Red Metal

CHAPTER 65

The crew chief leaned out the side hatch and called out distances to trees and the ground. The big, fat CH-53 shook as the pilot slowly eased the collective to control the helicopter’s rate of descent.

With a gentle bump the helo landed.

Connolly shouldered his M4 carbine, closed the Velcro on his heavy Kevlar body armor, and jogged off the back ramp where the rotor wash from all four aircraft flung dust and debris, causing a miniature sandstorm. It was hard to see through the haze of dirt and the darkness, but he could just make out four men running toward him. Connolly then watched as the equivalent of a reinforced platoon, about sixty soldiers in all, entered the landing zone from the wood line. No words or other sounds were audible above the din of the four giant helos, so the crew chiefs on each aircraft motioned for the wounded and dead to be carried onto one bird, and the able-bodied men to board the others.

The Frenchmen complied, carrying fallen Dragoons both on stretchers and in body bags up into one of the CH-53s. When the casualties had been delivered to the Navy corpsmen waiting there for them, the French troops all boarded the other helos.

Connolly walked between the CH-53s now, asking around for the French captain he had spoken with. He tried to call above the deafening rotor wash into the back of each helicopter. “Apollo?”

Several men pointed him to a big man already sitting in the last helo.

Connolly climbed aboard and beckoned the captain back to the other CH-53. There they both donned headsets, the rubber ear caps muffling the loud rotors and engines above.

Shaking hands finally, the American said, “I’m Lieutenant Colonel Dan Connolly.”

“Captain Apollo Arc-Blanchette. Thirteenth Dragoons. We are very happy to see you, sir.”

“How are your men?” The helo began to shudder as the pilot changed the pitch of the blades and added power.

“Eight wounded. Three KIA, unfortunately. We hit them just south of Yabelo, caused some damage, but they were quick to counterattack in force. You will take my casualties to your ship?”

The crew chief signaled for the two to fasten their safety harnesses, then went back to instruct the Frenchmen who were still strapping in, struggling to fit themselves and their big rucksacks in the relatively small space.

“Yes. We have full surgery aboard the USS Boxer and your men will be taken care of. The rest of you will fly back with me. Our forces are moving up from Tanzania to the mine, but we have a battalion-minus of light-armored vehicles just south of here. We’re going to hit them as they leave Moyale.”

The crew chief shut the side hatch; the pitch of the rotors turned louder, and the wide helicopter lifted into the air.

Apollo said, “Good. We faced the Russians three times now. They are formidable. The first hit was a small Spetsnaz force. No problem. The second was an ambush we set up against forward reconnaissance. We destroyed them but used all our explosives. Then we hit them at the border.”

Connolly patted Apollo on the arm. “I think your information on the Russian task force is going to be valuable. Would you mind briefing our intelligence guys and the senior leaders once we get back to our forces?”

“I’ll brief anything so long as we get after these bastards when I’m done.” The Frenchman sighed. He said, “I was fighting them the other day in Germany, and now we’re fighting down here.”

Connolly stared in surprise. “Wait. You were in combat in Germany?”

“Oui. At the beginning of it all. The Russian Spetsnaz placed a laser navigation device on the tallest mountain in Germany, but we discovered it and wiped them out. Lost two men in the process, though. We had several more wounded hours later in Czechia. Again we were fighting Spetsnaz.”

Connolly was amazed. Reports from Europe were still so spotty, he knew nothing about either of these engagements.

“You obviously have a lot of intel about how the Russian special forces are operating, in both Europe and Africa. We’re a little thin on the actions of the rest of the brigade heading south.”

The Frenchman looked at the American for a long time.

Connolly picked up on the man’s reticence to say more. “What is it?”

Finally Apollo spoke. “My father. He’s a… a diplomat stationed in Djibouti. He stayed behind to record every piece of armor and every troop he could see as the columns left the capital.”

