Red Metal

CHAPTER 81

Yuri Borbikov left the command tent and marched to the BTR logistics vehicle.

The special Spetsnaz force there greeted him. These men had guarded the vehicle all the way from Russia, through Azerbaijan, and Iran, and then to Africa, and they had been hand selected for this mission for two characteristics: their elite skills and their absolute, unwavering dedication to Borbikov.

The logistics vehicle was guarded by two other BTRs, also stacked with big, talented Spetsnaz soldiers, and this three-APC convoy had remained well to the rear of Lazar’s main force, safely behind any fighting.

“Are you ready?” Borbikov asked the sergeant atop the vehicle.

“We are ready, Comrade Colonel.”

“Good, let us drive to the reserve-artillery park.”

All three BTRs advanced with a big roar of their perfectly maintained engines.

Borbikov knew Lazar’s plan had failed. The armored forces at the front were nearly out of ammunition, the artillery was all but gone, and the paratroopers he’d sent forward had been slaughtered in their staging areas.

But Borbikov had one more card to play. He would not return to Russia in glory as he had hoped, but he would damn well make the West pay for the insult they’d caused him and his country by taking this mine away three years earlier.

America would pay one hell of a huge price for what had happened here, and while this would not translate into a victory for Russia’s military or economy, it would constitute a victory for Borbikov himself.

He would win today.

The small Russian reserve artillery park was well hidden in a jungle clearing next to a rocky, dusty road. All the weapons and vehicles were camouflaged from above, and the gun barrels themselves were hidden inside the foliage at the clearing’s edge.

The officer here had command of a battery of the huge 2A65 Msta-B 152mm artillery pieces. His six massive weapons had remained in reserve, and the men had been filled with jealousy as their brothers had consolidated and rumbled forward, taking almost all the ammunition with them.

But now all the other artillery forces were dead, their weapons destroyed, devastated by air attacks, and Tomahawk missiles apparently fired from a submarine off the coast.

The commander had assumed his unit would be ordered forward immediately, but the call never came.

For now he could only sit and wait and worry and hope that if he was tasked forward, the Americans would be out of fucking planes and fucking cruise missiles by the time he got there.

As the men stood there smoking and listening to the radios in the fire direction center, it was clear the latest attack was faltering as well. The Marines were holding their ground, or most of it anyway, and the bald-headed artillery commander did not understand why the fuck he wasn’t firing his shells up onto the hillside and blasting the rare-earth minerals out of that mine.

A pair of BTRs rolled up the gravel road from the south, parked next to the fire direction center, and Colonel Yuri Borbikov climbed out and began marching quickly up to the twenty men standing there in the overalls of artillery forces.

The dust- and sweat-covered artillery captain walked over and greeted Borbikov.

“Good morning, Colonel. Thank you for coming in to visit the ass end of the brigade.”

The colonel said, “You are no longer the ass end. How many rounds have you put through your guns so far?”

“Hundreds in Moyale and Mount Kenya, Comrade Colonel, but none here. We are ready to serve the attack.”

Borbikov looked the artillery commander over for a few moments; then he inspected his men. “Follow me,” he said to the captain, and then he walked to the rear of the logistics BTR-80.

Four Spetsnaz soldiers clad in the latest Russian body armor and carrying the new Kalashnikov AK-12 assault rifles stood guard at the back hatches. Borbikov signaled to the men and they pulled the metal doors open.

Three heavy steel crates were stacked one on top of the other near the rear hatches, a canvas sheet partially covering them, making it impossible for the captain to read any writing on the cases themselves.

He recognized each box as being the size of a standard two-count crate of artillery ammunition; he’d seen enough of those in his career to know that much, although those crates were normally constructed of wood.

The captain looked up at the colonel in confusion. “They look like crates that would hold shells for the 152s. Thank you, sir, but we have plenty of ammo.”

Borbikov reached in and grabbed the canvas, then yanked it free of the BTR and tossed it behind him. “Go ahead — take a look.”

The artillery commander looked at the crates, and immediately saw the unmistakable symbol for radiological devices.

Borbikov himself opened the lid on the top case and the captain let out a soft gasp.

Inside were two nuclear-tipped artillery shells. He presumed there would be four more in the two crates below the top one.

“Sir?” the captain croaked out now, because he did not know what else to say.

