Red Metal

CHAPTER 72

Lieutenant Colonel Dan Connolly, Captain Apollo Arc-Blanchette, Colonel Caster, and Lieutenant Colonel McHale ducked into the command tent of 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines, while touring the northern perimeter defenses of the Mrima Hill mine. A light breeze floated through the open side flaps. Marines outside were busy filling sandbags and cutting branches to further conceal the battalion headquarters’ location from enemy drones and reconnaissance forces.

The Darkhorse command post was a hive of activity as each officer and staff NCO labored to get the defenses organized. Maps were laid all over the center tables. On the edges of the tent were more tables full of radios, plotting boards, sketches, and timetables for the battalion’s mortars and regimental artillery.

“Ben,” Colonel Caster said to the commander of the 3rd Battalion, 5th Marines. “Talk me through your defenses.”

The Darkhorse commander pulled out an acetate overlay and placed it carefully onto the primary battle map in the center of the table. It showed a detailed graphic depiction of his forces down to the squad and machine-gun levels.

“Sir, here’s us in the northern third. You can see that I’ve tied my western flank in with 1st Battalion and my eastern flank with 2nd. I’ve got a layered defense in depth to deal with most contingencies the Russians decide to toss at us.” He pointed to the symbols for the tanks and LAVs well out in front of his positions.

For the next thirty minutes the Darkhorse operations officer and operations chief briefed Colonel Caster, Apollo, Connolly, and Lieutenant Colonel McHale, describing their intent for a layered, ringed defensive tactic. If it worked, it would force the Russians to advance through “kill boxes” where the Marines would surgically take out the attacking heavy weapons until Lazar had mostly just infantry left. Then the Marine infantry would do what they did best: kill what remained.

The first layer of their defense was the Marine reconnaissance units. These were also the farthest away from the battalion’s headquarters high on Mrima Hill. There were several different flavors of reconnaissance scouting for Russians in front of the battalion’s lines.

Marine Force Reconnaissance, called simply “Force,” had been dropped by helicopter to the farthest layer, about sixteen kilometers away. These teams would identify the incoming Russians, obtaining an understanding of how they amassed and attacked. Force would radio this data back to the Darkhorse command post so the Marines could fine-tune their defenses. The specially trained men of Force would then go to ground, remaining concealed behind the enemy as they passed. Then they’d pop out and hit unguarded vital enemy formations: an artillery section, supply trucks, a radio terminus, or, if they were exceedingly lucky, a headquarters.

The next layer in the defense, fourteen kilometers away, was the hand-selected and elite men of the light-armored reconnaissance companies. They lived like the cavalry on their armored mounts, and were one of the fastest reconnaissance forces in the world. They had 25mm guns, TOW anti-tank missiles, and their own mortar section. Trained to “shoot ’n’ scoot,” they used a medium array of firepower and worked to flank their opponent. If the Russians chased them, they would remain elusive and then request a sheaf of artillery to be dropped behind them to “close the door” as they withdrew. Overhead throughout the operation the Marines had their own mini Air Force: AV-8B Harrier II strike jets. Also, thanks to the Marine VMFA-121, the Green Knights squadron, a host of F/A-18s had flown over in advance of their carrier, which was still too far to support directly.

The next defensive line was the heavy firepower of six Javelin missile crews and a platoon of four Abrams tanks. The operations chief briefed that teams were still digging in eight kilometers away with the support of the regiment’s engineers. The anti-tank missile teams and the M1A2s would work together to take out as many of the Russian BTRs as they could.

Each tank had one “cold” position, where it would remain concealed until the right time. Then it would drive up to its “hot” position, a dugout where only the turret was exposed so the crew could fire freely. They’d send two or three rounds, then reverse back to the “cold” position, where, even if they were spotted, they would have some defense from Russian missiles.

The last line of defense was the hard-core, disciplined fighting men of the Marine Corps infantry, armed to the teeth with AT-4 and SMAW anti-tank rockets; the reliable, heavy Browning .50-cal machine guns, capable of penetrating light armor; medium 7.62mm FN M240s; and the light 5.56mm M249 SAW and M27 IAR machine guns.