Connolly presumed this meant Apollo’s dad was a spy, but he had the good manners not to mention it. “We received that intel. That was damn good work by your dad. Hope you’ll tell him the U.S.A. appreciates him.”

“I’d love to do that, Colonel, but I haven’t been able to reach him. I’m a little worried.”

“Yeah… I can understand why.” Connolly put his hand on the younger man’s shoulder again. “The quicker we end this thing, the better for your dad.”

“Oui, bien sûr.” He changed the subject. “To that end, what is your strength?”

“A regiment, roughly. With some air assets.”

Apollo blinked in surprise. “The Russians have a lot more than that, just in their column. When are you being reinforced?”

“That’s kind of the problem. We’re it for now. A carrier battle group is on the way, and it will bring in a lot more air, but they won’t get here till well after the Russians arrive at the mines. If Russia takes the territory, we won’t be able to dislodge them without laying waste to the whole thing.”

“It’s a mine. You could bomb it and then just dig the rock out of the rubble, no?”

Connolly said, “The Russians have to know that, so I think they have a way to protect the mine once they take it. We need to prevent them doing so.”

Apollo nodded. “Most in my command still believe the real show is Europe.”

“Well, Apollo, for you and me, this fight down here is the only fight that matters right now, and even though the numbers are against us, we’re going to fucking win it.”

“D’accord.”

Jahdek had brought Shank some pain pills, but the Pole couldn’t tell him what they were other than prescription meds the forty-five-year-old had for his bad back.

Shank took them anyway. His broken hand throbbed like hell, and his facial wounds hurt like he was constantly being stung by bees around his left eye. He figured he wouldn’t be able to make it through the evening with his wits intact without something to take away at least a quarter of the agony.

The two men sat on the hood of a truck. The cold air outside the vehicle helped Shank with his pain, and Jahdek didn’t seem to mind, which Shank assumed came from a lifetime of harsh winters like this.

Shank said, “I’m not going to pretend to be much of a historian, but you guys have had to deal with a lot of assholes from other places marching around your nation.”

“Truly,” Jahdek said. “Before we gained our freedom, we were slaves to the Soviets. Before them, the Nazis, of course. And the Russians again before that. We experienced more than a hundred years of slavery to other nations. Nations who used us, used the people, and erased our history to exaggerate their own. So now we fight.”

Shank raised his right hand and high-fived the man sitting next to him. “And I’m right here with you, brother.”

Shank looked up to the sky suddenly, and Jahdek saw this and followed his eyes. After a few seconds both men could make out the sounds of jets somewhere off to the west but hidden above the low cloud cover.

Another man came running over now.

“Mr. Shank, we hear a plane!” he yelled, out of breath.

All three men moved over to the radio, which was positioned behind logs and sandbags a few meters back from the edge of the wood line.

Shank trained his students to memorize the guard frequency for just such an emergency. He could think of only two frequencies now, but he wasn’t certain about either of them, perhaps due to the effects of the pills Jahdek had given him.

He dialed in the first radio net ID he remembered. “Any station this net, any station this net, this is call sign Shank on guard net ID three-four-eight decimal four-five-zero.”

He felt rather than saw Paulina appear on his left side by the truck. He looked up at her as he tried again. “Any station, any station. Shank on guard net. Do you receive me?” There was some static on the line now, which was encouraging, because it indicated someone might be broadcasting, but he heard no voices.

He reached for the radio and punched in the numbers for the second frequency he remembered.

He tried again. “Any station this net, any station this net, this is call sign Shank on guard net ID three-niner-five decimal one hundred. Do you receive?”

Still he heard nothing but static.

Again he looked up at Paulina, who was now scanning through her binos out over the snowy fields in front of them. A small band of Polish militia was hoofing back to their spot from another wood line about three hundred meters away, and this made Paulina curse under her breath.

As he was about to transmit yet again, a voice suddenly came over the radio, speaking American-accented English. “Station calling. Say again call sign.”

