Charge To Battle: A World War 3 Techno-Thriller Action Event

by Nick Ryan

  Waddingham shrugged. “He still will be. Once we get across this bridge…”

  “Maybe,” Edge sounded fatalistic and gloomy. “But how hard is the next day going to be, and how much harder is that bastard going to make it for us now I’ve embarrassed him?”

  NORWID-SLOWACK

  NORTH EASTERN POLAND

  Chapter 3:

  The Strykers of 1st Squadron were concealed in a vast stretch of dense woodland eight miles to the west of Norwid-Slowack. Edge’s Platoon arrived in the middle of the afternoon. As Edge’s vehicle swerved off the road and nosed into the dappled shadows of the forest, he noticed two camouflaged Stryker A1 IM-SHORAD’s on air defense duty. The vehicles were new, armed with Hellfire and Stinger missiles.

  Deeper into the woods Edge discovered the TOC, surrounded by two M1130 Command Strykers and a scatter of Humvees. The tents of the Tactical Operations Center had been set up in a clearing of mossy, muddy ground overhung by tall trees. The scouts dismounted their vehicles and stretched weary muscles. The lead KTO Rosomak appeared a few minutes later and slewed to an abrupt halt, spattering mud and digging deep tire trenches in the soft earth. Behind the first Wolverine, the rest of the Polish vehicles parked in a chaotic litter between the trees. The troops dismounted from their vehicles, irritable, hungry and tired.

  Major Nowakowski stepped down from the lead vehicle like an actor making a grand entrance. He tightened his lips and gave Edge an unfriendly glance.

  An aide appeared from the nearest tent. He wore the harried frown of a low-level functionary. He feigned a smile and threw the Polish Major a salute.

  “Welcome, Major Nowakowski,” the aide said with effusive politeness. “Everyone is inside waiting for you,” he glanced sideways to let Edge know that he was not included. “Please follow me.”

  Edge watched the Polish Major disappear inside the TOC and turned his attention to his men and their machines. Twenty minutes later he received an abrupt summons.

  The TOC tent was twenty feet long, supported by three steel collapsible ‘Y’ frames from which were hung fluorescent lights. The floor was covered in rubber matting and the interior filled with folding tables and chairs. Most of the chairs were occupied by staff and much of the table surface littered with communication equipment, cables, water bottles, discarded helmets and intelligence imagery.

  Lieutenant Colonel Marion Sutcliffe, commander of the ‘War Eagles’ 1st Cavalry Squadron was a tall, thin-faced man with deep-set intelligent eyes surrounded by a fine web of wrinkles. He had the sun-browned features of a man who was accustomed to staring at far horizons. He moved with energy and urgency, extending his hand as the aide led Edge into the tent’s darkened gloom.

  “Sergeant Edge. I hope your troopers are ready to work.”

  Edge nodded.

  Another man stepped forward. He introduced himself as a NATO Brigade Liaison Officer. He wore a uniform Edge had never seen before and wore it awkwardly. He looked, Edge guessed, more like a Brussels diplomat than a soldier. He had a dry, desiccated voice, thin fussy hands and smelled faintly of cologne. His manner was impatient and brusque.

  Edge sat at the far end of the table. He sensed underlying tension as though he had been brought to the briefing in the midst of an argument. The Lieutenant Colonel and his staff were grim-faced and tight lipped. Major Nowakowski sat with his arms folded stubbornly and a flush of temper on his cheeks.

  “Now everyone is assembled and in agreement,” the NATO Officer said with significance in a thick German accent, “perhaps we can discuss the details of the mission.”

  The Squadron’s S-2 and S-3 brought the meeting up to date with the progress of the Russian column heading towards Warsaw and then sharpened their focus to the area surrounding the village of Norwid-Slowack. The available satellite imagery was old; US spy services were overburdened with tasks across the length and breadth of Europe so there had been no updated images for the past eighteen hours.