The Marine infantrymen were heavily concealed in the thickest parts of the woods at the base of Mrima Hill. They dug vehicle ditches and laced the roads with explosives, claymore mines, and barbed wire designed to halt Russian vehicles and snare the Russian dismounts. Every obstacle was covered by a machine gun so that when the BTRs were bottlenecked or halted, the Marines could blow the explosives, then cut the infantry in half with machine-gun fire.

Behind them on the hill were Darkhorse’s heavy 81mm M252 mortars, dug into pits in clearings in the woods. The M252s were ready to rain down steel explosives the size of whiskey bottles onto the enemy. They also possessed illumination rounds to light up the skies in the likely case of a nighttime attack, and high-concentrate smoke to obscure the movements of the Marines.

As the briefing wrapped up, Apollo felt a buzzing in the cargo pocket of his uniform pants. He felt inside his pocket and found his phone was ringing.

Apollo looked down at the number. It was his father.

Finally!

He leapt up from his little chair, excused himself, and stepped outside the tent.

He answered with, “Papa?”

There was a brief pause on the line; then an unfamiliar male voice spoke in French. “Bonjour, monsieur. Am I speaking with the son of Pascal Arc-Blanchette?”

Apollo felt his legs weaken. He continued walking away from the command tent. “Oui.”

“Monsieur, my name is Arthur Caron. I am calling you from Djibouti City. I am a cultural attaché at the embassy here.”

The French captain’s mind knew exactly where this was going, but his heart tried to tell him he was wrong. Still, his face morphed into a mask of pain, and tears welled in his eyes.

“I am afraid,” Caron continued, “that I am calling with terrible news. I don’t know how else to put it.”

Apollo sniffed now, lifted his chin, forced his eyes to sharpen as he blinked out the tears. “I will spare you of the need, monsieur. You are calling to tell me that my father is dead.”

Caron hesitated — perhaps he was surprised — but finally he said, “I am afraid that is so.”

Apollo’s jaw muscles flexed.

“His body was found with those of three other French nationals in a restaurant at the edge of town. He has been brought back to the embassy, and will be returned to France immediately.”

“How did he die?”

“Well… I…”

“How… did… he… die?”

“He was tortured and then shot. I am sorry.”

Apollo closed his eyes a moment, then said, “I assume you worked with my father.” The French embassy had cleared out days ago. If there was someone claiming to be a French cultural attaché in Djibouti now, then Apollo was certain he was not a French cultural attaché.

“Well… as I said, I am an employee here at the embassy. I knew him in passing only. A very fine man. I am truly sorry for your loss.”

Apollo lowered his voice an octave. He spoke now not as a heartbroken child of a deceased father but as a military officer on a mission. “I assume you worked with my father, monsieur.” Apollo knew Caron would be loath to admit this to anyone.

But the situation and the captain’s tone both compelled him. “Oui. That is correct. We both work for the same department.”

Apollo knew this was DGSE. French foreign intelligence.

“My father was a hero of our nation,” Apollo declared, the pride and the sadness welling up within him in equal measures.

“Unquestionably,” Caron said immediately. “I cannot speak more about this, you understand. But he worked diligently until the very end.”

Apollo was certain he was talking about the transmission of data on the Russian brigade.

Caron added, “He has done much more than I during the current conflict, than any of of us — that I freely admit.”

Apollo nodded at the phone. “Well… at least you’re there, which means you didn’t get on that plane full of French government personnel that left my father behind the other day. You have my respect. Thank you for your call, Monsieur Caron.”

Apollo hung up the phone and looked down the hill. It was dark now, but he could picture the jungle that went on for kilometers before turning into reddish brown arid land. He closed his eyes again but opened them when he felt someone walk up beside him.

“Hey, Captain. Any news about your dad?” It was Connolly, the American lieutenant colonel.

Apollo’s eyes searched the distance, but it was too dark to see the enemy. “The Russians tortured and murdered him.”

