Red Metal

CHAPTER 19

Colonel Danilo Dryagin left his assault element’s staging area in the snowy Belarus countryside just after midnight and reported to the headquarters tent for a meeting with General Eduard Sabaneyev outside the railway station in the town of Pažežyn.

The general and his colonel shook hands standing next to a Bumerang, an amphibious wheeled armored personnel carrier and the newest addition to Russia’s ranks of powerful armored troop vehicles. It was a twenty-five-ton monstrosity with a 510-horsepower engine, heavy armor protection, and a remote-controlled turret that carried an array of weapons, including a cannon, an anti-tank missile launcher, and a 7.62mm machine gun.

In addition to its crew of three, the APC could be loaded with eight combat troops, giving the vehicle more firepower through its ability to dismount soldiers to bring them into a fight.

There would be 170 Bumerangs involved in Red Metal’s Western Spear attack into Europe, and this meant the entire operation relied on the success of this new piece of equipment.

Colonel Danilo Dryagin was a tallish man with thinning brown hair. Wiry, lean, he looked anything but the part of the assault force commander and the subordinate of the dashing General Sabaneyev. But what he lacked in appearance, he made up for with experience and single-mindedness. He treated his orders like they were a complete certainty, a foregone conclusion, then worked tirelessly to see them properly enacted. Dryagin was a true believer of Sabaneyev, and this made him invaluable.

They had worked together for more than eight years of Colonel Dryagin’s twenty-five-year career, and the general had carefully tracked Dryagin’s progress along the way. Six months earlier Sabaneyev manufactured a reason to visit the colonel as he trained his men in the field. What he saw was a quiet professional, not one taken to fits of anger or outbursts of emotion. He had an inherent understanding of tactics and was a natural with the men. Just the kind of well-loved, charismatic leader Sabaneyev needed.

Sabaneyev knew he had little rapport with troops himself — not that he cared. He had a larger sense of the battlefield, understood the “operational level of war,” the in-between ground where few tacticians could translate their experiences at the company or battalion level and where few of the higher headquarters strategy and policy makers could effectively plan.

Sabaneyev asked, “Where do you sleep tonight?”

“Sir, I’ll go to the reconnaissance element directly following our meeting. I will spend the night among them.”

“Why not with the assault wave commanders? I’m counting on you to direct them proficiently.”

“The reconnaissance elements, the GAZ Tigrs, they are where I place my bid for success. What path they forge, the rest will follow.”

Ah, again he proves his worth. He wishes to stay with the frontline troops, thought the general.

They walked together to the headquarters tent and sat on folded chairs. Several gas lanterns and a camp stove burned brightly, and smoky haze gave a warmth to the glow. An unsecured tent flap occasionally blew open, stirring the smoke and making the flame flicker.

Sabaneyev’s headquarters personnel with him were not used to the cold like their infantry and reconnaissance brothers, and someone grumbled for the latest intruder to close the flap. Several men on watch were bundled in their cold-weather gear manning the radios and maps. Those off watch slept, huddled up in groups against the edges of the tents, not willing to brave the cold outdoors, their sleeping bags wrapped around them like cocoons.

Sabaneyev said, “Ensure you stay in constant touch with my headquarters. I cannot support you if you try to go it alone. My train will try to stay with you, but in several phases you will be at the edge of my radios… and, more importantly, my fire support.”

Sabaneyev stared into the fire now as he reached over to grab a worn leather map case next to his chair. He opened it and pointed to a checkpoint on the Polish-German border. “What’s this?”

“Checkpoint twenty, sir.”

“You have it memorized?”

“I have them all memorized, sir.”

Sabaneyev stopped himself from his urge to quiz the man further; he didn’t need to check his subordinate’s knowledge. The man knew his orders; that was why the general had selected him. If anyone could lead the crucial Western Spear of Red Metal, it was Colonel Danilo Dryagin.

“Do not forget the prisoners,” the general commanded. “They are critical. Your men must know the NATO ranks by heart.”

“We do, sir.”

Sabaneyev stood, and Dryagin followed. “Good luck, Colonel. I will see you in Stuttgart for a drink before the trip back.”

“Yes, sir,” Dryagin said with a salute.

Fifteen minutes later Dryagin’s driver delivered him to the front ranks of his troops. A company of armor, T-14 Armata tanks, was staged in and among the trees. They were not enforcing nighttime camouflage, but that was by design. Let the West count their numbers by satellite. Let them underestimate them.

The T-14, the latest-generation Russian main battle tank, included explosive reactive armor (ERA) and a new composition of layered steel alloy, called 44S-sv-Sh. The ERA was called Malachit in Russian and consisted of bricks of explosive that detonated incoming missiles, a part of the Russian fourth-generation defensive systems intended to mitigate what was seen as the West’s obsession with antiarmor missiles fired from aircraft.

Dryagin walked through the woods toward the reconnaissance forces now. They were in a spot specially chosen just kilometers from the Polish border. The music and the large campfires of the tankers behind him were replaced by the relative silence of the woods and his quiet reconnaissance forces.

“Who walks?” came a commanding voice from within the woods, startling the colonel out of his thoughts.

“It’s Colonel Dryagin,” he said, realizing he had walked farther than he’d expected.

“Very well, sir. Advance to be recognized,” said the voice from the trees.

Colonel Dryagin continued forward, and when he was within ten paces of where he supposed the voice was coming from, he saw the outline of a camouflaged machine-gun nest. Movement close on his left in the dark startled him. A sniper climbed out of a snow-filled gully along the farmers’ road.

“Colonel, do you not sleep?” asked the soldier.

“Not yet. Where is your commander?”

“Sir, the lieutenant colonel is with the Bumerang maintenance men going over some last-minute repairs. You’ll find him one hundred paces down this road. You cannot miss him.”

“Good. And nice work on this ambush. Don’t ever let your guard down.”

“Yes, sir.”

Colonel Dryagin walked the requisite pace count and still almost missed the vehicle staging area. The area was silent except for the sound of some chains being dragged as a vehicle was being rigged for towing by another vehicle.

“Reconnaissance force commander, report!” he exclaimed, a little louder than necessary, refusing to go looking for him in the freezing December night.

“I am here, sir,” came a voice next to the towing vehicle.

“Do we have a downed vehicle? I saw nothing of this on the headquarters report.”

The reconnaissance lieutenant colonel stood from where he was kneeling with the men, hooking up the tow latches. He wiped his bare hands with a grease rag. “Sir, we are towing it over to the tank maintenance section. It needs new batteries and we must replace two of the wheel drive assemblies. It will take no more than two hours. We will still be ready at the appointed time.”

“Let your men handle it. I wish to take a walk with you in the field. Inform your men so we are not shot. They are particularly alert tonight, a testament to your leadership.”

The lieutenant colonel beamed. “They are cold, sir, and nothing keeps men more alert than the possibility of lying down and never getting up.”

A freezing sleet began to fall. Dryagin looked up at it. “This weather will work to the advantage of Russia.” He nodded. “Very good.”