“Today, Captain, you will make history. You will order a shell loaded into each weapon. Your coordinates are the center of the mine. Fire for effect on my command.”

“But… I am not trained on nuclear artillery. Don’t we have to… arm them or something? I have no idea how to—”

“The weapons have been armed and readied. Proceed.”

The artillery commander nodded, a dazed look on his face, and he began shouting orders to the young men in the crews behind him.

Five minutes later the breeches of the six weapons were loaded, and the crews were in position. The coordinates had been set on the artillery pieces, and the pattern of impacts was designed to hit the northern side of Mrima Hill at the very top, with a pair of nuclear devices to slam into the mine itself from above.

This was overkill for the task at hand. Every living thing on or in the mine and the hill itself would be wiped out, a radioactive cloud would hang over the area, and radioactive isotopes would cover the hill, the rubble, and the rock itself.

Borbikov took the handset of the fire control radio and had a radioman tune it so he could transmit to all Russian forces in theater. When this was done, he pressed the talk button. “All forces, this is Colonel Yuri Borbikov, acting commander. All units are to withdraw to initial staging positions as quickly as possible. Make haste — inbound Russian attack aircraft are fifteen minutes out. Confirm.”

All three regiments responded that they understood the order.

Borbikov put the handset down and stood there, looking to the south. He couldn’t see the hill in the darkness but, he told himself in a moment of dark humor, he sure as hell would very soon.

The artillery captain walked up to him. “Sir… will fifteen minutes be enough time for our forces to get clear of the fallout zone?”

“Plenty of time,” he said, still looking into the night hanging over the jungle around him.

“Shall we wait for confirmation that all forces have returned to staging areas before firing?”

In a dismissive tone Borbikov said, “No time for that. The Yankees will suspect danger the moment we go into full retreat from the hill. They won’t know what’s coming for them, but they’ll know something’s coming for them. I’d love to let them sweat that out longer, but I don’t want them to harden their defenses.”

“But, respectfully, sir, how the hell can they build enough sandbags to stop a nuclear fire?”

Borbikov turned to the shorter man now. “In thirteen minutes I will give the order to fire your guns, Captain. If you won’t comply, I’ll have my Spetsnaz men pull the fucking lanyards, and you’ll return to Russia in shackles.”

The captain seemed to mull this over. Finally he said, “We will, of course, comply with your order.”

A long row of BTRs appeared out of the jungle to the east, then rolled to a stop just behind the three Spetsnaz vehicles parked in the middle of the road. Men climbed out and began walking over toward the fire control area at the center of the six guns.

Borbikov said, “The rest of my men,” then turned away, ambled over to one of the artillery pieces, put his hand on the warm steel of the open breech, and looked at the shell lying there, ready for its short flight south.

Finally he turned back to the new arrivals.

The first man to step into the fire control area, just twenty meters away from Borbikov, was Colonel General Boris Lazar. The sixty-four-year-old stormed up into the grouping of massive weapons of war, with several bandages around his face and neck and an arm in a splint. The wounds only served to amplify the anger on his face. He looked around, his eyes searching until he spotted Colonel Borbikov, who remained at the open breech of the 152, staring in the general’s direction.

Borbikov looked like he’d been poleaxed. After a few breaths he said, “General, good to see you, sir.”

Lazar said, “Back from the dead, you might say.”

Borbikov stammered something unintelligible, melting under the general’s gaze. Colonel Kir stepped up next to Lazar. He limped heavily off his right leg; white bandages covered his forehead and left leg.

Kir and Lazar both eyed Borbikov a moment more, surveyed the situation, and immediately walked closer.

As soon as Lazar stepped up to Borbikov, he said, “You’re insane. You’d shell your own countrymen?”

Borbikov said, “I gave the order to withdraw.”

Lazar shook his head in utter disgust. “You will surrender yourself immediately, Colonel. You are under house arrest.”

Borbikov stood tall, looming over the smaller general. “Nyet. You have no cause. I had every right to assume command.” Then he yelled for one of the Spetsnaz security men. “Captain Osolodkin!”

Men appeared from the darkness, but they were not Spetsnaz. They were the paratroop commander and survivors of his unit, all armed with weapons at the ready.

Lieutenant Colonel Fedulov was filthy from combat. Blood was smeared across the ammo rack on his chest, and his eyes showed nothing but malevolence at the Spetsnaz officer in front of him.

