and the physical obstacles were removed. Barriers of heavy rocks had been erected across the runway, interspersed with mines. It was all in a night's work to the paratroopers who dropped in with bulldozers and combat engineers, but it took time.
Brock was listening intently, a single earpiece pressed to his right ear.
"Affirmative, Viper One."
A Hellfire missile streaked diagonally across their line of sight and impacted about eight hundred meters away.
A flash lit up the sky, followed by a series of others as the mortar bombs blew.
Seconds later, pink flame spat at the ground as a C130 Spectre gunship hosed the area with its 20mm Gatling.
"Straight in the balls, Viper One," said Brock to the Kiowa Warrior pilot.
Two Kiowas, a pair of Sheridan tanks, and air had been tasked to support Fitzduane's mission, which gave his small unit the unusual luxury of being able to call in their own fire support. Normally they would have had to go through channels. The heavier the weapon, the higher the clearance required.
It all made a great deal of organizational sense, unless you were a lowly trooper eating dirt as your buddies died around you and you were helpless to respond.
Scout Platoon were certainly to helpless. Oshima, it was considered, as they had sat sweating in the confines of the SCIF, was worth some very special attention.
Fitzduane did not want Oshima. It had all gone way past that point. She had spilled far too much blood. He did not want a prisoner. He was going to kill her. When this was over, one or the other of them was going to be dead. Dead beyond any doubt.
&nbs
p; He wanted her head. Literally.
* * * * *
"Trooper! Where the fuck is your rifle?" said Divisional Command Sergeant Major Webster to a Kevlared figure unfortunate enough to cross his path.
"I'm the padre, Sergeant Major," said the figure. "They don't trust me with one." He was carrying a small bag.
"A little early for spiritual guidance, sir," said Webster. "But the thing is, can you drive a bulldozer?"
"No problem," said the padre. "What do you want me to do?"
"Clear the crap off the runway, Padre," said Webster, "but watch the fucking mines. We don't have many bulldozers."
"Hooah," said the padre. It was nice to know where you stood in the pecking order.
He hopped up on the combat bulldozer. The unit spat black smoke and rumbled into action. There were flashes in front of him as combat engineers started to blow the mines. The runway stretched out ahead of him. What did you need to put down a C130? Two thousand to three thousand feet, he recalled.
"ALL THE WAY, PADRE!" shouted Webster, pointing down the runway.
The padre grinned and gunned the heavy machine forward. The Lord hadn't been a paratrooper, but in his opinion, he should have been.
The steering wheel felt sticky and the instruments were splashed with something. His seat was wet, and the dampness was soaking into his fatigues. The padre suddenly realized that he was looking at and sitting in his predecessor's blood.
* * * * *
Carranza knew they could not stay in the command bunker if they were going to do any good.
He was getting reports in by landline from all over the airfield. Paratroops had landed in strength, but so far they appeared lightly armed. Further, the bombing had eased off. By now most of the aircraft would be out of ordnance and fuel. That was the weakness of fast movers for close-air support. They had almost no loiter time.
Now, before the enemy troops got organized, was the time to act. For the next twenty minutes or so there was a strike opportunity ready to be used. Now was the time to use the armored reserve.
Forty T53 tanks together with supporting infantry in armored personnel carriers were ready in the underground cavern hollowed out under the main hangar, the control tower, and the surrounding marshaling area.
So far, by some miracle, neither the hangar nor the control tower had been hit. Probably the hangar was considered of no military significance since the runway was blocked, and as for the control tower, his one thought was that the Americans were keeping it intact because they would want to make use of it after they had secured the airfield.
Whatever the reasons, it did not matter. All that counted was that the reserve was intact and — properly deployed — it could win the day.
Paratroops had a mystique, but they were not supermen. In essence, once you stripped away the maroon berets and parachute wings and jump boots, they were nothing more than underequipped infantry. Look at what had happened at Arnhem despite all the weight of allied airpower. Armor had destroyed them.
Look at what had happened at Dien Bien Phu in Vietnam. The French had been arrogant and had counted on their artillery and airpower to save them. But in the end the underdog had triumphed and the surviving French were marched into captivity.
Carranza was a keen student of military history, but his memory was selective and the memories that supported his thesis came from a different time.
But he was correct on one point.
The Airborne were particularly vulnerable after they landed and before their heavy firepower was fully unpacked and into action. But vulnerable did not mean helpless. And some heavy units were not just fast at getting into action. They were very fast.
He was entirely wrong in his assessment of the air. He knew nothing at all about the Kiowa Warriors.
"Major Carranza," said Oshima.
"Commander?" said Carranza.
"I would like you to lead the counterattack," said Oshima.
"Personally?" said Carranza.
"They need your leadership," said Oshima.
You're sentencing me to die, thought Carranza. We may well triumph, but I will be killed. It was less a feeling than a certainty.
It was odd. He did not feel anything except a certain impatience.
Oshima watched Carranza leave the command bunker. Twenty feet up, his armored reaction force sat waiting. Facing them was a ramp leading to a hydraulically controlled bombproof door similar to those installed on missile silos.
