Red Metal

CHAPTER 35

Lieutenant Glisson and her wingman had flown hundreds of missions in the area, but due to political sensitivities and protests against U.S. bases in Germany, they had reduced the number of night flights to next to zero in recent years. It felt weird and disorienting flying through her NVGs here, but she’d done it enough stateside and in Afghanistan to trust her abilities.

The horizon came up in her helmet-mounted display as she tried to update their digital 3-D map with the last-known reported enemy and friendly positions being read over the radio. The “last knowns” were mostly just speculation at this point, but would give Sandra a basic forward edge of the area where she could revert from traveling at air speeds down to reconnaissance speeds.

“Copy, Glitter,” replied CWO2 Sean “Jesse” James.

Lieutenant Glisson’s moniker had been cast in stone on a practice safety mission, when she’d accidentally dropped six sticks from her M130 chaff and flare launchers directly onto the gunship of the squadron commander, who was observing each pilot’s safety protocol check flights from below. The metallic chaff looked like glitter. Her only comment as she withdrew from overhead and looked back at her handiwork of fireworks dumped onto the boss was “Oh, pretty!” Worse, she had forgotten to unkey her radio and had broadcast her inner monologue to the whole squadron by accident.

In a drunken call sign‒naming ceremony she was knighted “Glitter,” or sometimes “Princess Glitter,” because she hated that even more.

She didn’t let it bug her. She would have thought it intentionally provocative against her as a woman, but her male counterparts’ call signs in the same naming party were worse. Much worse. And besides, her scores on the gun range were higher than 92 percent of her male counterparts’.

She realized the boys were more than happy to take her into the ranks so long as she played by a few rules. The first one, kind of a rite of passage, had turned out to be taking a lot of shit and pretending not to care about it. Not a bad rule, and it served to keep everyone tight and humble in a community of pilots that didn’t tolerate egos.

“Fly your bird, support your wingman, finish the mission, help the grunts, and get back to friendly lines with your chopper in one piece.” The rules to make it in the boys’ club were simpler than society had led her to believe when she joined the Army.

She called to her wingman on her radio now. “Badfinger, Jesse sees a spot on the map about two clicks northeast on our general attack heading. I’ll check the field with thermals, then clear us for a gun test.”

“Copy, Glitter. Uh… are we allowed to do that?”

“Don’t know, don’t care. We’re doin’ it.”

The quiet snow-covered land below them lit up in a fiery red burst as the aircraft shot off cannons and guns.

Her wingman came over the radio almost immediately. “Glitter, this is Badfinger. Be advised, I’ve got a damn rocket pod malfunction. Neither one is working. Looks like they didn’t connect the master arm connectors or forgot to take out the arming tags. Either way, I do have eight Hellfires, which are keying as operational. Guns tested fine with one thousand rounds remaining.”

“Copy,” said Lieutenant Glisson. “We are continuing on to the target.”

A minute later Jesse said, “Glitter, I have Courage on the net, the American tank regiment. They gave me the lead trace on their position. They are on a linear frontage loosely east to west facing at thirty-two Uniform Papa Alpha, 9979. I’m putting it on the IHADSS now.”

“I see it. Just north of a town called… Hof on the map.”

“That’s it.”

“Okay, tune me in to his frequency. Do you have their actual?”

“He says he’s not their actual. Didn’t catch why or where their commander is.”

“Copy,” Sandra said, then flicked over to the radio net ID Jesse had selected. “Courage, Courage, this is Glitter. We are a two-ship Apache section coming up from south to north along the niner-zero easting approximately twenty-two klicks out from your poz. We are locked and loaded and on a recon mission, ready to support you as needed. Over.”

There was a brief pause; then a crackling transmission came through Sandra’s headset. “Copy, Glitter. We are facing a regimental-sized Russian force of mixed BTRs, Bumerangs, and T-14 main battle tanks. We have established battle positions along the seven-nine-five easting oriented southwest. My vehicle is at 32 Uniform Papa, uh… break… Alpha 9948 7976. Be advised, we are in contact at this time and have taken losses. We don’t know if this is a main body or an advance guard, but they are attempting to bypass us and proceed south on Route Nine.”