  Edge was handed one of the photographs and he studied it for a long moment. The grainy image showed the erratic line of the Sypitki River and in the bottom left corner the village of Norwid-Slowack. The settlement was an untidy sprawl of around fifty buildings built on either side of a road that crossed the river and continued north through the saddle of a long ridge. Smaller knolls of high ground hunched close to the riverbank on both sides. A second image showed an enlargement of the bridge itself between a fringe of riverbank bushes.

  Marion Sutcliffe took over the briefing, addressing Edge directly. His tone was strained with bitterness as though he approached a delicate point that had been argued before Edge arrived.

  “Sergeant, your mission is to take a dismounted patrol forward under the cover of darkness to scout the approach to the bridge northeast of the village. We want you to discover whether it is defended by the enemy and if so, at what strength. Our crossing is planned for sunrise tomorrow morning. The attack will be led by Major Nowakowski’s armored vehicles and his Territorial Defense Force Company.” It sounded as though it aggrieved the Cavalry commander to utter the words, and Edge suspected this point was the source of the awkwardness he sensed. “The Polish column will be supported by mortars on the outskirts of the village and our Strykers close behind them.”

  “But my troops will be first across the bridge. I insist on this fact,” Major Nowakowski did not address Lieutenant Colonel Sutcliffe but instead turned to the NATO Officer, waving his finger. “Unless this is clearly agreed, there will be no crossing. None!”

  “We have already arbitrated the point, Major,” the NATO officer confirmed with a tired sigh. “Is there anything else to be discussed?”

  The men around the tent curtly shook their heads. Sutcliffe gave Edge a sideways glance. The Lieutenant Colonel looked eager for the briefing to end. “You’ll get your formal OPORD later today, Sergeant,” Sutcliffe said. OPORDS were a formal five paragraph set of instructions for a mission that included details of the situation, the objective of the mission, the method of execution, the administration and the command signals. “In the meantime, I suggest you and your men get some chow and some rest. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long, uncomfortable night…”

  *

  It was 0100 hours when the Stryker braked to a halt behind one of several low knolls that stood to the east of Norwid-Slowack. Edge climbed to the top of the rise with Waddingham and two other team scouts. The four men lay amongst rocks and dirt and peered out into the night.

  To their west the tiny village was cast in pale moonlight. The town’s church stood at the far end of the settlement, its ancient stone bell tower clearly visible against a backdrop of stars. The village seemed deserted, or asleep.

  Edge traversed his thermal binoculars towards the river, picking up the fringe of shrubs that lined the Sypitki, and then finally the outline of the bridge itself. He kept swinging the binoculars until he was looking due north, inspecting the ground between his position and the riverbank. He traced a line across the grassy meadow before them and picked out the shadowed hint of several clumped bushes.

  Further east, he saw a jumble of broken ground and the skeletal remains of a building. It might once have been a barn, or perhaps a small farm shed. Now only ruins remained. It was a tempting place for concealment, but Edge guessed the distance to the bridge to be almost a hundred yards. There were a number of bushes closer, although they afforded less cover. One in particular caught his eye. It was a clump of wild shrubs about thirty yards short of the bridge and about the same distance from the verge of the road. He steered Waddingham’s gaze onto the site.

  “There,” he said. “That’s our LUP. An hour before sunrise, I’ll go forward and reconnoiter the approach to the bridge.”

  Waddingham nodded. The four men slid back off the skyline until they were in dead ground. Edge got quickly to his feet.

  “We will take the bushes,” he told Waddingham then turned to the other two team scouts. “You guys will get to the ruined building and find go
od cover.”

  They marked their objectives with the vehicle commander and then prepared themselves to go forward. Edge found Waddingham with his face painted and his drag bag at his feet, suspended at the end of a long tether. “You ready?”

  “Let’s do it.”

  Edge checked his watch. It was four hours until sunrise. He estimated they would need to cross three hundred yards of grassy ground to reach the LUP.

