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

by Nick Ryan

  A figure moved across the headlights, gestured aggressively and then cursed. The sound of the man’s voice carried clearly through the woods. Edge smiled savagely.

  “I’m going to kill the bastard.”

  “What about the Russians?”

  “Forget them,” Edge hissed. “I want Nowakowski. The bastard has to pay for all the men who died today because of his cowardice.”

  Edge studied the tactical situation more closely. A narrow natural trail ran through the woods a few yards to their right, fringed by tall trees and dense clumps of bush. It might have once been a wildlife path, used by deer during the summer months. The ground was hard and worn smooth.

  “I’m going to lie in ambush,” Edge explained. “I want you to circle around to the far side of the Wolverine. In exactly seven minutes time I want you to open fire on the APC. Don’t hit anyone! I just want you to frighten the life out of the bastards. Best guess is they’ll run like cowards directly away from the attack. If they do, I’ll be waiting for Nowakowski.”

  “Then what?”

  “Then you follow the fire trail back to the road. I’ll be along once I’ve finished doing what needs to be done.”

  Vince Waddingham said nothing. He ghosted away into the night, moving like a wraith to circle around the Wolverine and take up position. Edge watched the minutes and seconds tick down on the luminous dial of his wristwatch. With his free hand he reached around his body armor, past his spare M4 ammunition magazines, and felt for the M9 bayonet in its scabbard. He drew the wicked blade and absently tested the razor edge. Contempt and loathing came boiling up within him, his anger so fierce that it took all his self-will to restrain himself, to wait in the shadows patiently.

  Even though he counted down the seconds and anticipated Waddingham’s sudden fusillade, the sudden abrupt roar of gunfire still startled Edge. The bullets whanged off the steel hull of the Wolverine and ricocheted away into the trees. A tongue of flickering fiery flame lit up the night. There was a short split-second of silence, and then Waddingham fired again, this time spraying bullets into the canopy of tree branches overhead.

  Edge heard the sudden unholy panic; the screams of startled fright from the men knotted around the Wolverine. He saw fleeting shapes flash across the headlights and then the sounds of desperate panting, crashing feet and gasps of terror.

  He sank deeper down in the shadows and held his breath. Waddingham fired again and Edge suspected he had shifted his position, like a herder driving cattle. The clamor of gunfire sounded close and deafeningly loud. Then the dark night fell silent but for the sounds of scampering feet and hoarse ragged panting.

  Edge drew himself tight, tensed his muscles like a coiled spring. He heard a crash of sound further away to his left, somewhere in the distance. It sounded like one of the men cannoned off a tree trunk in the dark and fell. Edge put the noise out of his mind and refocused. He could hear scurried footsteps approaching, the vibration of pounding feet coming up through the ground. Someone grunted, brushed clumsily past a bush and whimpered with fright. Then a voice cried out in fear and panic.

  “Wait! I order you to wait for me!”

  Nowakowski!

  Edge felt the sudden surge of adrenalin and anticipation course through his veins. He clenched his fist around the handle of the M9 bayonet. His heart slammed against the cage of his ribs. He could feel the sinews of his muscles screw tight.

  A figure ran past him in the night, running with long strides across the worn narrow path. Edge saw a slim silhouette flit past his hiding place and a moment later heavy pounding feet approached. They seemed leaden and dragging across the ground. He heard a breathless gasp and a labored grunt. Edge pounced.

  He leaped from the hiding place and wrapped his arms around the second figure as it passed, bringing the man down like a lion hunting a deer. His weight and the shock of surprise collapsed the man’s legs, and he crashed to the ground with Edge on top of him. The man screamed in fear; a high-pitched squeal of sheer terror. Edge punched the man hard in the face and then clamped his big hand over the open bleeding mouth.

  “You gutless, filthy, cowardly bastard!” Edge spat. He could smell Major Nowakowski’s rancid breath, smell the stench of fear ooze from his sweat-soaked body. Nowakowski reacted instinctively, galvanized by shock. He flailed his arms, trying to land punches. Edge swatted his hands away and punched him hard across the jaw.

  The Polish Major went limp. His head lolled groggily to the side and a trickle of blood spilled from the corner of his mouth. Edge seized the Major by the collar and hauled his heavy bulk into the dark of the shadows.

  “Your cowardice killed dozens of good, brave men today, you gutless bastard,” Edge seethed through gritted teeth. The Major lay on his back in the dirt with Edge straddling his chest. Edge had the blade of the M9 bayonet pressed against the Polish officer’s flabby neck flesh, barely able to restrain himself from plunging the blade through his heart, killing him outright. “They died because of you, you filthy fucking coward!”

  “Is.. is that you, Edge?” Major Nowakowski babbled. His white face turned to find him in the darkness and he gave a sudden gasp of alarm. “Sergeant Edge? What are you doing?”

  The pounding footsteps of the other fleeing men faded into the distance. The forest turned eerily silent. The only light came from the sprinkle of stars overhead, faded by drifting tendrils of smoke that twisted through the trees.

