Red Metal

CHAPTER 33

Connolly and Griggs worked through Christmas morning sitting at their desks, searching for information about what the hell was going on in Central Europe.

Intelligence had been all but nonexistent in the first few hours; the two men spent as much time flipping through the news channels on the TV in the bullpen as they did querying DIA, CIA, and NSA networks.

Griggs pointed out he could pull up more real-time info about what was happening in East Timor or Paraguay than he could about the goings-on in Europe.

About one a.m. Pentagon time a shortwave radio operator near Kraków was picked up reporting Russian armor moving north of the city. This would have been the first solid nugget of a land invasion, if not for the fact that shortwave operators in Tallinn, Estonia; Dagda, Latvia; and Rudamina, Lithuania, also reported that the Russians were pouring over the border. No one knew if one or all of the reports were part of a Russian disinformation campaign or not, but no one believed the story of a thousand-mile-wide Russian invasion when no great buildup of forces near the borders had been detected.

Griggs brought Connolly his sixth cup of coffee around eleven a.m. He sat down next to the Marine and said, “If this was a real invasion of Europe, there is no way General Lazar wouldn’t be running it. He’s spent his whole life preparing for just this thing.”

Connolly said, “I don’t get it, either. Unless they are trying to pull a Patton with him.”

Griggs understood the reference. George Patton was America’s most storied general during the later part of World War II. The U.S. sent him to England, ostensibly to train his force for the upcoming Normandy invasion, but it was all a ruse. When the invasion came, he was very publicly still in England, causing many Germans to believe nothing important was happening on the Normandy coast.

The major said, “That would be a shrewd move, but I don’t buy it. Even if they didn’t use him in the attack on NATO, moving him out of Russia at a time when Russia must know it’s in danger of a counterstrike just seems crazy. If Sabaneyev is sending a massive invasion force to Europe, Russia is exposed.”

Connolly spun around to face his colleague. “But what if there is no invasion force that we missed? NATO has spent seventy years watching out for and preparing for the red tide pouring over into Western Europe. But something much smaller than a total Russian mobilization could punch through, especially if the Russians sowed enough confusion with satellite and communications interruptions.”

Griggs thought it over. “Holy shit, Dan! A raid. An operational raid!”

“It’s the only thing that makes sense. Several hundred pieces of frontline armor racing into Europe could punch a hole, especially at Christmas, when NATO’s guard is down, and especially when NATO can’t see or hear what’s happening.”

“But… but why?” Griggs asked. “They want to race around Europe blowing shit up just to show they can? What are they going to do, take Berlin and turn it into an enclave?”

“I have no idea,” Connolly said. “You want to call Nik over at NSA and ask him if he wouldn’t mind poking around at the exercises in Iran?”

Griggs whistled. “You don’t think he’s got enough going on with the invasion of Europe and the impending invasion of Taiwan?”

“Think about it. He’s been working on the Taiwan thing for four months. As for the European attack, there isn’t enough intel coming through for him to evaluate. The satellites over Iran are working fine. Give him a call.”

Griggs nodded. “Okay, can’t hurt.”

A twenty-one-year-old from Utah was the first American to see the Russian invasion, although it had begun sixteen hours earlier.

Three feet of snow blown into drifts made trudging through the heavy woods north of the hamlet of Hof difficult to nearly impossible for the lone reconnaissance scout, but he’d been ordered forward to take a look into the distance.

A team driving in three cavalry scout vehicles — Humvees with .50-cal mounted machine guns — had parked well inside the trees, enshrouded by the evening’s darkness and low clouds.

The young man from Utah fell more than once on the thirty-yard journey to the edge of the wood line, and each time he felt the embarrassment of knowing his mates and his sergeant were probably watching him.

He crunched through the snow, then finally dropped to his knees on a spot of ground with only a foot of accumulation, and began scanning with his NVGs along the autobahn in the distance. He saw nothing at first, but then his trained eyes picked up the faint outline of a row of vehicles proceeding at a steady pace to the southwest.