Paulina stepped in closer to listen.

“This is call sign Shank. I’m an American A-10 pilot. Shot down this morn—”

Was it really this morning? Was it yesterday? He decided to just give the area: “Shot down over Bełchatów. I’m with the Seventy-fifth Fighter Squadron.”

“We copy,” replied the phantom aircraft overhead.

Shank still had no idea who this guy was. All pilots were taught that the simplest ruses were common during war, so neither man would take the other’s word that he was American, even though both men certainly sounded American.

“Stand by for verification,” the voice over the radio said.

After a few minutes the pilot came back with authentication data. Information only Shank and his unit could know. “What was your first command as a lieutenant, sir?”

“I pushed papers at Andrews. I didn’t have a command.”

“Were you ever incarcerated?”

Shank smiled a little. “Arrested in Italy. Two nights in jail. It’s where I got my call sign.”

After this brief exchange, the pilot seemed to be more trusting of Shank. “Okay, we have your data. We’ll pass along your location to the search-and-rescue folks.”

“Uh… negative. I’ve linked up with Polish ground personnel. We believe we have Russian forces approaching our position. I need someone to prosecute targets for me.”

There was a long pause now — so long that Paulina looked at Shank and pointed to the dial, indicating that perhaps he should adjust it. To this Shank just shook his head. These things took time. He had gone from the standard procedure of a downed pilot requesting evacuation to a downed pilot calling for close air support.

He pictured the pilots of the aircraft above radioing back to base or else just discussing it among themselves, trying to figure out what to do.

Then finally the radio crackled and the pilot said, “We copy all. We have your request and we’ll send it back. Remain on this net and we’ll check in.”

“Understood. Here’s the issue. We believe Russian forces will be here in”—he looked at Jahdek, who held up two fingers—“two hours. I need close air support at that time. Please pass along.” It was dangerous to send up this information, but Shank was hoping the Russians were too far away to be listening in on him.

“Okay, we copy all, Shank. We’ll pass along your request and will advise.”

Shank turned to Paulina. “I told them the situation. Now we wait to see what they will do about it.”

He stood up to stretch, careful to keep his wounded hand close to his body so he didn’t bump it on the people and equipment around him. Paulina squeezed his good arm gently and smiled, the first time he’d seen her do so. “You do it, Shank! Very good.”

The Cobra attack helicopters’ twin Lycoming T53-L-703 turboshaft-driven blades chopped the air, thumping above the helicopter’s pilot and the gunner, driving the machine at a breakneck 170 miles per hour.

“Stinger One-Six, this is Two-Six,” said the twenty-five-year-old pilot, scanning the horizon for the lead flight of four attack helos lined up to the front of his own flight of Cobras.

“Go for One-Six,” the response crackled back.

“I’ve pulled left from Route C80. Currently at grid 37 November 2059 6172. I am at the B.P. and inbound, time now,” he said, referring to the preset battle position.

The pilot and his gunner in the front seat experienced momentary weightlessness as he pushed the stick hard forward and left and worked the rudder with his feet. He could see the flat desert landscape changing from the terrain he’d seen after taking off from USS Boxer.

“Clear through and forward from BP Jenna. Friendlies are LAVs and remain at given grid. Vicinity the 17 63. Confirm.” Ahead of him the low Kenyan desert rose sharply in a series of rocky hills that separated it from Ethiopia. The escarpment that rose toward the city of Moyale was unmistakable from the maps they’d studied aboard ship, and the miniature map currently strapped to his kneeboard.

“Confirmed. About forty or fifty vics. I have positive identity. Requesting to go hot.” The thermal camera mounted on the ball sensor assembly on the nose of the aircraft showed the white-hot outlines of several clusters — he supposed they were in platoon order — tucked in the lowlands, out of sight from the rising escarpment that led up to Moyale.

