by James Rosone
Shaking his head in confusion, Sergeant Lei responded, “I’ll be there shortly.”
He tapped on the shoulder of one of the other sergeants. “You’re in charge until I return,” he said.
The other sergeant just nodded and went back to making sure the four machine-gun positions continued to rain death and destruction down on the Marines who were now moving their way up the incline toward their position.
When Lei had traveled halfway down the hallway to where their captain was, the bunker complex shook violently, throwing Sergeant Lei to the ground. Parts of the roof above him gave way, dropping down chunks of rocks and dirt. Looking behind him, Lei saw a ton of smoke and debris coming from his bunker room. A single soldier emerged, stumbling out of the room before collapsing.
Lei quickly ran to his soldier and asked, “What happened?!”
“I don’t know what hit us,” the young private said, still in a state of shock. “One minute we were killing those Marines, the next moment the entire room was hit with something that blew apart the roof and walls. Had I not been on my way to get more ammunition, I’d be dead.”
As Lei got up, he tried to look into the bunker room and saw that most of it had collapsed. There was no fire, like he’d have expected to see from an explosion, just a lot of debris. Whatever had hit them had also caused a lot of damage to the rock, which Sergeant Lei hadn’t thought was possible without a missile or a bomb. In that one moment, all but one of his soldiers were gone forever.
*******
Commander Mark Gray of the DDG-1001 Michael Monsoor was on his third cup of coffee, and it was only 0900 hours. When his ship had approached to the Taiwanese coastline, he’d insisted on being present either on the bridge or in the CIC. His ship was screening for the larger troop ships and would be employing its railguns for the first time as they identified targets of opportunity. As the invasion fleet approached the shoreline and moved into position, the coast stayed silent for several hours. No missiles or projectiles were fired at them, and it appeared as if the enemy had simply walked away from the beach in favor of a protracted inland fight.
The invasion appeared to be progressing smoothly, or at least predictably, according to the intelligence and operation planners. As the captain of the second Zumwalt-class destroyer in the Navy, now that the PLA Navy had been summarily destroyed in the Battle of Luzon, his task was to support the Marines’ ground invasion of Taiwan. While they had fired off some of their Tomahawk cruise missiles prior to the landings, their primary job now was to try and test their railgun against those hardened targets the ground forces were having a harder time destroying.
With that goal in mind, the camera monitoring of the landings by the CIC members was critical. As they found hardened points, the ground forces would call them, asking for a fire mission. Once the target had been identified, the Monsoor would fire one of its railguns and take it out.
As Commander Gray watched a couple dozen Ospreys and other helicopters head toward the beach, he suddenly witnessed the violent destruction of two of them. His stomach sank as the fireballs descended down to the earth below, right on top of some of the Marines. Gray scanned the horizon. His eyes were suddenly drawn to a suspicious area on the side of the rock.
One of the other battle managers in the CIC must have spotted the same thing seconds before him. “Zoom in on that position!” he shouted, directing everyone’s attention to the spot. In seconds, they all saw where the enemy fire was coming from. Carved into the side of a steep ridgeline was a heavily camouflaged bunker. Looking more closely, they saw what appeared to be several bunker positions.
“Weapons! Take that position out now!” yelled Commander Gray.
The first railgun fired, slamming its projectile into the first bunker, silencing it quickly. The second gun quickly followed, hitting the next bunker and successfully ending its reign of terror. Unfortunately, another Osprey was torn apart by what appeared to be a minigun firing from the third position before the first gun could spool up again fast enough to take it out. Seconds after the Osprey lit up like a Christmas tree, that bunker was also obliterated by the railgun.
“Make sure to put a few extra rounds into the bunker system,” ordered one of the battle managers.
Commander Gray then walked toward one of the petty officers, who was manning a monitor. “Begin scanning the entire ridgeline for any possible signs of gun bunkers,” he ordered. “If you think there might be one, we’re going to light it up with a railgun.”
“Worst-case scenario, we might blow up a few extra rocks and trees,” Gray thought. In any case, if they eliminated other bunkers, they would definitely be saving lives.
The rest of the day was spent with the crew feverishly looking for enemy strongpoints and hammering them with their railguns. Their ability to provide direct kinetic support to the Marines as they moved inland was proving to be invaluable as they ran into one enemy strongpoint after another.
Armored Fist
Kiev, Ukraine
City Clinical Hospital #12
Lieutenant General Mikhail Chayko was smoking his ninth cigarette of the day as he looked over the battle plans one final time. In six more hours, he and the other men of the 1st Guard’s Tank Army would launch the largest military offensive since World War II.
The sudden change of government in Britain prior to the summer had thrown the Allies into disarray. The British PM had ordered the withdrawal of British forces from the continent, including the North Sea, which had forced the remaining NATO Allies to put their large summer offensive on hold. This pause in combat operations in Ukraine, Belarus and the Baltic States had given Chayko the time he needed to get more forces moved into Ukraine for his own grand offensive.
