Red Metal

CHAPTER 71

General Eduard Sabaneyev and his headquarters staff had taken over a medieval castle just south of Brest, five kilometers from the Bug River and the Polish border. It had once been a stately residence of a local prince, but now it was rented out as event space for corporate retreats and the like, and all the furniture looked old and shabby.

But it was a beautiful, comfortable building, so he was in no great rush to break contact with the Americans over the border in Poland. His men had enough ammunition for another hour or two of combat, so fifteen minutes earlier Sabaneyev had poured himself a glass of the Hungarian red wine one of his subordinates found on a rack in the basement, and he sat back on a worn leather couch with it.

He’d listened to the intense American and German barrage and over the radio he heard his forces near the river engaging with the enemy.

He expected the NATO tanks to retaliate for a few minutes, and then he presumed they would withdraw. He assumed his own armor along the river would soon have no more targets to prosecute.

But then new crashes of heavy tank fire reverberated through the ancient stones of the castle, and Sabaneyev rose quickly to his feet. The fighting wasn’t terribly close, was still a few kilometers away, but this new fire was most definitely coming from due north, not west — the direction of the border. He looked over at the radio operators, who were already sending out calls to Dryagin to find out what the hell was going on.

“What the fuck is that?” the general demanded. “That sounded like it came from east of the river. I did not give the order to volley fire again. Find out the unit that broke the protocol. Call Dryagin. He and his forces should not be wasting ammunition!”

The operations officer said, “We’re checking now, Comrade General.” After a pause to listen to the response he said, “The chatter between the companies coming through over the net makes it sound like the Americans have launched an attack.”

The general cocked his head. “They cannot attack with a river in their way.”

Smirnov leaned over the radio table now, trying to listen to a multitude of reports coming in and simultaneously appease his boss’s thirst for answers.

The sounds of a triple detonation rattled the old castle.

Smirnov held his hand to his earpiece, then spun up to look at Sabaneyev. “Report coming in that the front line is collapsing at the border! The Americans are across the river, eight kilometers north!”

Sabaneyev was stunned. “How did they… They have invaded a sovereign nation! Do they wish to start a full-fledged war? Contact Moscow right away. We need air support immediately.”

Sabaneyev had not counted on the Americans being so brazen as to continue hostilities against him once he made it into Belarus. Moscow and the general had both relied on the West’s reluctance to cross the border into a country that most certainly would follow Russia’s lead.

Over the next few minutes the fighting intensified outside, and Smirnov received more reports. “They used a rail bridge. We had assessed it unsuitable for tanks. It is just north of—”

Sabaneyev said, “I know the damned bridge! I ordered it guarded and wired with explosives. I ordered Dryagin to cover it with tank fire and drop it into the river as necessary.”

“Sir, I believe he had done so — wired it, that is. The Americans sent scouts over the river, eliminated the guard force there, and cut the explosives on the east side.”

“But tanks! Tanks, man — how did the Yankees cross with tanks? Where was Dryagin’s observation post? Where were his tank crews guarding the bridge?”

Smirnov said, “Dryagin had limited forces. He placed a platoon of T-14s at the train bridge, but they were wiped out. The colonel believed it wiser to dig in the bulk of the heavy armor farther south, thinking most of the Americans were arrayed there.”

Sabaneyev stormed around the floor of the command center. “Then he’s a fool! He may have cost us today’s fight, but I will guarantee he will not lose us even more. Get him up here. And send word to his forces: I am now directly in command of the unit. The commanders will only take orders from me and my headquarters. Is that understood, Colonel Smirnov?”

“I am clear, sir. I am understanding the general has just relieved Colonel Dryagin of his command.”

“Yes, I will tell him in person.”

A radio operator looked up to him. “Sir, reports from the 2nd Battalion, to the northwest. They have American tanks mixed within their position. He is requesting permission to turn his tanks away from the M1 road bridge so he can face the attackers.”

“Damn it! Is there no one left with the stomach for this? Tell him to get off the damn radio and turn his ass around and fight! What’s 1st Battalion doing?”

“He has made no reports, sir.”

“Tell him he is to mount a force to support 2nd Battalion immediately. We’ll pummel these bastards back to fucking Poland!”

The message was relayed, and when the reply came, the radio operator said, “Sir, 1st Battalion is still pinned by direct and accurate fires from the Americans on the other side of the river. His dug-in positions are the only things keeping him intact. He cannot move or he will lose tanks. Also, sir, he says his men see Western air units overhead. They have been hit twice by accurate bombing runs by F-35 jets.”

The radios broadcast constant transmissions as reports came in rapidly, one after another. The exact location of the Americans was still presumed, but 2nd Battalion continued to report heavy contact by Abrams tanks. Additionally, all up and down the line, they reported accurate attacks from U.S. Apache helicopters.