Glitter said, “Okay, Courage, we copy your location and situation. We are coming from south along Route Nine. I can get flank shots as your enemy column proceeds and I’ll stay outside your GTL until we can develop better situational awareness of the enemy.” The gun-target line was an obvious no-go zone for the helos. If Sandra flew her ship into the line of fire of the heavy main guns of the American and German tanks, she could most certainly fall victim to what they called the “big bullet, little sky” theory, where converging on the same targets could increase the chances for fratricide.

Courage replied, “Copy all. Bad fog here.” In the background she could hear an occasional dull roar of tank main-gun fire, audible even at more than twenty kilometers. Then came the thermal images of several bright spots, unmoving in the distance, but flickering and glowing above the trees, illuminating the starry darkness above the German hills and fields.

Jesse spoke from the rear seat. “Hey, Glitter, those what I think they are?”

“Burning armor. Hope it’s theirs and not ours.”

“Yeah.” He paused. “You ever figure we’d be in combat with the Russians? Because I sure as shit did not.”

Sandra had been thinking the same thing. The past hour had been utterly surreal. “I guess America didn’t send us over here to play video games and drink mulled wine, after all.”

“Right,” said Jesse.

“And it’s motherfucking Christmas, too,” she said as she flew on toward the raging battle ahead.

The reports from Lieutenant Colonel Grant’s commanders were not good: their limited higher-level tank-command experience, coupled with the bleak environmental effects of fog, night, and cold, was taking its toll — along with the Russian invaders. A fair bit of confusion and emotion was on display in their radio broadcasts as the individual tanks fought it out over hectares of snow-covered grain fields.

But at least now Grant had a couple of Apaches to work with.

Listening in on the broadcast between his radioman and the Apache, Grant jumped off the tank, leaned into the C2 Humvee, and said, “Troop, hand me the hook. I’ll talk to her.”

He sat down in the front passenger side of the Humvee. Mounted in the front of the vehicle was an SPI–IR 360 infrared targeting device; he looked through it as he brought the handset to his ear. With it he could use the highly advanced and accurate infrared sight system to cut through the thick German fog to try to identify targets.

Against a trained and talented Russian tank unit, Grant and the men would use any and all advantages available to them.

“Viper One-Six, this is Courage Six actual. Be advised, we have taken accurate Russian 120mm tank fire. They’ve hit about six of my tanks and are continuing through my position. Any and all supporting fires are appreciated.” He slewed the SPI–IR 360 out across the battlefield and was able to make out at least some of the fighting while he spoke to the Apaches. Two of his tanks were in a full-bore engagement a kilometer away. He couldn’t see their targets, but he could see the tracers from their main guns arcing through the fog.

A million things were going through Grant’s head simultaneously. Some of the thoughts were pertinent to the here and now; others he knew he couldn’t deal with till later. His force found itself expending ammunition at a rate that would necessitate a resupply, and soon, but he knew he could do nothing about it until he broke contact with the Russian column.

“Viper One-Six copies,” the female Apache pilot responded. Grant could hear her rotor blades thumping in the transmission; she was obviously heavy-sticking it, flying hard and fast to get into the best position to support Grant’s regiment.

He said, “We’ll fire up IR strobes so you know where we are in the fog, but I need you to give me ‘danger close’ once we’re able to get a good hand off. We need all the support you’ve brought tonight. Any chance we have another section en route?”

“Courage Six actual, we copy and will give you all we’ve got. Interrogative: Is one section of Apache gunships not enough for you, sir?”

Grant smiled. This pilot did what pilots did best: use humor to try to keep the ground pounders calm.

“Viper One-Six, I’m not greedy. I’ll take whatever you’ve got.”

“Copy, Courage Six. We are just the lead element. Should be more soon.”

Good, thought Grant, because the night had just begun. He pointed to Captain Spillane, who instantly understood what needed to be done.

Spillane told the tankers to get out IR chem sticks and put them on their antennas. Glitter would not attack a target she could not identify, but with the order “danger close” from the one scene commander, she’d fire on almost anything that even smelled like an enemy.

“Sir, you worried the Russians will spot our IR?” interjected Lieutenant Colonel Grant’s tank gunner, Sergeant Anderson, who had popped his head up from the turret and was listening to his commander issuing orders. A good gunner was always in touch with what the commander was up to and could often answer on the radios on his behalf.

Grant got the impression that Sergeant Anderson, and in fact the whole crew, probably wished he were not on the regimental commander’s tank but instead in the middle of the action in the fog, noise, and gunfire down below. Grant, too, wished he were in the middle of the clash of steel, but if he had been, he’d be focusing on firing his gun and not supporting his battalions.