Brigadier General Mikulin, the 4th Guard’s tank division commander, walked up to join Chayko in looking at the map before him. “Are you confident the northern line around St. Petersburg is going to hold when we launch this attack tomorrow?” Mikulin inquired. He wasn’t sure if he liked the idea of trusting such an important sector to a largely untested Indian army, especially in light of how poorly they’d fought in the Russian Far East.
“If our offensive stalls or doesn’t achieve our goal, then yes, I’m very concerned about our northern flank,” Chayko answered. “However, if we’re able to drive deep into Poland and the Czech Republic, then we’ll be able to relieve that pressure on our northern flank.” Chayko paused for a second, running his fingers through his thinning hair. “This entire offensive is a gamble, Mikulin. If we can achieve our objectives, then we’ll give the politicians a stronger hand to work with at the negotiation table, but we need to conclude this conflict before the end of the year.”
Mikulin rubbed the stubble growing in on his chin. “I’m concerned that it won’t matter how much land we grab or hold—the President won’t accept or pursue peace. We’ve already met our military objectives for this war eight months ago. We should already have our forces resting back home, dealing with the domestic problems. Instead, we’re still fighting on, with no clear objective. Mikhail, you have to make them see reason before we all end up dead.”
Chayko was a bit taken aback by Mikulin’s sudden reluctance—he was his best field commander, and he needed him focused on defeating the Americans, not worrying about politics back home. “I understand your concern,” Chayko finally said, being careful to speak very tactfully. “I have a call in an hour with General Egorkin. I was going to bring these points up to him as well. You need to stay focused on achieving the military aims of this offensive, and I’ll work the political aims. To that end, is your division ready to execute the plan?”
“Yes. My division is ready to hit the Americans,” answered Mikulin, speaking with a tone of regret. “Per your instructions, I’ve kept the Zhukov drones hidden. They’ll be providing overwatch for my armored formations. My main concern is the Allies’ Air Force. If we are not able to keep the enemy fighters off our backs, they’re going to tear my formations apart.”
Chayko nodded. “I’ve been told that with the added help from the Indian Air Force, that problem should be taken care of, or at least mitigated. They’ve provided several squadrons’ worth of surface-to-air missile systems to move with our forces and two hundred additional fighter aircraft. Their Jaguar aircraft are exceptional ground-attack planes. Say what you want about the French and British—they make fine warplanes. And in this battle, we’ll have them on our side.”
The two of them talked on for a short while before General Mikulin left to return to his command. The start of Operation Armored Fist was about to begin.
*******
Ternopil, Ukraine
Childers spotted Lieutenant Colonel Tim Schoolman finishing up his first cup of coffee for the day. He had a very puzzled look on his face.
“Penny for your thoughts, Sir?” asked Childers.
Schoolman looked up at his Sergeant Major. “Intelligence says the Russians are going to start a new offensive sometime today. It just doesn’t make sense, though. They’ve achieved all their military objectives in Ukraine. They know we don’t have the force to push them back to Russia yet, but if they attack us now, they will squander the only forces they have holding us at bay.”
“You’re assuming their offensive won’t be successful,” said Childers, crossing his arms. “What if they’re able to push us completely out of Ukraine or cut deep into Poland? I imagine that would have a profound impact on our ability to push them out of Ukraine.”
“I don’t think they have the steam to launch a sustained offensive—”
Schoolman’s reply was interrupted by the shriek of incoming rockets. The early-warning system sounded, halting any further conversation.
Boom, boom, boom!
Thunderous explosions rocked the front lines a couple of kilometers to the front of their positions. As the explosions grew in intensity, the artillery barrage walked closer to their current location, forcing everyone to seek shelter in their foxholes.
While the artillery was keeping people’s heads down, the aerial dance of death between Allied and enemy aircraft began overhead as the Russian and Indian Air Forces battled to clear the skies for their ground-attack planes to rush in and begin to clobber the Allied positions.
*******
Mons, Belgium
Global Defense Force Headquarters
General Cotton rubbed his temples, trying to ward away the migraine that was beginning to take hold. He realized that he had been clenching his jaw and attempted to relax his face. The sense of calm confidence he’d felt just a day earlier was now replaced by a feeling of surprise, dread, and uncertainty. The Alliance had finally gotten over the shocking assassination of President Gates when the Russians, who up to that point had appeared like they were merely going to try and hold on to their previous gains in Ukraine, had opted to go on the offensive and try to grab more land. Rather than spreading their forces out to hit the Allied lines across multiple sections, they had balled their armored forces up into a giant wrecking ball and summarily punched a hole in their lines.
In twenty-four hours, the Russians had broken through the Allied positions at Ternopil, bypassing the provisional Ukrainian capital city of Lviv. Now they were pushing their way into Poland. The French 3rd Armored Division had been caught off guard but had managed to stop the Russians at the critical road junction in Radymno, Poland, before they could advance any further. What troubled General Cotton most about this offensive was not knowing which direction the Russian Army was going to drive toward. Until he knew whether the Russians were moving their troops toward Kraków or Warsaw, he didn’t have a clear choice on where he should order the German armored divisions he had been holding in reserve.
Turning to look at his operations chief, Cotton asked, “What is the status of our air forces? Are we able to send any additional fighters to help blunt the Russian offensive?”