The parting shot back over the border into Poland had been a mistake, Sabaneyev now saw. But he wasn’t going to take the blame for it. No, none of this was his fault, he told himself. He’d place the blame for all this on those below him, like Dryagin, and those above him, the ones who overestimated the American desire to negotiate peace.

And Dryagin wasn’t the only one on the general’s mind. He shouted, “I will flog that bastard Borbikov myself when I see him. He gave me assurances about this operation!”

Minutes later, Colonel Dryagin stormed into the bustling command post almost at a run. Pulling off his snow-covered hat and his thick gloves, he looked around the room.

Sabaneyev stood by the roaring fireplace, still listening to the radio reports coming in from the action now four kilometers to the north.

“Colonel General, I must protest! This is the worst timing. We are in the middle of—”

Sabaneyev spun around to him. “You are relieved for incompetence, Colonel. Move to the supply headquarters and make yourself useful organizing my logistics. Our forces are now divided due to your lack of attention to my orders. I made it clear to guard the passenger rail bridge as well as the heavy-vehicle bridges and by your failing to do so we now are faced with a flood of American tanks.”

“But, sir, we had… that is, the American tanks are heavier than ours, and we determined—”

“Leave now, Colonel, or you will return to Moscow in chains!” Sabaneyev shouted, then turned his attention away from his former senior commander and back to the radiomen.

Dryagin stared a moment at the general’s back. Seeing the futility in protesting, he saluted out of habit and then turned about, drained and empty. He walked in silence to the door, the radios alive with reports of his men in the fight, who were his men no longer.

A radio operator looked up to Sabaneyev. “Sir, I have Moscow. The deputy commander orders you to withdraw into the interior of Belarus, then back to Smolensk. He says to make no more delays.”

“Give the command for withdrawal, Smirnov. It will take the Americans some time yet to cross the river in any great numbers, and we will be gone by then. If the Yankees will not respect the soft border of Belarus, they will certainly respect the hard border of Mother Russia. We’ll drop a curtain behind us once we receive air cover. Tell the deputy I want Russian jets to line my path as we head out of this mess. If the enemy continues to pursue, we will choke him to death in the Belarusian interior.”

Colonel General Sabaneyev packed his leather map case, helmet, and pistol. He had been planning a leisurely movement across Belarus, but now he was steeling himself for further action.

As he stepped outside into the frozen night, he glanced to the east. Several flashes of light flickered behind a distant wood line, and then, three seconds later, tank rounds slammed into the rolling pastureland just south of the castle. The closest was no more than two hundred meters from where Sabaneyev stood.

Smirnov grabbed his general by the arm, swung him around, and pulled him back into the castle. He shouted to the radio operators, “Order the general’s Bumerang to pull up to the door! The Americans have us on three sides now!”

Sabaneyev was slow to put this together, still utterly stunned by his change of fortune. After a moment he said, “South is clear. South is still clear.” He looked up at Smirnov. “What’s to the south?”

“The Ukrainian border, Colonel General.”

Sabaneyev was not going to invade Ukraine to escape a motley collection of American armor and a few aircraft. He shook his head. “Withdraw to the east. They can’t have gotten much armor behind us this quickly. We’ll punch out and kill Americans in the process. Get moving!”

Lazar held the encrypted military satellite phone to his ear, and the message came in clear. It was Army general Korotkov, the commander of all southern forces, under whose command Lazar now fell for the conduct of his mission in Africa.

Korotkov said, “Comrade General, I must inform you that the West has crossed into Belarus and currently has Sabaneyev’s forces partially surrounded.”

Lazar closed his eyes in utter frustration. He looked over at Colonel Borbikov, who seemed to already be aware of that information.

Lazar wondered to himself about Borbikov’s magic trains, which were supposed to protect Sabaneyev, but he said nothing.

Korotkov continued. “We’re trying to get Eduard reinforced, but the Kremlin is losing its mettle in all this. They are worried about the loss of tanks, and they are worried about the fact that Eduard was stuck in Poland for two days on the return. They are talking about a political solution while Eduard is under fire from main tank rounds. The Belarusian army — what there is of it, anyway — so far has not provided any help.”

Lazar realized the European portion of Red Metal had turned into a disaster. An American invasion of Belarus threatened a wider war, and the Kremlin surely must have realized a large-scale counterattack from NATO right now could be repelled only with nuclear weapons, because a large portion of Russian armor was otherwise engaged.

Nuclear war on two continents seemed entirely possible now, and Lazar put all the blame for this on the Spetsnaz colonel in the corner, conferring with his men.

The older general kept his tone even as he spoke into the sat phone. “I understand you, General. What are your orders?”

