Red Metal

CHAPTER 73

Connolly had been dozing uncomfortably in a folding camping chair just inside the entrance to the horizontal shaft. He snapped awake as loud radio chatter came in, and he looked at his watch. It was four a.m. and instantly he knew he was going to have to dig deep into a reserve of energy to stay alert this early morning.

He rubbed his stiff knees as the Force Recon radioman’s snap report echoed throughout the cavernous mine shaft.

“Grizzly, Grizzly, Black Diamond One, over.”

“Go, Black Diamond.”

“Roger. SPOTREP follows.”

“Black Diamond, go with SPOTREP.”

“Roger. I have eyes on, time now. Be advised, enemy is approximately a regiment-sized unit of BTR-82s. Unit travels north to south along highway Charlie one-zero-six. Speed is about four-five kilo-papa-hotel, now crossing phase line ‘Chesty.’ Enemy unit is arrayed in traveling formation.”

Lieutenant Colonel McHale was up on the net instantly. “Black Diamond, Grizzly Main. We copy all. Continue to observe and report.” He ran his finger down the map from the enemy’s position and south about eight kilometers. He looked over to Apollo Arc-Blanchette, who had been dozing while lying against a backpack. The Frenchman was on his feet in a second. “Captain, at present direction and speed, I estimate the enemy will be on your Dragoons in about ten minutes.”

“Understood,” said Apollo. He hurried over to a table, then confirmed on his own map lying there.

Caporal Konstantine handed Apollo the French radio handset and he transmitted to the men of Three Team. “Dragoon Three, are you copying the Marine report?”

“Dragoon actual, this is Dragoon Three. We copy all. Ambush position set,” they responded.

Apollo gave McHale the thumbs-up. “They’ll punch them in the nose, sir. They’ve been at it for days now, on two continents.”

The half-moon glowed high in the cloudless Kenyan sky, offering plenty of light for the eight men of Dragoon Three Team. With their night optics they could easily discern the shapes of the distant Russian BTRs still driving in a traveling formation, rolling straight down the road, maximizing their speed but making themselves excellent targets for the French special forces men.

“How many do you count?” Sergent Coronett asked his missileman, who was looking through the thermal sight system of his anti-tank Missile Moyenne Portée. The young Dragoon’s hands cupped the twin grips, slowly rotating the massive launcher on its tripod mount as he tracked the approaching Russian vehicles.

“I count twenty.” He pulled back a bit to address his team leader. A green glow illuminated two circles around his eyes where the eyecups leaked light from his thermal sight system. “Maybe more, boss. Too many to see the back of the column. I see no tanks, just BTRs.” The man leaned back to the scope and continued tracking.

Sergent Coronett grabbed his squad radio to talk to the rest of his missilemen. “All teams, prepare to launch on my mark.”

The missileman with Coronett said, “Ready to fire.”

After a few seconds Coronett patted him on the back. “Fire.”

The Dragoon flipped off the thumb safety and squeezed the trigger on the butterfly grip.

There was a loud, hollow pop as the missile ejected six feet from the launch tube; then a massive whoosh filled the quiet night as the rocket motor kicked in, jetting the missile hundreds of meters into the air.

To Sergent Coronett’s left and right, six other missilemen took their cue and fired their Moyennes.

In just under four seconds, five of seven tandem HEAT warheads blasted into the lead BTRs. The missiles peeled open the tops like tin cans, destroying the vehicles and the occupants instantly.

Without a word, all seven crews collapsed their missile launchers and gear, hefted everything onto their backs, and sprinted fifty meters back to their waiting pickups.

Four kilometers to the north the Russian lead battalion quickly fanned out into combat formation and began firing wildly, clearly shocked by the impact of losing most of a platoon without warning, this far north of Mrima Hill. By the time some semblance of fighting order had been established in the Russian ranks, the Dragoons were racing south at full speed.

At the regimental command post, the radio crackled. “Dragoon Six, this is Dragoon Three. Five enemy BTRs KIA. We are executing bump, back to our next anti-armor ambush position.”