  Edge and Waddingham crept around the foot of the knoll, keeping to the patches of soft shadow until they reached a rusted fence. They dropped to their stomachs beneath a buckled line of barbed wire and began the slow crawl towards their objective. Halfway across the field they were sweating from the exertion and strain, grunting softly from the effort of dragging their bodies and equipment with painstaking stealth across the field. Edge stopped for a moment and slowly lifted his head to orientate himself. Far in the distance the long crest beyond the river was a solid black silhouette, its jagged ridgeline shown in stark relief against the lowering moon. Edge put his head back down and crawled on. His knees and elbows ached, the skin rubbed tender by relentless abrasion.

  At last, and with a silent sigh of relief, the ground opened up before him and he slithered down into a waist-high depression, veiled from sight by shrubs. Edge rolled onto his back, breathing deeply, and stared up at the fading night stars. Sweat ran in runnels across his brow and dripped off his chin.

  Vince Waddingham appeared on the lip of the depression several minutes later. Edge pulled him down into cover and the two men sat hunched close together until their heartbeats steadied and their breathing became regular.

  Edge checked his watch. There were ninety-five minutes until sunrise.

  The two men rolled onto their stomachs and crawled silently forward to the lip of the depression. Through the screen of bushes to their front they could hear the soft burble of the river nearby. Edge took the thermal binoculars from his drag bag and studied the bridge.

  Then, suddenly, a hoarse voice whispered Edge’s name from out of the darkness. He spun his head, a lump of alarm rising thick in his throat. The grass close to the depression swayed unnaturally in the still night. The voice called again, strained but still a whisper.

  A figure emerged out of the darkness, crawling awkwardly. The shadowy shape dropped down into the depression in a small puff of dust and a tumble of limbs. Edge pounced on the man, going for his weapon. He heard a sharp intake of painful breath and then a paint-streaked face loomed out of the moonlit darkness.

  With a shock, Edge recognized the Polish woman he had trained at Bemowo Piskie. He seized her wrist in a vice-like grip and pinned her down to the ground.

  “Kalina? What the fuck are you doing?” Edge hissed. Their faces were just inches apart, his voice hoarse.

  “I have orders,” she winced. Edge was lying on top of her, crushing the air from her lungs.

  “I could have fucking shot you. Jesus!”

  “I have orders,” the young woman whispered again. “Direct from Major Nowakowski. He told me to deliver them personally.”

  “How did you find us?”

  “Your vehicle commander showed me the position you had selected.”

  Edge and Waddingham exchanged glances. In the darkness Waddingham’s features were a camouflaged blur, but Edge sensed the other man’s suspicion.

  Edge rolled off the woman. She lay for a moment, breathing hoarsely, her knees drawn up to her chest. Waddingham leaned across the ditch and whispered to Edge, “I don’t like this, man.”

  “Neither do I,” Edge said.

  He eyed the young woman carefully, his lips pressed into a grim line of foreboding. “What are the new orders?”

  “General Nowakowski wants you to reconnoiter the far side of the bridge – not just the approach,” she said softly. “He said that because Polish troops will be making the first crossing; it is important to know if the bridge is wired with explosives, or if the far ridge is defended with Russian tanks.”

  Edge sat back on his heels and stared blankly into the distance. It was a suicide mission. It was vengeance for humiliating the Polish Major.

  Vince Waddingham reached into his drag bag for the radio. “Fuck that,” he hissed vehemently. “Let’s see what the Lieutenant Colonel has to say.”

  “No,” Edge said, stilling Waddingham’s hand. But then a wave of bitter resentment overwhelmed him.

  “Bastard! What a vile, petty, pox-faced, vengeful fucking prima Dona. What a fucking cowardly, incompetent cretin.” He bunched his fist and punched at the dirt in a fit of impotent frustration. Then he wheeled on the woman, his jaw clenched and his eyes savage.

  “Fine. Go back and tell that arrogant primped up peacock I’ll reconnoiter the far side of the bridge.”

  “No,” Kalina shook her head sadly. “I won’t go back. And I won’t call him those names.”

  “You have orders to stay with us?”

  “Yes,” she said. “But also, Major Nowakowski is my father.”

  *

  The three figures lay in the dirt, side-by-side, their faces powdered in a thin film of dust. The night was eerily silent. Low in the starlit sky the moon began to fade, presaging the coming dawn.