  “Edge!” Nowakowski tried to pantomime a tone of arrogant command into his voice. “Damn you, get off me. I’ll have you court-martialed for this I swear I –”

  Edge punched the Major hard in the face. “You shut your fucking mouth,” Edge seethed. “You don’t have the guts to fight. All you’re good for is sending other men to their deaths. Men like the troopers who attacked the bridge tonight. Men like the ones I led into battle while you sulked and cowered in the forest and let them get killed. So shut your mouth.”

  Nowakowski tried to wriggle from beneath Edge’s weight. Edge pressed down until the wind was squeezed from the other man’s lungs and he lay gasping and choking for breath. The fight and bluster went from the Major and he became suddenly obsequious and fawning. “I.. I’m sorry, Edge. It wasn’t my fault,” he whined. “My officers. They – ”

  Edge pricked the tip of the bayonet into the soft flesh under the Major’s chin and a trickle of warm blood ran down his arm. The Major squealed like a stuck pig and his eyes flew wide with terror. He flapped his hands in the dirt and broke into pathetic mewling sobs.

  “Are you ready to die, you piece of shit? Are you ready to have your guts cut open and bleed to death? I’m told the pain is excruciating. I sincerely hope it is.”

  Edge raised the bayonet high and his snarling teeth flashed white in the darkness.

  Major Nowakowski threw up his hands to shield his face. “No!”

  Edge stilled his arm. Nowakowski licked his lips in nervous terror. “Anything. Anything you want.”

  Edge sneered. “You make me sick…”

  “Anything!”

  Edge slapped Nowakowski backhanded across the face. “Shut your fucking mouth and listen.”

  The Polish officer was weeping, his mouth wrought and blubbering.

  “You’re resigning your commission, immediately,” Edge said. “I don’t care what excuse you make, but you’re leaving the Army tonight. You will retire from service and from public life. You will never command troops in the field again. Do you understand?”

  Not trusting his voice, the Major swallowed hard and nodded jerky agreement.

  “Say it!” Edge demanded.

  “I agree!” Nowakowski almost shouted the words. “I give you my word. I will leave the Army tonight.”

  Edge let the tension go from his arm, then changed his mind. He steered the tip of the blade to the Major’s face and held it just an inch from his eye. “If I ever see or hear your name again, I’ll hunt you down. I will hunt you down and I will kill you in the worst way possible.
I will torture you until you scream for mercy and then I’ll slice your guts open and leave you for the vultures.” Edge made sure the Major saw the cruel promise in his eyes, then got to his feet. Major Nowakowski stood unsteadily. He was covered in dirt and mud, his face pale as wax. He took a couple of tentative steps towards the Wolverine and his legs almost collapsed beneath him.

  “Remember my promise, you disgusting piece of shit…” Edge called after him.

  Edge stood amidst the shadows and waited until the Wolverine rumbled into life and disappeared along the fire trail. He waited until the headlights were blotted out by the forest and the sound of the revving engine had faded. Slowly he sheathed the M9 bayonet and let out a long ragged sigh of breath.

  He felt deeply conflicted. He had wanted nothing more than to plunge his blade into the Polish officer’s chest and kill him. It was the least the man deserved for all the chaos, pain and death he had caused. He looked about the shadows. He knew, despite his orders, that Vince Waddingham would be hidden somewhere close by.

  “Did you hear that?” he asked softly.

  The Scout Team Leader appeared out of the darkness a few feet away and gave Edge an admonishing smile. “People skills,” he said in light-hearted rebuke. “I keep telling you – it’s why no one likes you…”

  *

  The battle for the bridge had been won, but the fighting was not yet over.

  At the crest of the road a pocket of Russians fought on against overwhelming odds, trapped and cut-off from retreat. With the scout Platoon’s Strykers blockading the road north and the Cavalry and Polish surging over the bridge, the Russians had no other choice but to fight or surrender.

  It was a brave, pitiful display of defiance that was quickly and brutally crushed. Fighting in the shadows of the two destroyed T-90’s, the Russians were overwhelmed by a fusillade of 50cal machine gun fire.

  When it was all over, an eerie silence descended across the battlefield. Without gunfire the blanket of darkness descended. Soldiers worked in the shadows to gather the dead and dying. The mutilated Russian corpses were piled in deep gruesome drifts by the side of the road. The American and Polish dead were transported from the field. Colonel Sutcliffe jumped the TOC to the far side of the bridge and a mobile field hospital was established. There were too many soldiers in need of urgent medical attention. The injured were left on stretchers in makeshift tents to await aid while medical staff weaved between the wounded dispensing temporary care. The surgeons worked through the night. Some of the wounded survived their ghastly injuries. Others did not.

  The Americans moved quickly to secure the vital crossing. Stryker A1 IM-SHORAD’s were positioned on the south side of the bridge on air defense duty. The vehicles, bristling with Hellfire and Stinger missiles, were the latest word in mobile air defense. They guarded the night sky against the threat of more Russian air attacks while on the ground, troopers armed with mobile Stinger systems climbed the crest of the ridge and set up air-defense outposts.