Apollo keyed his radio. “Good work, Three Team. Reload and get ready for another salvo.” He looked over at Lieutenant Colonel McHale to see if he was tracking. McHale was talking on another radio but signaled that he was following the successful French first hits with a thumbs-up.

Apollo finished his transmission to Three Team. “The southern Marine Force Recon team is set and wants you to make haste driving through their positions at the bridge.”

A few minutes later a whispering voice came over the Marine radio. “Grizzly Three, Grizzly Three, this is Black Diamond. I have the lead unit of the Russians passing me now. We estimate six minutes until the center of the regiment.”

“Copy. I show all friendly forces south of your position. You are clear to demo the bridge on your timeline.”

“Black Diamond copies all. Out.”

Sixteen kilometers from the command post, the Force team now lay in wait, watching Russian BTRs stream past. Five detonators, five lines of det cord, and five wires led to their concealed positions in the dry riverbed east of the heavy bridge on the C106. Camouflaged by cut foliage, their faces painted, the team leader counted vehicles quietly while the assaultman, a specially trained demolitions expert, made a final check on the explosive initiators.

The radio operator inched up to his team leader and whispered into his ear. “Sir, word from Grizzly Main. We’re clear to initiate.”

The Force Recon team leader, a Marine Corps staff sergeant with eleven years’ experience, just nodded.

He felt for the handset of his squad radio without pulling his eyes from the night optic he used to track the approaching forces. He pressed the button and spoke softly. “Spotter, you have eyes on?”

The whispered response came back. “Affirm. Center mass of the regiment is two-zero-zero meters. One platoon… They’re slowing. They’re gonna inspect the bridge.”

The Force Recon staff sergeant responded with a calm that belied the danger he was in. “Copy.” He put the handset down and reached over, tapping the assaultman’s back with his free hand. “Safety off. I’ll give the signal. On my mark.” He kept his eyes in the night optic, watching while a row of BTRs closed on the bridge.

“Understood,” came the hushed response, and the assaultman connected the wires to his detonator. He folded the plastic cover back and held his thumb above the trigger switch.

Two of the big Russian armored personnel carriers drove over to the south side of the bridge while the other two remained on the north side. In their night-vision goggles the Marines could see Russian soldiers pouring out of the backs of the BTRs. They immediately fanned out and began looking around. A dozen men climbed over the metal railing and began moving down the spans.

He could tell by their speed and haste that they had been ordered to proceed as fast as possible. Even while the soldiers were still below the span, another platoon of BTRs began rolling over it.

He watched the Russian soldiers crawl around the spans. After another platoon of BTRs started to cross the top of the bridge, the team leader tapped his assaultman.

The Marine placed his thumb firmly on the control switch and in one quick motion pulled it back, initiating the electronic trigger.

A flash followed by a thunderous explosion, and the bridge disintegrated. Steel and wood whirled into the night sky.

The BTR platoon burned in the twisted wreckage of the bridge. The vehicles turned to red and yellow glowing heaps; then, as they lay on their sides in the shallow, muddy river, their ammunition ignited, shooting bright white flames and sparks.

The Marines fitted their NVGs back on their helmets, shouldered their rifles, and ran south into the inky darkness.

The call came into the Grizzly command center. The bridge was down and the attacking Russian regiment in the west was now split almost in half, one half trapped on the northern side of the bridge, the other half on the southern side. They would certainly figure out how to circumvent the downed bridge, but there would be a lot of confusion in the Russians’ western regiment as they sorted out the destruction and mayhem caused by the Marines and French Dragoons.

The radio operator looked up at McHale. “Sir, you’ll want to take this. Radio call incoming from 2nd Battalion in the eastern sector.”

McHale took the radio. “Warlords, this is Grizzly. Send traffic.”

“Copy, Grizzly. Our LAR platoon reports enemy vehicles coming into their zone. They don’t have good visibility in the broken terrain to the east but believe it’s more than a battalion. The enemy are coming through the eastern boundary, down route C108, moving fast. LAR is going to take some shots and retrograde. Requesting immediate air support to cover their withdrawal.”