  Edge lifted his head above the rim of the depression and peered through the screen of foliage, his gaze picking up the bank of the Sypitki River and the silhouette of the steel-trussed bridge. Further into the distance, the ridge on the far side of the river loomed as a black brooding menace.

  Edge sank back down out of sight and glanced at his watch. “Five more minutes,” he muttered.

  Neither Waddingham or Kalina replied. They were pre-occupied; caught up in the snare of their own rising anxieties. At sunrise the Polish militia and the entire 1st Squadron, 2nd Cavalry would appear behind them, the column of armored troop carriers snaking down the narrow road, through the village and out onto the open plain. If the bridge was heavily defended by Russians, the chances the Cavalry could make a successful crossing would be dramatically reduced. Just two T-90 tanks, hull-down and supported by heavy machine guns, could turn the road into a charnel house of slaughter.

  Edge checked his watch again. He could feel the flutter of anxiety in his guts; the nervous apprehension that made his hands tremble and turned his mouth dry.

  “Fuck it,” he growled. “I’m going now.”

  Vince Waddingham said nothing. He shifted position until he was laying with the barrel of his M4 resting on the rim of the depression to offer covering fire. Kalina rolled six feet to her left, her sudden movement kicking up a little cloud of dirt. She came up into a kneeling position and sighted her weapon on the steel frame of the bridge, left elbow braced on her left knee, the butt of her automatic weapon pulled tight against her shoulder. She gave Edge a short nodding jerk of her head.

  Edge scrambled over the lip of the depression and rose to a cautious crouch. After laying prone throughout the interminable wait his legs felt rubbery beneath him. He could feel his heart pound against the cage of his ribs. He waited for the wicked retort of an enemy rifle, his whole body tensed for the hammer-blow impact.

  Nothing.

  Edge took a dozen cautious steps forward, weapon raised, finger curled around the trigger, his eyes wide, his head turning ceaselessly. He stopped suddenly and froze, his senses alert and his head cocked to the side. He stood like that – unmoving and tensed – for a full thirty seconds while rivulets of sweat trickled down his back.

  When he finally reached the shadows of the bridge, he was trembling with pent-up tension. He threw himself down into the long grass. He could hear his own breath sawing loudly in his ears. He scanned the far bank of the river, fringed by a low hedge of bushes, and remained motionless for long minutes. In the fading moonlight, the surface of the Sypitki looked like a ribbon of soft grey silk.

  “When do we do something?” Edge asked himself. “We do it now!”

  He got to his feet and leaned against a steel girder of the bridge. The metal was col
d, the grey paint flaking to reveal rusted rivets. Standing in the soft light, he felt exposed and vulnerable. An oily sensation of dread coiled in the pit of his guts. He caught the taste of it in the back of his throat; something rank and fetid. He recognized it then. He was afraid.

  The realization dismayed him. Anxiety’s icy tentacles constricted his legs and squeezed his chest until he felt utterly paralyzed.

  You must move now. If you don’t keep going, the fear will break you.

  With a tremendous effort of will, he pushed himself upright and stepped onto the open roadway. The gravel crunched beneath his feet; the sound so loud it made him cringe. Before him the steel truss bridge across the Sypitki was two lanes wide, the bridge deck covered in asphalt, the guardrail bowed and buckled in several places. The steel support beams were painted grey, streaked with years of rust. The abutments along the shoreline were concrete slabs surrounded by boulders that were dark with green slime and smeared with muddy tidelines.

  With sweat trickling into his eyes, Edge took a step forward and then another, pacing cautiously, keeping close to the guardrail. He breathed through his open mouth. His legs felt stiff and jerking, his heart hammered.

  He reached the far side of the bridge and stepped down onto the sloping approach slab. The shoulder of the road was gravel-covered, falling away to a fringe of dense bush. Edge took three more paces and stopped abruptly. The road before him curved to the left and then passed between the saddle of two long tree-covered ridges. Edge scanned the darkened rise, looking for tell-tale signs that the crossing was defended. Around him the horizon became lit with the first watery glow of the approaching dawn.

  He saw nothing.