“Jesus Christ.” Connolly put an arm on Apollo’s shoulder and squeezed it tight. “I’m sorry, Captain. I’m really sorry.” Apollo did not respond. “Look, you should probably go to medical and take a few minutes to—”

The Frenchman turned to the American. “I came here to stop those men, down this hill, from killing my men, and your men. Right now, Lieutenant Colonel, nothing else matters.”

He squeezed the hand on his shoulder, nodded his appreciation to Connolly, and said, “I need to check on my Javelin crews at the front.”

He turned and walked off into the darkness.

The four Polish Land Forces vehicles stopped at the gas station just before two a.m. While men began pumping gas into the Honker Skorpion 3 all-purpose pickups, others who were awake and felt like stretching their legs climbed out to smoke or just stand around. More than half the men remained in the beds of their vehicles, sleeping against their huge military field rucksacks.

The pickups had machine guns and all the men carried rifles, but the war was over, in Poland anyway, so no one was on any real guard. The Russian armored column, fractured and diminished as it was, was well inside Belarus and running through the night.

These men were all weary from fighting, glad it was over, and looking forward to their first real rest in a week.

The night was well below freezing, but the air was clear and the stars shone brightly. A train passed a few hundred meters away, heading west, the clickety-clack of its steel wheels the only sounds in the still winter night. It was clearly a local passenger train; the lights were on inside the cars, and the soldiers watched it drive past absentmindedly as they smoked.

It was a nice reminder that things would someday return to normal.

Ray Vance hobbled out of a truck behind them, and when they offered him a smoke, he accepted. Shank didn’t look much like a smoker. More a clean-living guy. The bandages over his eye and hand couldn’t mask his keen features. He was youthful looking and handsome.

The turret machine gunner on the lieutenant’s Skorpion 3 spoke enough English to understand the pilot and to be understood himself.

The pilot had been handed over to this small group of regular army forces for transport up to Warsaw. He would go to the hospital there to be checked out and then fly back to his unit in Germany.

For the motor transport lieutenant and his drivers, this was actually the fifth stop. Their most recent was at a jeweler’s in the town of Grójec. It was an unofficial detour because the American had asked if he could run into the store for a few minutes, and the young PLF lieutenant had no problem with a little break, especially because the American offered to buy all the men lunch at McDonald’s.

The American spent nearly a half hour in the jewelry store browsing through rings.

The Poles came back from McDonald’s to find the American holding a small shopping bag. Of course they were curious, and they prodded him a bit, with the gunner translating, but he wouldn’t tell them what was inside the bag.

Hours had passed since then, but Shank had remained tight-lipped about his purchase. But now, as he stood with the others near the wall of the gas station, smoking and huddling deep in their coats to ward off a cold breeze, the turret gunner asked him again, “What did you buy?”

Shank smiled. “You boys are gonna keep asking till I tell you, aren’t you?”

“Yes. The guys want to know what was so important.”

After a pause he said, “A ring.”

“For mother?”

“No. For a girl.”

The gunner translated and the men all laughed. They spoke more to the young gunner, and he looked back at Shank.

“They want to know if it is a Polish girl. Someone you met here.”

“As matter of fact, yes,” he answered with a grin.

His words needed no translation, and the others all laughed some more. More cigarettes came out; he demurred on a second. But when the lieutenant brought out a flask of Polish vodka, he took a sip along with the men.

Shank had gotten his first taste of ground combat and he hoped like hell it would be his last. The worry was constant. The threats were constant. But it was good to be around others. In the air he was alone. Here, the camaraderie was ever present. Strengthening their resolve. Bonding the men and women of the ground combat arms.

The lieutenant said some words to the gunner, who translated yet again. “He says that vodka warms the belly on a cold night like this. But that maybe your heart is already warmed by this Sasza of yours.”

“Oh…,” said the American captain, blushing a little under the scrutiny. “Actually, her name is Paulina.”

More laughter as all the men repeated “Paulina,” clapping him on the shoulder and back.