“Last reports are our IR strobes are specially designed to be out of sync with Russian NODs. Basically, they can’t see us unless they are using our night-vision devices.” Grant paused. “Guess we’ll know really quick if the intel is right about that.”

Two medical Humvees roared past LTC Grant’s command vehicles. He watched them shoot off into the freezing darkness on the thermal imager. The medical section’s drivers drove wearing night-vision goggles instead of using headlights, so Grant made a mental note to keep an eye on them and an ear to the radio to ensure they made it to the hospital safely.

His communications sergeant indicated that the Apaches had relayed his requested transmission via HF radio back to their base. The Apaches, at a higher altitude, had better air-to-ground communications and could act as a relay when they weren’t running and gunning.

Next, German major Blaz Ott’s voice came over the radio, relaying his position report. Grant leapt out of the Humvee, pulled his map board down from where he’d left it on his tank, and corroborated his position with Captain Spillane.

Major Ott and a section of tanks from his 1st Battalion had linked up and were asking permission to advance. Grant gave them permission as long as all their IR strobes were activated. He didn’t need Glitter and her wingman hitting German tanks as they tried to maneuver onto the Russians’ flank.

Grant’s radioman called out again. “Sir, you’ve got Major Ott back on channel four asking for you.”

Grant ducked back into his C2 Humvee and switched his radio over to the regimental net. “Blaz, are you still seeing movement?”

“Not anymore, sir. We’ve advanced about as far as I feel comfortable. We’ve lost contact with the enemy and I’m also out of touch with some of my own unit. We’ve all gotten disjointed because of the fog and dark. I can hear the Apaches overhead and to the south. I can’t get them on the radio. They might be able to maintain contact with the Russians. We counted about forty or forty-five enemy vehicles in total. Almost all Bumerangs, BTRs, and Tigrs, but there were a couple of T-14s. We count eight enemy vehicles killed between me and your 1st Battalion. 1st Bat is with me at grid Uniform Papa 994 692,” he said, reading off the map coordinate.

“Copy, Blaz. Good work. No use trying to pursue. Need to bring everyone back to a tight perimeter so we can take stock of the situation. What’s your slant report?”

“Not good: red across all systems. Your Lieutenant Chandler has been wunderbar. He did some resupplies of my men while they were in contact. Dropped off machine-gun ammo and fuel cans. We need a Lieutenant Chandler in the Bundeswehr.”

“Well, he works for both of us right now. Kid’s a born leader.”

Grant had brought the lieutenant up personally: he’d been attached to his maintenance and supply section for a time and seen the young man thoroughly take charge, jumping at every opportunity for leadership.

The medical Humvees arrived at Grant’s command post on the hill, and Lieutenant Chandler ran over to them. The kid had been all over the battlefield tonight, Grant thought, popping up wherever he was most needed to provide logistical support.

Chandler helped off-load a stretcher. Then one of Major Ott’s officers came over to him, they consulted the map for a moment, and the German climbed aboard the lead Humvee with Chandler in the passenger seat. They were gone in seconds, on their way to the hospital, the medical Humvees following behind them.

Smart bastard just got one of the Germans who knew the area to give him guidance to the local hospital, thought Grant. That should cut the time it would take to get there, increasing the men’s likelihood of survival.

Clear thinking for a junior support officer.

The medical evacuation team had a complicated drive ahead of them. There was no telling if this battle would stir up a lot of civilian traffic or cause people to button up in their homes. Plus, many of the German cities had reservist men who had standing orders to cut signposts if there were declared hostilities with the East, but Grant didn’t know if the locals knew enough about the situation to make good on that plan.

At least I’m fighting with the home team, he thought.

Grant listened to another report from Ott on the radio. “Okay, Blaz, once you’re back in our perimeter, maintain one hundred percent alert on all your tanks. Battalions One and Two, you are to do the same. I want actuals back at my position in one-five mikes to go over the situation.”

Ott, along with each of the battalion commanders, rogered up on the radio that they had received and understood the message.

The radioman immediately said, “Sir, it’s Viper One-Six on the radio again. She says she has the enemy in sight now. She wants to know if we have anyone south of the 74 grid line.”

Grant looked over at his map carefully. “Tell her no. She is clear to engage those fuckers. Tell her to let ’em have it.”