But the enemy had been weaker than this, and technically Brock had still been killed, though he had certainly proved that the right infantry tactics could cause unsupported armor serious grief.
You could harass and you could damage, but in the final analysis pure firepower tended to tilt the scales.
And this was no training exercise.
"Tell Colonel Fitzduane's team to let the enemy armor right through," he said, "and make smoke behind them." He tapped at the airport layout. "We'll let Second Brigade block them, and we'll hit them from the flanks with TOWs and the Sheridans. Sheepdog tactics. I want that hostile force to have only one way out, and that's into their own minefield. Give the Second Brigade all the artillery support we've got. Let the Kiowas loose. Get the air force in on the act, but tell them to be damn careful. Gunships only until we can sort out who is where."
"Airborne, sir," said Carlson.
Gannon had heard the 82nd referred to as no more than a speed bump when up against massed enemy armor. He had taken the remark ill.
If his division was a mere obstacle, it was a speed bump with real killing teeth.
* * * * *
Fitzduane hugged the ground as Carranza's armor rumbled past.
Stabs of flame and the deafening crack of their cannon punctuated the chattering of their coaxial machine guns.
The detritus of a bomb-blasted air defense position gave some visual cover.
Bodies and pieces of bodies completed the picture. A severed leg lay six inches in front of his eyes. He considered that he was learning more about the violent disassembly of the human form on this mission than he really wanted to know.
An armored thrust from beneath the ground. They had expected something — some kind of counterpunch — and had prepared a reserve, but the scale was disconcerting.
They had planned to bomb using penetrator weapons, which could deal with deeply buried bunkers up to forty feet or so, but had restricted their use after further consideration when the consequences of setting off the nerve agent had been considered. True, the two elements of the binary gas were stored separately, according to Rheiman, but who knew what changes Oshima had made in the last couple of days.
It had been a rational decision to forgo the penetrator bombs, but as the massed wedge of tanks had punched out of the hangar toward them, Fitzduane had second thoughts. Mere flesh and blood seemed woefully inadequate to counter this massed steel killing machine.
He wished the hell the airborne had Guntracks.
He had an enormous urge to flee very fast.
The armored vehicle wedge included vehicle-mounted guided-missile teams. Unless taken out, they would keep the Spectre gunships out of the way. Countering Oshima's surprise was going to be down to the infantry.
Brock was gritting his teeth with frustration. The Scouts were correctly positioned to take the armor from the flanks and rear, but he was under direct orders to do nothing. There was also the reality that they were down to only a handful of AT4s. Still, his two Sheridans were positioned off to the right, and they could have really stirred the pot.
Fitzduane put his Kevlar next to Brock's. The noise of engines, the squeal and rumble of tracks, and the constant gunfire made normal speech impossible. He bellowed, and Brock could just hear.
Fitzduane repeated his orders.
"WHERE THE ARMOR CAME UP, WE CAN GET DOWN!" he bawled. "IF THEY CAN GET TANKS UP, WE CAN GET TANKS DOWN! AS SOON AS THE FUCKS ARE PAST, GET YOUR PET SHERIDANS AND LET'S DO IT. TELL THEM TO USE THE SIDE DOOR!"
Brock nodded and held out his hand for the RT. It was slapped into his hand. "WHAT ABOUT THE TWO KIOWAS?" he shouted.
Fitzduane contemplated the vast hangar. It seemed big enough. "WHY NOT!" he said.
The noise of roaring engines diminished as the last enemy armored vehicle squealed by. Fitzduane had counted forty-seven vehicles in all. He revised his total downward as two of the missile carriers exploded. Lased by Delta from the hangar roof, he conjectured accurately. Still not his war for the moment.
A row of 120mm mortar shells from division burst behind the advancing enemy armor, providing smoke cover for Fitzduane's strike force.
The Scouts poured automatic-weapons fire and 40mm grenades into the hangar. Muzzle flashes identified the opposition.
Laser beams flashed out and painted their targets, to be followed split seconds later by bursts of aimed fire.