A French colonel pulled up a screen on his computer, showing a real-time readout of the aircraft currently in the air, and the ones being sortied over the next several hours. Looking over the air packages, he quickly saw that a squadron of French Mirage 2000s and a squadron of Italian Eurofighters that had been slated for ground support missions were twenty minutes from taking up station over the battlespace.
“Sir, we have two squadrons that should be in position within twenty minutes,” answered the colonel. “Do you want me to have them vectored to a specific sector?”
“Two squadrons? Surely that can’t be all we have in the air right now,” General Cotton thought in disgust.
“Yes. Have them support the French 3rd Armored Division at once,” he answered. “Send an order that they are to provide whatever support the division commander tasks them with. Also, we need to get more squadrons in the air now. What additional aircraft do we have that can be scrambled?” General Cotton spoke with a sense of urgency that he hoped the others in the command center were picking up on. He needed these guys to realize how much danger the Allied positions were in. If they couldn’t contain the Russian offensive, it would unravel their entire line.
The French colonel scanned the electronic roster. “With your permission, two squadrons of American A-10s are returning from a ground support mission, Sir,” explained the colonel. “They were supposed to have several hours of downtime, but we can order them to return to the battlespace immediately if you’d like. Also, there’s a Dutch squadron of F-16s that can be reconfigured for ground attack as well. They’re currently slated to replace a squadron of German Eurofighters that are performing an air supremacy role. Would you like me to have the orders sent retasking all three squadrons, General?” he asked.
A smile spread across Cotton’s face. “You said two squadrons of Warthogs?” he verified.
The colonel nodded. A grin appeared on his face as well.
“Yes, Colonel. Send the orders to the squadrons and get it done,” ordered Cotton. “Tell them they are to report to the French sector and provide them with as much ground support as possible. Also, send a message to the 23rd Fighter Group that until they are told otherwise, their A-10s are assigned to the French 3rd Armored Division. We have to stop that Russian offensive before they gain too much ground.”
Feeling more confident about the air mission, he looked over at his logistics team, which was being run by a US Army colonel. Colonel Cobb had proven to be a logistical wizard since being assigned there, and he was a National Guardsman to boot. In the private sector, he’d worked as the Northeast logistics chief for UPS, so he was certainly no stranger to the world of logistics.
General Cotton walked over and got Cobb’s attention. “Colonel Cobb, how are we doing on ammunition for the French and German divisions at the front right now?” he inquired.
Colonel Troy Cobb was a short, portly man. Had he not been in his last year before retirement from the New York National Guard, he probably would’ve been kicked out for his weight. As it was, his guard unit was letting him finish out his last year so that he could qualify for his retirement. He was happy to be a part of this mission and smiled as Cotton approached him.
“Ah, General. I’m glad you asked about that. Both divisions are good on ammunition right now, but I’m having a devil of a time getting a service contract approved through the Pentagon. Normally, I wouldn’t even be dealing with something like this, but a colleague of mine at UPS reached out to me and asked if I could possibly intervene for them since I work on your staff.”
General Cotton held up a hand up to stop Colonel Cobb. “Whoa, I’m not sure I can directly get involved in something like that. I know you work for UPS and all, but we can’t use our positions to get preferred treatment or contracts like that. You know how it works—it has to go through the proper channels at DoD.”
“I understand, General, but I’m not sure you realize how dire our ammunition situation is. We’re burning through munitions nearly as fast as they’re being produced. Right now, the Pentagon is shipping the vast majority of our ammo through th
e Global Defense Force convoys. When a convoy arrives, we find ourselves flush with munitions, so that’s not the issue. The problem is the time to transport it. Right now, it’s taking close to three weeks from the time a unit of ammunition is produced to the time that it’s shipped and transported across the ocean to us. That’s also assuming none of the freighters moving our munitions aren’t sunk or heavily damaged on their way across the Atlantic. We need this contract approved if we’re going to keep ourselves supplied,” Cobb explained.
“OK, what’s the hold-up, then?” Cotton inquired, arms crossed.
“UPS has a contract to transport munitions to Europe and Asia, only they need an amendment to the contract, and the Pentagon isn’t wanting to give it to them. The contract says they can’t provide delivery of munitions to any location that’s within 300 kilometers of the current front lines. While that sounds fine, we need that ammunition to be delivered a lot closer.” He pulled out a map that had a number of yellow stars written on it denoting supply depots.
“As you can see, that demarcation places all of Poland, Romania, Denmark and the Nordic states completely out of bounds.”
General Cotton nodded. He suddenly understood exactly how vital this was.
Colonel Cobb pressed forward. “If you can get the Pentagon to approve the amendment, Sir, then UPS is willing to have their pilots fly in as close as 50 kilometers from the front to deliver much-needed munitions.”
Cotton took a deep breath. “All right, you sold me,” he relented. “Get me the numbers of the people I need to talk to and I’ll make the calls later today. In the meantime, I need you to work your magic and make sure we don’t run out of food, fuel and munitions. Got it?”
Cobb nodded and set to work.
Russian Underground