“Copy, Two-Six. I have the lead. You are cleared to click off safe. TOT remains one-eight.”

“Copy. I confirm TOT is one-eight. Call sign for ground unit?”

“Call sign is Grizzly OPS. He’s switched to net ID four-five.”

“Understood, four-five. That is the unit?”

“Negative. That’s OSC. Unit is call sign Highlanders.”

“Copy, One-Six. Let me know when you are clear from the target.”

“Affirm. I have my guys doing right pull. Then I’ll call you clear onto target. Time is one-seven. Commencing TOT in one mike. Off the net. Out.”

The whump-whump of the rotor blades on the AH-1 Cobra attack helicopter filled the pilot’s ears as the radio went silent for the one minute before all hell was scheduled to break loose. He flicked the master arm switch and watched as his instrument panel went from red to green on all weapons. He turned the forward sensors toward the spot where they were told to expect to see the Russians, the top of the shelf at Moyale. He could already see sixteen to twenty BTR-82s making their way down the winding road. It was a perfect place for an attack.

Then, in front, he saw the four Cobras from the first flight rise up from behind the tall hill clusters. Each aircraft quickly launched two missiles.

About half of the missiles appeared to impact their targets; then he heard the call.

“Two-Six, we’re clear of the target. We’ll fall in behind you for a reattack off of BP Jenna with more PGM and a rocket-and-gun run. Your turn now.”

The lead pilot called to the other aircraft, each pilot slipped his collective forward, and the aircraft raced just above the Marines on the ground. He could see the dismounted infantry, each clustered near the LAV vehicles, now firing rapidly at the distant targets.

Boom-boom-boom, came the throaty roar across the canyon dividing the Americans from the Russians. The Marine Corps LAV-25s unleashed a fury of 25mm cannon rounds. The Americans were firing at maximum range, but getting any closer to Lazar’s armored column would have been suicide. They had counted on surprise, and had achieved it, but it wouldn’t last, and the BTR-82s’ cannon outranged the Marine Corps’ 25mm.

The pilots knew this needed to be a quick fight with a quick getaway, or the Marines would get slaughtered.

On the ground, Dan Connolly watched the LAVs firing their depleted-uranium armor penetrators at the enemy. The light-armored vehicles weren’t getting as many precision hits as the Cobra pilots, but he saw one and then another of the BTRs in the kill zone hammered by the two LAV companies. The BTRs, in contrast, were having trouble fixing the source of the fire. Their cannons thundered out responding shells, but the shots went short, left, and right of the distant Marine vehicles.

The whole reason Connolly and the regimental operations officer had taken a bet on this being a good site for an attack was the fact that the Russians were forced into a vulnerable position on the road. Although the Marines were attacking from below the Russians, they had the advantage of being on terrain that allowed them to hit and run, while the Russians were forced to drive down the road single file due to the terrain around them.

A Cobra swept in from the southeast and pulled up directly over Connolly’s position on the hill, then opened up with his 20mm gun and Hydra 2.75-inch rockets. Connolly could see the spread of ordnance across the battlefield; most missed as the pilot fought to keep the helo steady, but three or four caught the flanks of Russian vehicles winding their way down the mountain road from atop the high Ethiopian shelf.

Boom! Something detonated right next to Connolly, blasting him out of his thoughts and blowing him off his feet, sending shards of red flint rock into his face and sides. He hit the deck hard, then ran his hand over his face and even his body armor. A sharp red shard, more like a slice of crystalline glass, had penetrated the outer layer of his load-bearing vest.

In rapid succession, three more blasts impacted near him — enough to send him and the small group scrambling off the rocky promontory that gave them great sight lines but also made them one hell of a target.

Incoming 30mm rounds echoed off the canyon’s walls, and blasts of return fire peppered the landscape in hundreds of small explosions.

The Russians had them spotted and in range.

Connolly ran to the LAV–C2, where he was met by Sergeant Casillas.