The two Kiowas moved up and, hovering only a few feet off the ground, let loose ripple-fired antipersonnel rockets.
The terrorists inside the hangar consisted mainly of mechanics and logistics personnel who had been concentrating on helping the armor attack. They had given almost no thought to defending the hangar itself.
Many were cut down in the Scout's initial fusillade of fire. The Kiowas Hydra rockets killed most of the remainder.
The thirteen survivors ran and died as two Sheridan tanks burst through the side wall with machine guns blazing.
Scouts leapfrogged forward and secured the hangar. As they did so, Delta troopers rappelled down from the roof and reinforced Fitzduane's little army.
As he shook hands with the first one and smelled the bird droppings, Brock sniffed and made a face. "What the fuck?" he said. "We'll gas ‘em out."
Ten seconds later, the shaped charge blew and the huge armored door that concealed the ramp in the floor fell away. The Sheridans fired into the cavern below and were joined by the two Kiowas, who were now firing their rockets from inside the hangar. A second shaped charge went off and blew open the steel grille covering a ventilation shaft. Powerful antipersonnel demolition charges were dropped down and exploded with such force that the whole floor shook.
While the Sheridans and half the Scouts roared down the ramp, Fitzduane, Lonsdale, Cochrane, and the balance of the command lowered themselves into the darkness.
* * * * *
The padre pushed another blade of rubble off the runway and then paused to wipe his forehead. He was streaming with sweat.
Driving a bulldozer was harder than it looked. Civilian vehicles might have air-conditioned cabs and soft seats, but the Airborne's equipment was strictly military specification and designed for ruggedness rather than comfort. Civilian ‘dozers did not get dropped.
Rounds spanged off his armored front, and he crouched down in his seat as he raised the blade slightly, gunned the engine and reversed.
Doubtless it was consoling for the engine, having the massive protection of the blade in front, but it was also a reminder that he, the human factor, was sitting up top exposed to the elements and a not inconsiderable amount of incoming fire.
The sky was crisscrossed with tracer, the solid flames of gunship fire, and the visual chaos of exploding missiles, artillery shells, mortar bombs, and other weaponry. Everywhere he looked through his night-vision goggles, he could see targets being painted with the troopers' laser beams, and he knew that the quick flash of a beam was being accompanied by bursts of aimed fire. Targets were being sought out and neutralized one by one.
He was conscious of the fact that his pastoral duties were now being created by that fire and he should probably hand over to someone else and go and provide succor to the wounded, but finding someone to delegate to was no small problem. Also, he was well aware that no matter how helpful a padre's words might be to a wounded trooper, the practical benefit of getting in reinforcements and being able to fly out the wounded could be even more appreciated.
The airstrip was nearly clear, and as best he could see the engineers clearing the mines were finished. He throttled up and headed toward a pile of cement-filled fifty-five-gallon drums. The stench of diesel fumes filled the air and mixed with the odors of sweat, fear, blood, and explosive fumes that now pervaded the battlefield.
Someone ran toward him and shouted. They were pointing toward the oil drums. The noise of the bulldozer drowned the shouter's voice, but it was clear he was indicating the obstructions still to be cleared.
The padre wave
d an acknowledgment and trundled on.
"MINES!" screamed the engineer behind him. "MINES! WE HAVEN'T CLEARED THERE YET! STOP, YOU FUCKING IDIOT!"
The padre sped across the airstrip and then slowed down as he approached the drums. He lowered the blade and began moving forward. Suddenly he was struck violently on his right side and propelled off the bulldozer onto the runway. He hit the ground hard and painfully, and as he shook himself he became aware that there was a heavy weight on his back.
He began to struggle, and the weight on his back moved. Seconds later, the weight was gone altogether and he rolled over. In front of him, a paratrooper was getting to his feet. It might have been a normal parachute landing fall recovery, except that this paratrooper had his arms through his straps as if he had jumped without putting on the ‘chute properly. He seemed to have descended just holding on to the thing.