“Boris, we are out of bargaining chips here. Things have just gotten very ugly, my old friend. Get us that mine. No matter what.”

“How does our seizure of the mine change the equation, General?”

“We have nothing now. Nothing to broker with except that mine and its impact on coming generations. Nothing will settle the West down like the knowledge they’ll have to be our business partners. Sure, Sabaneyev still possesses a handful of American and NATO superior officers as prisoners, but we do not occupy any ground with which to trade.”

Korotkov added, “I must tell you, Boris, the Central Committee has been talking of launching tactical nuclear weapons to stave off the attack. Things are at a critical state here.”

Lazar closed his eyes slowly. Utter madness.

“So here it is, my final word: Boris, take… that… fucking… mine.”

“I understand, sir,” Lazar said, and hung up the receiver.

Colonel Borbikov stared at him a moment. Soon the younger man began speaking in a slow, measured, if not condescending, tone. “Comrade General Lazar—”

Lazar saw it coming and held up a hand and cut him off. “This was your plan, and it is turning into shit on every possible front.”

Lazar and the men would fight, and many more would likely die, and then, if he interpreted General Korotkov’s words correctly, the Russians might give the mine or a portion of its bounty to the Yankees for political concessions. Lazar was not sure Borbikov had fully registered that yet.

General Lazar turned to Colonel Kir, who had been standing behind them, listening intently to everything Lazar said.

Kir threw his shoulders back. “Your orders, General?”

Sixty minutes after Sabaneyev and his HQ section left the castle, Tom Grant’s command vehicles rolled up the drive toward the stately structure. Grant saw that Captain Brad Spillane had climbed off his vehicle and was running up toward the lieutenant colonel’s tank.

Grant could hear the fight raging in the forests to the east. The Russians were probing up different roads, trying to move past the Americans who had flanked them. He knew his battalion positioned in that direction wouldn’t be able to hold off the regiment of Russians, but Grant was pleased to hear new reports every few minutes about his force taking out individual enemy vehicles. And the Russians were doing more running than fighting at the moment, which was saving his tanks from weathering a full-on battle.

The one advantage for Grant so far had been a distinct lack of Belarusian resistance; the local forces seemed content to stay the hell out of this fight, although Grant figured the diplomatic fallout of this for Minsk in its relations with Russia would probably exceed any military damage done to the tiny nation in battle.

He had just pulled off his helmet, when Spillane arrived. “Brad, whatcha got?”

Spillane clambered up the side of his commander’s Abrams so he could be heard more clearly above the high whine of the big tank’s gas turbine engine. “Sir, what about using that castle as a temporary CP? It was the Russian HQ just an hour ago.”

“Watch it,” warned Grant as the turret began rotating, threatening to knock Captain Spillane off. “Anderson is still scanning those trees for stragglers.” Spillane climbed onto the bustle rack at the back of the turret to continue speaking while the huge steel and depleted-uranium turret moved freely left and right.

Grant peered out into the night, looking at the stone fortress just ahead. It was clearly something from medieval times, and it was also clear from the tracks in the snow and mud that the Russians had been there very recently.

Grant said, “If it’s good enough for a Russian general, it’s good enough for a tanker like me.”

The political decision for NATO to enter Belarus was not made without a tremendous amount of trepidation on the part of the West. When they learned that U.S. forces had pursued attacking Russian forces over the border, they realized they needed to deliver a clear ultimatum via open diplomatic channels. NATO stated that Belarus had knowingly and deliberately allowed an aggressive Russian force to depart its country to attack NATO, and the combined forces of NATO, bar none, collectively held Belarus accountable. They demanded right of passage through Belarus in pursuit of the Russian force.

Belarus was caught in the middle. If they denied allowing the Americans in, the West would call them complicit and the consequences could be dire. They could not afford to go to war alone with the West, and Russia seemed unwilling to place any further forces in their country.

On the other hand, if Belarus complied with the NATO demands to let them pursue the Russians, they could never count on support from Russia again.

In the end, they decided to do nothing.

The government in Minsk didn’t respond to political demands from Russia to defend their fleeing forces, and they didn’t tell the West it could not pursue: they merely told their citizens to stay off the major east-west-running highway for their own safety.

And this was enough of a signal to the West.

Air support for Grant’s forces came quickly, and ground support was ordered forward. Two brigades from NATO’s immediate response forces had taken days to come online, but they entered the fight now: an Italian light infantry regiment and a composite Belgian and British medium-armored regiment.

The two units crossed the undamaged bridges over the Bug River sixty kilometers north of where the Russians had disabled the other crossing points, and they raced to catch up to the American and German tank force led by Lieutenant Colonel Grant.

And the Belarusians did nothing to intervene.