“Understood, Warlords. Confirming now. Get ready to receive close air. I’ll check them in on station and pass them to your FAC.” Lieutenant Colonel McHale radioed over to the USS Boxer and initiated the call for close air support. They were going to have to use their air judiciously in the coming hours, but this situation definitely warranted it, as far as McHale was concerned.

Aboard the USS Boxer, the six pilots of VMFA-122, who had been waiting strapped into their F-35B Lightning II fighters, now began blasting off the deck. Just twelve minutes later they were passed to the light attack reconnaissance forward air controllers. All six made a single pass, each launching two air-to-ground attack missiles, but in the broken, hilly, and wooded terrain to the east of Mrima Hill, only a few met their marks. Four BTRs were destroyed, but many times that number continued forward.

The Russians had been waiting for the Marines to start using their aircraft. Just after the attack run, sixteen Russian ZSU-23-4 antiaircraft vehicles launched streams of Igla 9K38 missiles. The Iglas were better used on helicopters, but the Marines brought the fighters in too close in order to pick out targets in the rough terrain. Two F-35s succumbed to the fast-flying missile systems, taking direct hits and exploding in fireballs. The remaining F-35s were forced to climb to a higher altitude to stay clear, and this limited their ability to accurately support the Marines on the ground.

Losing an aircraft was an almost unimaginable event for the Marines. Before the pair of F-35s augered into the African dirt, the Marines had not lost a jet aircraft to ground fire since Vietnam.

The Cobra gunships from HMLA-267, called the “Stingers,” lined up to assist the LAR platoon withdrawing in the east. The Cobras had suffered two losses at the hands of the Russians up north at Moyale, and with only six gunships remaining, they were forced to use caution.

The quad-23mm cannons on the ZSUs sprayed a wall of bullets every time the Cobras attempted to approach, and one helo was hit within minutes of arriving on station but was able to limp out to sea and back to the Boxer. A second helicopter took a direct hit to its main rotor by an Igla missile and exploded five hundred feet above the earth. A few Cobra TOWs hit their marks, killing three Russian BTRs, but, running low on fuel and flares, the attack helos were forced to pull back.

At six a.m., 2nd Battalion, 2nd Marines, reported in. Their lead Javelin gunners were engaging approaching Russian BTRs in their sector. In the east the Russians, working their way through restrictive canyons and hills, had closed the distance to just over eleven kilometers from the mines.

Transmissions back to the Grizzly headquarters from 1st Battalion in the western sector reported that the Russians had found a bypass around the blown bridge by using a portion of the river where there was less than a meter of water and the gradient of the banks was not as sheer, and now they were less than fourteen kilometers from the Marine defensive lines.

The mood in the regimental CP seemed to change from guarded optimism to tense desperation in a matter of moments. The Russians’ incredible antiair resources had all but eliminated the effect of aircraft from the Boxer, and the enemy advance continued.

Colonel Caster and Lieutenant Colonel McHale discussed shifting 3rd Battalion to support the other two if they remained unengaged in their sector, and there was talk of bringing the Foreign Legion forces around to the northern side of the hill, but the Marines had more and superior anti-armor weapons.

McHale turned to Caster. “Sir, if the Russians attack in the north now, we will be stretched to the max.”

“Work on keeping air in the fight. Cycle them back to the flat deck as needed. Keep the battery firing. We can fly in more ammo later if needed, so direct them to use everything they’ve got.”

“Aye, aye, sir.”

Colonel General Boris Lazar sat in the command position in a BTR-82A atop Jombo Hill, looking south, toward Mrima through the vehicle’s night-vision system, scanning the lowlands that lay before him between the two hills. By the light of the predawn half-moon, he could see terrain dotted with a light growth of trees, open fields, and a few small clusters of buildings and farms.

His own reconnaissance forces had successfully jammed the Force Recon Marines’ radios as they slipped quietly up Jombo, fully expecting to find Americans hiding there. His special reconnaissance men then attacked the Marines, killing four and driving the others off after a frantic, close-in firefight.

Lazar now held this high ground, and he visualized the chaos inside the 5th Marines’ regimental headquarters as he tightened the noose encircling their defenses.