The lieutenant looked at his watch, then smiled. In English he said, “Happy New Year, Shank,” and he offered him another drink.

Shank smiled as well as he took the flask. “Happy New Year.”

As he finished swallowing his gulp, a flash of light and a concussive crash enveloped the gas station. One of the Polish Land Forces pickups went up in a ball of fire, blasting debris in all directions just fifty feet from where Shank stood.

The men near the store turned to find cover, but the gunfire of a dozen fully automatic rifles began jackhammering from the trees to the west, the whipcrack of AK rounds snapping through the air around the men standing there by the wall.

Shank began to race through the front door of the gas station, but a rifle round caught him under the chin. He raised both arms and clutched his throat with his right hand and the cast on his left.

Blood shot out of the wound; an artery was severed.

The second, third, and fourth bullets hit him in the back and legs.

Shank pitched forward and fell facedown on the sidewalk in front of the door.

As the others spun and fell, the lieutenant’s gunner, wounded, managed to scramble to the door of his Skorpion 3. He was just leaning in to grab his rifle when a burst of rounds caught him in the abdomen. He fell to the frozen concrete, the lit cigarette still dangling from his mouth.

The bulk of the firing lasted no more than fifteen seconds, and in that span the American pilot and all sixteen Polish soldiers were killed, their bodies perforated by gunfire or torn by explosions. Some of the men died while sleeping against their packs in the truck beds.

The Spetsnaz troop reloaded their magazines in the trees, then approached the gas station with weapons held high. They had spent the last two days on foot, moving east only at night. The plan had been to rejoin the main column as it passed through Poland, but the routes changed after Wrocław, and this team had been missed by the Russian forces on the way out.

So tonight, hungry, cold, and tired, Major Lyosha Rochenkov decided they would steal some vehicles for warmth and mobility.

It had been pure luck to find the Polish Land Forces Skorpions filled with and surrounded by soldiers who looked like they had no idea there were still Russian military inside Poland. Rochenkov had carefully moved his men into the trees near the gas station, then ordered them to open fire.

The Russians walked among the bodies now, kicking the still forms lying on the ground and poking with their rifles at the men in the trucks, checking to see if any remained alive.

They were all dead.

A young Spetsnaz soldier said, “Major, this one over here is an officer. Do you want his uniform?”

“Da. Everyone, change quickly into their uniforms.”

“Sir,” said the NCO of the unit, “if we are caught in Polish uniforms, we will be shot.”

Rochenkov said, “What the fuck do you think they will do with us now that we’ve slaughtered half a platoon of men without quarter? We can move easier in their vehicles with their uniforms on, and we’re just as dead either way if we don’t make it into Belarus by sunrise.”

The Spetsnaz major removed the coat from the lieutenant and put it on over his own uniform. It fit, for the most part, though the front was still wet and red with blood.

A special forces sergeant called from over by the door to the gas station. “Major? This one over here… I think this guy is an American.”

The Spetsnaz major walked over and looked at the body on the sidewalk in front of the door to the gas station. He knelt and rolled the man over on his back. Rochenkov nodded. “That’s an American air force flight suit. Look at the cast on his arm and the bandage around his face. He must have been shot down.”

“This was not his lucky week, then,” laughed the junior NCO. “Next time, stay at home, Yankee,” he said, staring at the body.

Others gathered around, fascinated to see the dead American.

“Look,” said the NCO. “He’s got a flask next to him.”

“Not a bad way to go,” mumbled another. “A little drink in your gut is better than most get.”

Major Rochenkov said, “All right, mount up in the three remaining pickups.” They all moved toward the vehicles, some still buttoning up their Polish uniforms. “We have to make it to the border before daybreak or we’ll have to lay up another day. Man the turret guns and everyone stand at the ready with your weapons.”

The NCO added, “No sleeping. Look around you — you see what sleeping will get you.”

The Russian soldiers climbed into the Polish vehicles and headed east toward Belarus, leaving the corpses behind in the frigid night.