The trooper, Colonel Dave Palmer, put out his hand. "Sorry about that, Padre. Left in a hurry."
"Judas Priest, Dave!" said the padre. "You're supposed to wear that bloody thing." He struggled to his feet.
Driverless, the bulldozer was still trundling along with the pile of concrete-filled oil drums rolling in front of it.
"My bulldozer!" cried the padre.
There was a vivid flash as the antitank mine blew and the entire bulldozer seemed to rise in the air and fly for several yards before exploding. A further mine was set off, and then one explosion followed another.
The blast threw the remaining obstacles clear of the paved strip.
"Interesting way to clear a runway, Padre," said Palmer.
"The Lord helped," said the padre hoarsely.
* * * * *
Carranza's tank force hit the perimeter of Second Brigade's firing line and veered away to the right as a barrage of TOWs, Hellfire missiles, AT4s and Sheridan tank fire plowed into it.
The volume of fire was bad enough. The accuracy was horrifying. All around him tanks were blowing up, men were on fire, and his command was dying.
Within twenty-three seconds, Carranza had lost two-thirds of his force and was driving desperately away from the wall of death that faced him. He tried to grapple with what he was up against. Paratroopers were lightly armed troops. This was firepower of a different magnitude.
A further six tanks exploded behind him. He caught a quick glimpse of a Sheridan tank in the distance. The American tank was aluminum and virtually obsolete, he had been told. He had not taken in that it was fast, light, carried the biggest gun of any tank in general use, and had been upgraded with long-range optics and night-vision equipment.
His one thought now was to get away. He did not care where he was going or what he would do when he got there. He just wanted to flee.
Shells burst around his tank and one wall glowed red when a fragment hit.
Carranza was bruised and bleeding from being bounced around the metal box.
Beside him his gunner had abandoned any attempt to load and fire the main gun. His face was gray with desperation and the foreknowledge of certain death. The driver slewed the tank from side to side in the hope that the jinking would cause the incoming fire to miss. It was making Carranza sick.
The tank drove right through the perimeter defenses and into the minefield beyond.
The mines were laid according to Soviet doctrine, in a massive belt three hundred meters deep. The first two mines had been carelessly laid and did not explode. Carranza's tank hit the third mine after thirty-two meters. The force of the mine was so great, it blew the entire tank into the air.
The tank was still in the air when it was his nearly simultaneously by a Hellfire missile and the 152mm shell from a Sheridan. The combined blast blew all the mines in a two-hundred-meter radius and could be seen with clarity from the command-and-control aircraft 20,000 feet up.
Carranza and his entire crew were vaporized.
* * * * *
Fitzduane fired two rounds from his M16 into the torso of a terrorist in the weapons pit and rammed the barrel into the face of the second man. The terrorist went down and Fitzduane thrust his fighting knife into his throat and wiped it on the dead man's fatigues.
He reloaded and checked his pouches. Ammunition was getting low.
Getting through the hangar had been easy. In contrast, the cavernous bunker below seemed to be defended by some kind of palace guard. They had blown the Sheridans as they came down the ramp, and since then it had been basic infantry slogging as the Scouts and Delta cleaned out a series of interlocking defensive positions.
"Why the fuck didn't I bring a Barrett?" asked Lonsdale.
The heavy rifle fire would have punched through the armor plate of the weapons pits.
The M60 rounds made shallow dents. The M16 rounds just bounced off. They were out of 40mm grenades. They had fired the last of the AT4s. They were nearly out of everything.
"Why the fuck didn't I stay in Washington?" said Cochrane.
"We'd have missed you," said Lonsdale caustically.
"Even if they don't hit us," said Cochrane, "they're going to pollute us to death. The air quality in this place sucks."
"It could get a shitload worse," said Lonsdale.
Fitzduane was silent. If Rheiman's hand-drawn map was to be trusted, beyond that metal door was a hatchway that lead down two flights of metal stairs to the command bunker. Straight ahead was a nerve-agent store. Behind them, at the other end of the cavern, was the second nerve-gas store. If nothing had been moved, the unit had already secured the Xyclax Gamma 18. One component alone was useless.