  A Troop of Strykers raced two miles north along the road and established a perimeter while the rest of the Squadron’s vehicles bivouacked for the night inside the forest. Men, bone-weary with fatigue and exhaustion, labored through the small hours of darkness to repair damage, re-load weapons and wash away the blood of battle.

  A solemn, silent despair enveloped the battlefield. The soldiers went about their work with quiet, grim purpose. Some muttered silent prayers of thanks for surviving the hellish night. Others mourned the death of friends and comrades. It was a victory without celebration; a triumph but at terrible cost.

  Russian prisoners were herded at gunpoint away into the night. They marched in ragged columns, hands on their heads, their steps bovine and leaden with defeat. The Americans had no contingency for POW’s. The Cavalry was a flying column sent to harass the flank of the approaching Russian spearhead. It was one of the many unseen consequences of war that caused logistical nightmares.

  In the night the rats came for the corpses and crows gathered to await the first light of dawn. The stench of death and blood hung like a pall. A fire broke out in the forest and a fresh storm of smoke boiled black into the sky. The blaze burned across the eastern ridge, but nobody bothered to contain its spread.

  Edge and Waddingham emerged from the trees through a curtain of smoke and stared at the devastation. It was a scene from an apocalyptic nightmare; dark twisted skeletons of destroyed vehicles littered the shell-churned earth. Between the steel carcasses smoke-shrouded soldiers trudged like zombies.

  Kalina emerged from the far side of the road; just another drab, weary figure spattered in mud and blood. Her shoulders were hunched, her expression inconsolably sad. She looked, Edge thought, to have aged through the night.

  “I’m glad you are alive,” Edge said.

  Kalina nodded. “Many are not. Over half my militia Company were killed or injured, and I cannot find the Major – my father.”

  Edge said nothing.

  Shaded headlight slits loomed out of the distant darkness and a few minutes later Lieutenant Colonel Marion Sutcliffe’s command Stryker steered a weaving path across the wreckage-littered bridge. The Colonel stepped down from the vehicle gingerly, wincing from the effort. He stood and stared for long solemn minutes, overwhelmed by the vast devastation.

  Edge and Waddingham left Kalina to attend to a wounded member of the militia. They drifted towards the bridge. Colonel Sutcliffe recognized their mud-smeared faces. He nodded to acknowledge Edge’s contribution.

  “How did the Polish militia fight?” Colonel Sutcliffe asked. His voice was low. This was not a moment for loudly barked orders. Not here and not now – not after so many had died. The battlefield felt solemn as a cemetery, and subdued men’s voices with somber respect.

  “When they finally joined the battle, they were brave,” Edge said.

  “And the Russians?”

  Edge shrugged. “Most chose to fight to the death rather than surrender. Every inch of ground we won had to be paid for with the blood of heroes. If what happened here is a fair indication of the enemy’s morale and fighting abilities, this is going to be a long and costly war.”

  Vince Waddingham nodded to confirm Edge’s assessment, but then a cocky smile drifted to his lips. “The Russians should have defended with elite troops, sir. They forgot the golden rule of war. If you ain’t Cav, you ain’t shit.”

  Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/NickRyanWW3

  Website: https://www.worldwar3timeline.com

  Acknowledgements:

  The greatest thrill of writing, for me, is the opportunity to research the subject matter and to work with military, political and historical experts from around the world. I had a lot of help researching this book from the following groups and people. I am forever grateful for their willing enthusiasm and cooperation. Any remaining technical errors are mine.

  Randy Harris

  Randy is a retired Cavalry Major with more than 43 years experience in the US Army and Army National Guard. Randy was instrumental in helping me to understand the structure of a Cavalry Squadron and all its components.

  NATO enhanced Forward Presence Battle Group Poland

  The Public Affairs folks at the NATO eFP in Poland were helpful explaining a broad overview of the Bemowo Piskie training area and the role of certain buildings within the facility.

  Dion Walker Sr.

  Sergeant First Class (Retired) Dion Walker Sr, served 21 proud years in the US Army with deployments during Operation Desert Shield/Storm, Operation Intrinsic Action and Operation Iraqi Freedom. For 17 years he was a tanker in several Armor Battalions and Cavalry Squadrons before spending 4 years as an MGS (Stryker Mobile Gun System) Platoon Sergeant in a Stryker Infantry Company.

  More than anyone else, Dion’s advice and knowledge made this novel possible and I am forever in his debt for his enthusiastic support, his prompt help with research questions and his willingness to help make each scene as authentic as possible.

  Maj
or John Ambelang, Public Affairs Officer, 2d Cavalry Regiment

  Major Ambelang was a great help while I was plotting and conducting preliminary research for the novel, providing clarification and some details about the organizational structure of a US Cavalry Squadron.

  Jill Blasy:

  Jill has the editorial eye of an eagle! I trust Jill to read every manuscript, picking up typographical errors, missing commas, and for her general ‘sense’ of the book. Jill has been a great friend and a valuable part of my team for several years.

  Jan Wade:

  Jan is my Personal Assistant and an indispensable part of my team. She is a thoughtful, thorough, professional and persistent pleasure to work with. Chances are, if you’re reading this book, it’s due to Jan’s engaging marketing and promotional efforts.