He’d watched civilian traffic all afternoon and evening long without alarm, but the unique aspect of this particular line of large vehicles was that none of them had their lights on.

He waited for them to come a little closer; then through the clear and frigid nighttime air he began to make out the individual shapes. Scout cars; long, fat, and low armored fighting vehicles he could not identify.

And then he saw the tanks.

A lot of tanks.

He launched to his feet, spun, and lumbered back to his Humvee as quickly as possible, where his sergeant first class was standing by the front passenger door.

“Armor and heavy recon vics, Sergeant. Definitely Russian. No lights. Heading southwest.”

A radio call immediately went to Lieutenant Colonel Tom Grant, a kilometer behind with the tanks in their hasty blocking position.

Before setting off from Grafenwöhr, Grant had been able to field forty tanks per battalion for a total of eighty M1A2 SEP Abrams tanks and a sizable reconnaissance troop of dozens of Humvees and dozens of Stryker armored fighting vehicles.

This made Lieutenant Colonel Tom Grant, a U.S. Army logistics officer, the commander of the 37th Armored Regiment, composite.

And German major Blaz Ott was now technically the commander of the 203rd Panzer Battalion. He commanded forty-four Leopard 2s, Germany’s heaviest and mightiest tank. At the height of the Cold War the German army had fielded over two thousand Leopards, but they now had fewer than two hundred fifty. Still, the Leopard 2 was a marvel of German precision engineering and a force to be reckoned with.

The good news for Grant and Ott was that they both had plenty of munitions. Because both the U.S. European Command and German Bundeswehr HQ had been planning heavy participation in the upcoming live-fire portion of Exercise Broadsword, all the vehicles were well stocked with tank rounds, machine-gun rounds, and rockets.

Grant was looking at a map spread out on the hood of his Humvee when he took the call letting him know the Russians had been spotted. He and his XO, Captain Brad Spillane, quickly found the location and checked the direction of the road.

Grant said, “They’re coming this way. We’ve got ten minutes to figure out how we’re handling this, but America’s war with Russia is going to start right here.”

Grant had put the most experienced men into his operations and headquarters element, guys who were about to retire or had already served in command and had just been awaiting their orders for their next assignment. That left tank commanders who were less than the best he had, but if he didn’t have the best directing the battle, things could be worse. Way worse.

The headquarters section, led by Captain Spillane, a former tank company commander, consisted of several radio Humvees, a command-and-control vehicle, and several camouflage command tents.

And it was from this perch that Tom Grant thought he could best command and control the battle.

The ambush Grant and Ott set up for the Russians was mostly linear, focused on what they estimated was the enemy’s most likely direction of travel. By positioning themselves on a ridge overlooking German routes 9 and 72, they had hedged their bets pretty well. A separate force with only eight tanks was dispatched to cover the intersection of routes 93 and 72. It wasn’t enough to do much damage, but he and Ott had decided at the last minute not to split their forces in half and instead to weight their western ambush, as it was the most likely avenue of approach.

The landline to the 1–3 Attack Reconnaissance Battalion pilot ready room rang a second, a third, then a fourth time, but Army 1st Lieutenant Sandra Glisson found herself reluctant to put the PlayStation 4 controller down to answer it.

The battalion’s classroom doubled as a lounge and was all but vacant on Christmas Day. Almost all the officers were out on leave except those here in the ready room: the two playing video games, the one filling out his flight logs with tunes from his iPhone blaring in his earbuds, and the one sleeping on the couch in front of the big-screen TV — which, while on, hadn’t broadcast anything but a blue screen all day.

The regimental commander had left two gunships and their crews on ready alert status. He was brand-new and made a point of mentioning that his motto was “Train as you fight.” But to the officers on watch, it was more top-brass bullshit. The G2 briefed everyone that Poland’s alert status was “high,” so they all needed to ensure their recall info was sound; then the regiment’s intelligence officer, executive officer, and commander all took off on vacation back to the U.S.