“Sir, you okay?”

“All good, Marine. Those cannon are getting closer.”

“Check, sir. The LAV company wants to fire for another five mikes. Then the commander wants to pull back. He just lost two vehicles.”

Connolly nodded and loaded up. He knew the enemy commander was advancing. The Russians possibly sensed that this was a small ambush, and knew they could retain the upper hand if they attacked into and through the forces lined up in front of him.

It’s what Connolly himself would have done, and what he had done in Afghanistan many times.

Connolly heard a new and unfamiliar noise, but when he looked into the sky he realized what it was.

A Cobra had been hit full force by cannon fire.

The helicopter burst into a ball of flame, breaking into tiny pieces, propelled through the sky behind burning fuel.

Another buzzing sound was followed by another explosion, and the downed Cobra gunship’s wingman exploded like his leader.

Just like that, four men had been lost and two helicopters were down.

Connolly and the men around him dove into the open rear hatches of their armored vehicles as pieces of burning debris began raining down with a vengeance. Connolly’s LAV driver jammed his vehicle into reverse, tossing the lieutenant colonel and the rest of the men back against the metal hull and down onto the grated floors in heaps as gear and heavy ammunition boxes flew around inside the armored personnel carrier.

Connolly looked up at Sergeant Casillas. “Is he trying to get us killed?” Punctuating his thought, the vehicle hit a huge bump, sending everyone in back flying into the air before slamming back down on the unyielding surfaces.

Connolly untangled himself from the communications cords, then stood up and opened the top hatch to look out.

Up on the mountain shelf leading from Ethiopia into Kenya, he counted roughly two dozen burning vehicles. What he now identified as Russian ZSU-23-4 self-propelled antiaircraft weapons were still firing their quad-barrel 23mm cannons into the skies in an effort to catch more of the now retreating Cobras. The Cobras were out of the fight now that their pilots had witnessed the capability of this awesome weapon; they just dropped flares and did their best to dodge the shots fired at them as they raced from danger.

Connolly couldn’t see how many Marine Corps vehicles had been hit, but from the radio traffic he could hear through the headset in his crew helmet it sounded like casualties had been mostly one-sided, with the Russians taking the brunt of the damage.

Surely a few LAVs had been destroyed, along with the two Cobras, but the light-armored reconnaissance attack had likely accomplished its mission. The Russian advance would slow down to regroup, and with luck they might pick their way a little more carefully as they rolled south.

The heavy gunfire continued behind Connolly as they raced away along with the rest of the two LAV companies. The remaining Cobras escorted them out of the area and stayed ready to fire standoff missiles in case the Russians pursued at speed.

But the Russians remained in Moyale, licking their wounds and reassessing their movements toward Mrima Hill.

Connolly got on the radio and sent a situation report to Colonel Caster in the regimental command post. Connolly’s mission had successfully bought Caster some time, hopefully enough time to get everyone up to the mines and dug in.

Caster’s response came over the radio soon after. “Good work to you and the two LAR company commanders.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Any idea where those ZSUs came from? I hadn’t seen any intel on those things, and they sound like they’re murderous.”

“No, sir, didn’t see any reports on the things, either, but they certainly have leveled our aerial advantage. I counted at least twelve of them just with this regiment.”

Caster’s Texas drawl rumbled over the radio. “That worries the shit out of me. Assuming Lazar’s other forces have similar assets, it’s going to mean the vast majority of this fight is going to be done on the ground.” And then the colonel said, “I want you to fall back. We’re sending some tanks up to Mount Kenya; it’s a few hours north of here. The terrain is jungle and the highway passes close by, and Lazar won’t be able to bypass it if he wants to get here to the mine before our carrier battle group arrives. We’ll hit him with a bigger delaying action, really give our boys at Mrima Hill time to dig in and get ready for the Russians.”

“Copy, sir. We’re on the way.”

Caster replied with “Grizzly Six, out.”