The armored door opened up directly into the hangar. For maximum shock power, the armored force could assemble a dozen tanks or more before attacking.
Individually, tanks could be picked off one by one, but en masse they were an armored fist that few soldiers could withstand.
A rifle was useless against a tank. If you stood your ground, you were crushed. AT4s and LAWS could destroy armor, but these were close-range weapons whose backblasts gave away their firing positions when used. A wedge of tanks advancing with guns blazing away was every infantryman's nightmare.
* * * * *
General Mike Gannon watched radio aerials sprout. The news of Dave Palmer's death had just come in from the air force, and he was momentarily stunned.
Divisional HQ occupied a pair of two-thousand-pound-bomb craters. The area was already covered over with camouflage netting and sweating paratroopers were further reinforcing the position with sandbagged top cover. It was not so much that generals deserved special protection, but more the basic fact that the radios had to be kept safe.
Without radio communications, the 82nd would be shorn of most of its effective striking power. Air, artillery, antitank, his own armor, and his maneuver battalions all needed to be coordinated. The Kiowa Warriors and the Spectre gunships were his windows into the evolving battle. Certainly all concerned knew their individual roles, but in an airborne operation things changed at speed.
First Brigade were netted in and progressing well. Second Brigade had called for artillery support. They were up against a network of bunkers defended by minefields. The air force had made two runs but then had run out of ordnance. The Spectre gunships were otherwise engaged. The A10s were around, but for some technical reason they could not be contacted.
Under heavy fire, troopers were clearing paths through the minefields by advancing on their stomachs and poking with fiberglass rods. God knows how they had the guts to do it. It was not like they could take their time. During an airborne assault this intricate and highly dangerous job was performed at speed. It had to be done that way. You had to get through. Failure was not an option.
The strike momentum had to be kept up.
The artillery was still not in action. One battery had landed in a minefield, and the gunners rushing to unpack their pieces had taken casualties as they moved in. Another battery had been hit by a mortar strike.
Gannon missed Palmer. Dave was the best executive officer he had ever had, and combined they made a near-perfect team. Gannon was a fighting general at his absolute best when leading men. Palmer was the imperturbable organization man who kept the structure together and the information flowing. The thought that he'd just been blown out of the sky and was now... gone, was sickening.
Gone! What more could you say? You were supposed to be safe at 20,000 feet up, but that was an illusion. Nowhere was safe during an airborne assault.
There was a boom as a 105mm howitzer went off and then another. The camouflage netting fluttered as the shock waves spread.
The noise jolted Gannon back into action. Despite all the shit that had been thrown at them, the gunners were back on the firing line. He looked at his watch. They had been on the ground only twenty-two minutes. The opposition was heavier than he had expected. The air force had worked right through the targeting board, but the terrorists were dug more effectively than he been believed. And the intelligence on mines had been inadequate.
You could prepare as much as you liked, but when it came right down to it every battle had to be fought. There was no
easy way.
Gannon suddenly thought of the supergun. If Livermore was wrong, no matter what the 82nd accomplished, a whole lot of his young men were going to die.
The operations board was coming up with the division's assets. The Kiowa Warriors, electronic countermeasures, artillery, mortars, his TWO missiles mounted on Humvees, the Sheridan tanks, the heavy machine guns. All were now unpacked and operational.
Twenty-seven minutes in. Not good enough. They could always do better.
But not bad.
Gannon studied the big operations map. The wild card mission was the one commanded by Fitzduane. He was heading across to the hangar to link up with a Delta team, and together they were going to try and flush Oshima out of her bunker.
In Gannon's professional opinion, it was a fool's mission, since penetrating a series of armored doors to a location sixty feet underground was tantamount to suicide.
Nevertheless, the game in this case was certainly worth the candle. Gannon had studied Oshima's file and had walked through the bloodstained wreckage in Fayetteville. Oshima was the nearest thing to pure evil that so far in his life he had ever encountered.
Fitzduane, Al Lonsdale, that Washington fellow Cochrane, and then Brock's little army. They were good people and did not deserve to die. But then, neither had Dave Palmer.
"General?" said Carlson, who was standing in as exec. "We've got a report from the Delta observer team on the hangar roof. Armor, sir, and lots of it. Twenty T53s, and they're still coming out of the ground like dragon's teeth."
"Colonel Fitzduane?" said Gannon.
"Raising him now, sir," said Carlson. "But he'll know soon enough. They're heading right for him."
Fitzduane's minder, thought Gannon. Lieutenant Brock. The LouisianaTrainingCenter. OPFOR had attacked in force and caught Brock in a situation just like this.
Using pre-positioned AT4s, Brock had fought one of the best infantry rear-guard actions against armor that Gannon had ever seen. Kill a couple of tanks, make smoke, and fall back in the confusion. Next time they advanced, hit them from a different angle. Shoot and scoot ground-pounder style.
Fitzduane 03 - Devil's Footprint, The Page 44