“Ah, good. Fedulov,” Borbikov said, a little confused but hiding it. “Lieutenant Colonel, you will arrest Kir and Lazar immediately.”

“On what charge?”

“They have failed to reach the objectives established for them by the southern command headquarters.”

“Pytor,” the general said to Fedulov now. “Do you remember when I first took you to the range? When we went to learn assault tactics with your new platoon?”

“Yes, Comrade General.”

“What did I teach you about loyalty?”

“Sir, you said, ‘Loyalty to the men comes first. Loyalty to the unit is next. Loyalty to Russia is the last hope when the other two have failed.’”

“Good. Pytor, I need you and your men to seize Colonel Borbikov, just as you did the other Spetsnaz forces. He will be returned to Moscow and charged with insubordination.”

“Very well, Comrade General.”

Borbikov turned to Lazar now. “Sir. We can win this! Right now! We shell that hill with these rounds and wipe out all the defenders, and destroy the West’s ability to exploit the site.”

“Everyone’s ability to exploit the site, you mean.”

Borbikov nodded. “If you like, yes! It is not optimal, but it will be a tactical improvement over our comparative relationship with the West. Even you must see that, General!”

“I’m not starting a nuclear war over African rocks.”

“The Americans won’t engage in nuclear war just because we use tactical nucle—”

Lazar shouted, his voice pounding even the deadened ears of the artillery crews. “Tell me all about what the Americans will do, Borbikov! Please! Your track record for predicting their actions has been exemplary. Tell me, young Yuri, was the American invasion of Belarus all part of a master plan about which I was unaware? Do you even know that Sabaneyev has been taken into custody by the United States Army? He’s finished. He’ll be tried for war crimes, no doubt, and convicted, no doubt, and every dirty thing we’ve done in Europe to achieve victory here in Africa will be revealed.”

Before Borbikov could answer, Lazar turned to the artillery commander. “Remove the device from the breech, Captain.”

“Yes, Comrade General.” The man began doing so, while the paratroopers moved toward Borbikov.

Red Metal had been the perfect plan; Borbikov still believed this fully. If the two generals had just obeyed their orders, if Sabaneyev had skirted around Wrocław, and if Lazar had sped up his movement from the port, then the situation would be totally different.

The colonel shouted, “You will be arrested as soon as we return, Comrade General! You have failed in your mission. I will speak to Anatoly Rivkin personally about what has happened here. You will be shot for not implementing your orders.”

Lazar smiled, surprising everyone. “They can shoot me. But not until I end this madness. I will reach out to the Americans and sue for peace.”

Eyes turned back to Borbikov, everyone expecting anger, fury, or at least some sort of rejoinder, but he merely stared at the burly general. No words came, but the rage in his eyes was penetrating.

Lazar looked at the paratroopers. “Take him away.” He turned to confer with the artillery captain and Colonel Kir.

The Spetsnaz colonel’s shoulders slumped, and he was braced by two paratroopers who knew better than to put their hands on him. He began walking toward their vehicle, and they remained at his sides, their rifles hanging in front of their torsos with the barrels pointed down.

After no more than three or four steps, Yuri Borbikov reached out and grabbed the rifle on his right with both hands. He yanked the sling over the head of the younger man and swung it around toward the general and the men standing with him, no more than ten meters away.

Lazar was facing Kir and the captain, but they both saw the movement, though only Colonel Kir responded to the danger.

He lunged forward on his good leg, threw himself between the AK-12 rifle and Colonel General Boris Lazar.

A burst of automatic gunfire pounded the air. Kir took the brunt of the 7.62mm rounds, his body bucking and his arms flying up.

The second paratrooper swung his weapon around and opened fire into Borbikov’s back at contact distance. The first rounds slammed into the colonel’s body armor, but the last few took him in the lower back and hips. Exit wounds blew out his front and he dropped the rifle and fell on his face.

Colonel Dmitry Kir lay dead, and the artillery captain had been shot in the left forearm and was rolling in the trampled grass.

General Boris Lazar stood there, with no new injuries, although he was momentarily dazed by what had just happened.

He knelt down and took Kir’s head in his hands. “My poor Dmitry.” After seconds of silence, he looked up to the paratroopers. “Secure the artillery shells. I want them placed back in their cases and put in my command vehicle. You will accompany me back to the command post.”

The artillery crews followed their orders without question or hesitation.

Boris Lazar had that effect on his men.