Of course, Oshima did not have to have moved all the components together. She could have had just one cylinder transported. According to what he had been told, one matched pair of Xyclax Gamma 18 cylinders properly distributed would be enough to take out the entire airfield, let alone the cavern.
"Brock," he called.
"Yo!" said Brock.
"We need a couple of grenades up here," said Fitzduane. "Get someone to check the lockers in the Sheridan that didn't blow."
"Hot damn!" said Brock. "Neat thinking. Those guys are squirrels."
Two minutes later, the weighted end of a parachute cord fell beside Fitzduane. Brock was across to the left and behind a support pillar. He couldn’t get any closer and keep breathing.
The terrorist machine gun and three AK-47s spat flame as the saw the cord and tried to cut it with fire. Ricochets zinged along the cavern. The concrete floor of the cavern spewed fragments as rounds bit into it around the line of the cord.
Fitzduane saw the edge of the cord fray. If he pulled too fast it could break. If he pulled too slowly the contents of the pouch at the end could go up.
Thinking of what was inside, it was an easy decision.
He pulled hard. The cord broke, but enough momentum had already been transferred to the pouch. It slid into home base.
Fitzduane opened the pouch and looked at Brock. There were three grenades inside. "What the fuck!" he mouthed.
Brock shrugged. "Go for it!" he shouted.
Fitzduane handed grenades to Lonsdale and Cochrane. They looked at him.
"All together," said Fitzduane. "FOUR, THREE, TWO..."
The three grenades arced through the air. Two landed inside the gun emplacement.
Four terrorists erupted from their position, guns blazing. Concentrated fire from Scout Platoon cut them to pieces. Smoke from the three signaling grenades filled the air.
Choking, Fitzduane dashed forward.
The steel door had represented a possible escape for its guardians. It was unlocked. He pulled the heavy lever and the door swung open.
He hugged the left side of the door frame. Green, purple, and yellow smoke was making the place untenable. If anyone was on the other side, they would fire into the smoke. Probably.
Or maybe if they were smart and professional, they would wait and try to pick out some kind of a human shape. But it would not really be savvy to wait. Any attacker clever enough to get this far would throw in
stun grenades.
If anyone was inside, they should be firing by now.
"On your right," said Lonsdale from the right side of the door frame.
"Ready," said Cochrane's voice from behind Lonsdale.
"GO!" snapped Fitzduane.
Rows of cylinders behind a double steel grid faced them. A door on the right wall led down to the command bunker. It was closed and of the same size and mass as the kind of construction used in bank vaults.
The room itself was empty.
They examined the door. It was not just locked. It was secured as if part of the structure. There was not a hint of how it might be opened. The entire locking mechanism must be located on the other side.
"You say the magic word and this substantial chunk of real estate swings open," said Lonsdale. "You go down two flights of metal stairs. You are faced with another blast door and you knock politely. It, too, swings open and there is Oshima, a smile on her face and her arms open in welcome." He paused. "Or then again, maybe not. Either way, I don't think a foot in the right place is going to achieve much. This fucking thing is built."
Close examination showed that the problem did not end with the door. The whole wall seemed to be of similar strength, and the joins were so finely machined there was no place to pack explosive.
"We can huff and puff," said Cochrane, or we can go and get a cup of coffee while the combat engineers make with the plastic. This is safe blowing. This isn't a job for clean-living amateurs."
Fitzduane rubbed his chin. Oshima had learned much of her trade from the Hangman. The Hangman always had an escape route, and a few surprises for unwelcome visitors.
He switched his gaze to the cylinders of nerve agent. How many should there be?
"We hold here," he said.
* * * * *
Twenty feet below Fitzduane, Oshima's hand was poised above the firing button. The two keys were already in position and had been turned. The firing release code had been entered. The supergun was fully charged with hydrogen and helium and was ready to fire.
Fitzduane 03 - Devil's Footprint, The Page 45