It was to be expected that he’d lose men and machines fighting in this manner. He, too, had divided his forces, and the Marines had been careful in their preparations. But he watched as his forces in both the west and the east peeled back each layer of the Marine defenses. He knew this would mean a quickening pace in the Marine headquarters. The Americans’ tasking of their aircraft, their use of artillery — their reactions in general — were becoming slightly more sluggish now as Lazar’s predictions unfolded.

Kir was able to learn this himself in the headquarters tent as reports came in from individual sections and he checked over the map. But Lazar just felt it by instinct, his mind carefully absorbing all the information coming in and then picturing the battle space in his mind.

He could almost hear the increasingly anxious combat reports, the casualty figures mounting, the tension heightening as the Marine commander tried to send forces to react to each new Russian attack. The American was placing his fingers in a leaky dam, and he didn’t have many fingers left.

Lazar, a colonel general, was equivalent to an American three-star general. He was fighting against a simple colonel, and although the American had likely seen combat in Iraq and Afghanistan, he was already demonstrating his lack of practice at dealing with the higher orders of battle Lazar was throwing at him now. The Marine colonel’s experience chasing the Taliban, tracking how many goats each mountain village had, and combating poppy cultivation would provide him no great advantage today, the general thought to himself.

And now it was time for Lazar’s third attack. This onslaught, he’d calculated, would grossly overextend the Marine regiment’s ability to command and control and provide fire support. And without coordinated artillery fire, the Marines were outnumbered against an organized system of combat power.

He expected that the Marine battalion defending to the north of the mine would fight hard, since they had not yet taken enemy contact. But he would watch carefully for a slower response from their regiment. He had told Colonels Kir and Glatsky to look for a slackening or heavily reduced response in artillery. This would be the first test to see if he was right.

Lazar confidently ordered Kir to unleash a massed heavy artillery barrage onto the hapless Marine battalion defending the north side of Mrima Hill.

An hour later the first hues of dawn broke, and Boris Lazar could finally see the valley below him. The battle in the west raged on. He observed rockets and missile launches every few minutes, with return fire from the Americans. The Marines were fighting with everything they had. A few of 1st Regiment’s BTRs had been hit by the deadly American Javelins; Lazar watched the flashes of light and listened to the delayed sounds of explosions as his young men in the distance died fiery deaths.

The Javelin was an accursedly accurate weapon, but the general knew it’d be in limited supply.

Simply put, Lazar had more boys and armor than the Marines had missiles.

He had told Colonel Nishkin to make all haste, bypass any small pockets of Marines, and put pressure on their center. The latest report from Nishkin was that they had successfully broken past the demolished bridge and were advancing at a good clip. Red tracer fire from 30mm cannons and 7.62mm machine guns continued in heavy bursts, cascading across the landscape in long beads, ricochets launching up into the early-morning sky. The thumping from twenty or thirty weapons firing cyclic remained virtually constant now as 1st Regiment broke through the smaller French and U.S. forces.

In the east, Russia’s 3rd Regiment was still being harassed by a few Marine helicopters, though in limited numbers. Colonel Klava was using the ZSUs to good effect, hiding them carefully, then launching massive barrages of fire once the Marine helos tried to approach.

As Lazar watched now, four Cobras moved forward again in the distance. They launched missiles at Russian armor; then the attack helicopters began circling, firing their 20mm Gatling guns at long range.

The answer from Klava came swiftly. Igla missiles were launched in unison, followed by the heavy chatter of 23mm cannon fire. The air was alight with green tracers, a deadly fireworks show that enraptured the sixty-four-year-old general.

Two American helos were hit almost simultaneously. Lazar saw the bursts of yellow-orange and watched while they spun back down to earth, their fuel burning out of control.

Both aircraft crashed into the hillside.

Bravo, Klava, he thought.

Lazar looked over his maps and conferred with Colonel Kir over the radio back at his command post. Then he turned and signaled to his second regimental commander that he was now clear to attack.

Lazar would watch this for a few more minutes; then he would personally accompany 3rd Regiment in their assault on the enemy’s northern battalion.