“I’ve got your ass now!” shouted First Lieutenant Allen Thomas over the noise of the ringing phone and the video game. “You might as well grab that phone — you’re dead either way!”

“Pause the game and I will!” replied Glisson.

Thomas kept playing, so Glisson reluctantly stood up, continuing to work her controller as she walked toward the phone.

The support battalion platoon leader finally paused the game, so Lieutenant Glisson dropped the controller on the sofa and snatched the phone off the cradle.

Thomas then unpaused the game with a laugh and resumed playing.

Glisson saw this as she spoke with an eye roll. “Hello?”

A voice boomed on the other line. “Fucking ‘Hello’? Is that how you answer the ready room phone? Who the fuck is this?”

She recognized the voice of Major Cussard; she’d forgotten he was even on duty. “I’m sorry, sir. This is First Lieutenant Sandra Glisson, 1st Battalion.”

The phone hissed and clicked, but she could make out the major’s words well enough. “Listen up, Glisson! The attack weapons team just got activated. You’re to grab your wingman and launch immediately. I’ll brief you on your company’s internal when you are up on comms.”

“Sir…,” said Sandra incredulously, “is this a joke?”

“Does it sound like I’m fucking joking, Lieutenant? Get your ass to your aircraft—now!”

There was a pause as Sandra looked at Lieutenant Thomas.

“Why are you still on the phone?” screamed Major Cussard.

Sandra hung up and stared at the three men in the room.

And then: “We’re launching!” She slammed her hand against a button on the wall, activating red “whoopie” lights across the battalion’s building.

The two aviators on the couch jumped to their feet but just stood there staring at her in bewilderment.

“Does it look like I’m fucking joking? This is not a drill! Get your ass to your aircraft now!” she yelled.

Three minutes later, two officers ran through their checklist in Apache aircraft number 42, right next to Sandra’s own Apache gunship, number 41. Sandra’s weapons officer hadn’t shown up yet, but she’d climbed into the front seat of her aircraft. In her haste she had forgotten her coat, and the freezing German winter air chilled her as she worked.

Red and white rotating lights flashed on the helicopters as they powered up, illuminating the night and adding to the sense of urgency. The ground crewmen scurried around both of the fifty-eight-foot helicopters, checking systems and pulling tie-downs off the rotors and control surfaces. Three ammunition dollies screeched to a halt as a pair of handlers prepared to strap missile and gun pods onto the aircraft.

The ground chief clicked his headset into 42’s Fox-Mike connector on the outside of the fuselage so he could talk to Sandra as his men readied her helo.

He began with an apology. “Ma’am, I stripped all your armament off a few hours ago to run it through a maintenance cycle. I… I didn’t think you’d be launching today.”

“Chief, it’s okay. Me, either. Just get me all the shit you can ASAP.”

Sandra’s UHF radio crackled to life now with Major Cussard’s voice. “Viper One-Six, Viper One-Six, this is Griffin Three. Do you read me? Over.”

She keyed her mic. “Griffin Three, this is Viper One-Six, Lima Charlie. Standing by for your orders. Over.”

“Tell your wingman to get up on this net and listen in. I’m going to brief you as you take off.”

She waved at 42 and pointed to her headset, indicating the pilot and weapons officer in the other ship needed to listen in on the battalion’s tactical net.

Both men switched on in time to hear Cussard say, “We have no satellite communications whatsoever. Once you take off, we’ll try to keep you on the UHF guard net, but we’re expecting to lose comms. Your weapons officer was over here in the TOC, so I’m sending him down with maps. He’ll be back to you any second. Over.”

“Roger. Request to know what we’re looking at here. Over.” As the operations officer was speaking Sandra had been looking out the window, watching as the ground crew removed red flags from each of the weapons as they loaded them.

“Confirm your number two man is listening.”

“Wait one, sir,” said Sandra as Chief Warrant Officer 2 James appeared out of the building and sprinted through a light freezing rain toward the aircraft. He handed a sheaf of maps to Sandra as he climbed into the backseat, several feet higher than Sandra’s position. He quickly put his helmet on.

“James is here and listening, sir.” CWO2 James immediately began his preflight. As pilot in charge, his duty was to run up the aircraft while she, as Air Mission Commander, completed the weapons and comms checks from the front seat.

The major said, “The Russians have mounted an attack. We don’t know the full composition, but we understand they have tanks, T-14s, as well as Bumerangs. Heard something about scout cars — those will likely be their GAZ Tigrs — and various supply and logistics vehicles. Strength unknown. Their last known location was vicinity one hundred fifty kilometers south of Dresden on Route 72. Direction of movement is generally southwest. SAM threat is unknown at this time.”

“Ho-ly shit, sir!” Glisson exclaimed into her mic.

Cussard kept talking. “Be advised, the friendlies on the ground are call sign Courage. They are a mix of U.S. M1A2s and German Leopards out of Grafenwöhr. They have spotted the Russians in the vicinity of Highways 9 and 72. Courage will conduct a linkup with you on their unit’s UHF radio network, net identifier two-one-three-decimal-one-two. The last we got from them was on the landline, and now their HQ is silent. Cell phones are out, too.

“You are to conduct hasty reconnaissance of this enemy column in support of the ground attack element from Grafenwöhr. Do not get decisively engaged until we get more ammo out and your company commander is up with you. Just provide the ground guys with as much data on the composition and disposition of the enemy column as you can. Acknowledge.”

In the green glow of the cockpit, Sandra looked over the coordinates on the map CWO2 James had given her. She fought through her shock upon realizing she was about to enter combat in Europe and said, “Sir, I’m clear.”

Now she looked out at the ground crew chief, who gave her a thumbs-up.

Sandra pulled down her helmet-mounted display and flicked through the flight profiles, setting up her targeting computer. Her face glowed green from the digital map and targeting sight as she copied down the regimental operations officer’s information onto her kneeboard and punched the new frequencies into her communications panel.

Behind her, CWO2 James flicked the two switches labeled “IGNITE” to fire up both engines, then eased the throttle forward until the engines let loose a loud whumph and then a steady roar. The rotors spun and the ground crew unconsciously ducked lower as they continued to check over Sandra’s helo.

Cussard said, “Weather is shit. It’s clear, but low fog up north. I’ll send you METOC, but I’m authorizing you to fly. Snow later tonight about zero-three hours. I can’t think of a greater emergency than attacking Russians, so your reconnaissance takes precedence over basic safety limitations.”

The radio transmission paused briefly as the brigade’s operations officer thought for a moment, then continued. “Glisson, you have the fight until I can get your company commander back to base. I’ll send him out as soon as he and enough of the company return so he can get forward and see what’s going on up north.

“What questions do you have? Over.”

First Lieutenant Sandra Glisson and her wingman were now being towed out onto the tarmac.

“Are our forces engaging with the Russians now, sir?”

Cussard said, “I have no idea, and I’m pretty sure you’re going to know before I do.”

“Roger that. Viper One-Six requesting permission for takeoff.”

“Granted, Viper One-Six. You are clear for takeoff. Remain on the UHF net throughout the mission. Even if you lose us, we’ll continue to monitor it.”

The ground crew towed them to their takeoff points and backed off. The crew chief’s men saluted. Glisson and her pilot saluted back.

“Copy, Griffin Three, this is Viper One-Six. We are in takeoff, time now. Over.” Viper One-Six lifted and then tilted forward, began moving along just a few feet above the ground, then quickly began gaining altitude.

“Good luck, Lieutenant. Griffin Three out on this net.”