Red Metal

CHAPTER 82

Lieutenant Colonel Tom Grant slouched back in the large leather office chair and kicked his feet up on the huge oak desk. His boots were filthy, caked with mud that flaked off and soiled the documents and map overlays. His tanker uniform was covered in oil, grease, and gunpowder, and stiff with sweat and bloodstains. Grant had not looked in a mirror in a week, and he purposefully avoided his reflection, worried that his haggard appearance might only serve to exhaust him even more. But even without looking, he knew his face would be completely smeared with carbon dust from the gas discharge emitted every time his tank had fired its main gun.

He looked around the well-appointed office. Someone had said this building was the command post for the Belarusian 11th Guards Mechanized Brigade, but all the soldiers had melted away during and just after the fighting here.

He kicked his feet off the broad wooden desk and leaned forward now, his eyes locking on a silver box on the desktop. A Belarusian armored unit symbol was emblazoned on the front above an inscription in Cyrillic, indecipherable to the American from Ohio. He flipped it open and found an ornamental lined-cloth interior and twenty cigars. He drew one out of the humidor; the sweet scent of aged brandy and tobacco instantly filled the air. He held the cigar to his nose.

Master Sergeants Kellogg and Wolfram almost didn’t stop as they walked down the hallway of the captured garrison headquarters. They saw the lieutenant colonel as they passed the doorway, then backed up and entered the room, looking around in amazement at the elegant office.

“Hey, boss,” Kellogg said. Grant didn’t look up; he was pulling open desk drawers, looking for a lighter. “The NATO prisoners are all getting checked out in the infirmary here. They want you to come down so they can thank you personally. Lots of generals and admirals in that mix, so…”

Grant still searched the desk.

“… you might want to think about doing that.”

Still no response from the lieutenant colonel.

“Or not.” Kellogg waited a moment, cleared his throat, then said, “Also, we have a final tally on the captured Russian equipment. The Bumerangs and tanks are all operational, but half the shit is out of gas, and more than half the vehicles were Winchester on ammo.” He paused to smile. “These bastards did not predict us chasin’ their asses into Belarus.”

Wolfram laughed at this, but Grant made no reply. Instead he just bit the end off the cigar crudely and spit it on the floor.

“We have the rest of the reports when you’re ready to come and review them.” Again Grant made no response. Kellogg looked around the room in the silence for a second, then said, “Of course, you might just want to hang out in here for a bit. This office is pretty cool.”

Grant found a heavy steel lighter in a drawer and hefted it with a little smile, then flicked the flint wheel. The carefully crafted lighter’s wick burst in a soft red and yellow flame.

Kellogg now said, “And that general is downstairs. Sabadudad… something like that. Have you seen that asshole? Looks like a movie star. Course, he also looks scared shitless, though he’s putting on a tough face. Anyway, his translator says he’s ready to surrender to you.”

Grant touched the flame of the lighter to the tip of the cigar and leaned back in the chair. His Army-issue M9 bayonet scraped along the leather, cutting a deep gash. Uncaring, he looked up at the ceiling and puffed the cigar, savoring the richness of the brandy flavoring. He pointed to the silver box and only now did he speak.

“Gents, help yourselves. There’s enough in there to pass around to some of our NCOs. God knows they deserve it.”

Grant pocketed the lighter in the breast pocket of his winter tanker jacket as both master sergeants rushed forward, grabbed fistfuls of cigars out of the humidor, and stuffed them in their drop pouches.

Tom Grant said, “Tell that general I’ll accept his surrender when I’m good and ready. And let him know he’ll be flown to NATO HQ in Brussels to be tried for fucking war crimes. Let that shit sink in a bit. I’ll be down when I’m done with this cigar.”

The sixteen LAVs rolled north down the hill in the late-morning sun along a dirt road cratered by war and littered with the burned-out hulks of Russian medium armor, shrapnel holes, and thin copper wires floating in the air, the detritus from fired Russian and U.S. anti-tank missiles. BTRs lay split open, all twisted metal, their insides spilling out onto the dirt-and-brush landscape.

Smoke rose from vehicles and burning foliage, and a thick, ugly haze hung in the hot air.

Several areas had already been marked by locals who returned after dawn this morning, trying in vain to reclaim their war-torn land. T-shirt flags and crooked sticks and other markings warned of where munitions had landed but not exploded.

There were bodies on the road, and hanging out of vehicles, too; Connolly even saw two mangled Russian soldiers suspended in trees. Many corpses were burned beyond recognition.

Connolly and Caster sat in the hatches of the LAV–C2 looking out at the wreckage strewn across the African plain.

“What a fucking mess,” Connolly muttered to himself.

He imagined nature would reclaim the land in just a few years, as it had done on battlefields throughout history. Not many would see it the way he saw it today, and he figured that was probably for the best.

Now Caster spoke up. “What a fucking mess.”

They passed the remains of a Marine M1A2 tank. Its turret had been blown off and a team of young Marines stripped down to their bare chests was trying to recover the crew’s remains to send back to their families.

It took over forty-five minutes of driving through a horror show of destruction before the American convoy made it up to Jombo Hill.

Connolly had to fight the urge to lift his carbine as they passed into the Russian perimeter at the base of the hill. Dozens of BTRs, all apparently still in fighting shape, were parked in clearings just off the road, and hundreds of troops could be seen among the trees. There were wounded among them, lying on the ground or on litters, or just standing there bandaged and shell-shocked.

Most of the young men whom Connolly saw looked much the same as the young Marines at the front lines he’d seen behind him.

The LAVs passed sandbagged machine-gun emplacements and a medical aid station, then stopped short of the Russian command tent. The general’s guidon hung out front and flapped in the early-morning breeze.

Apollo Arc-Blanchette climbed out of his LAV and walked stiffly over to Connolly as the American exited his own vehicle. The Frenchman pointed at the rows of armored personnel carriers. “Those would make a nice target.”

Connolly replied, “Yeah. If this doesn’t go as planned, then we’ll get right back to work blowing those motherfuckers up.”

Apollo chuckled, then spoke softly. “Really? With what?”

Both men knew the Americans and French were virtually out of tanks, helos, attack aircraft, and missiles.

Connolly winked. Softly he said, “We’re bluffing here, Captain. I’m just trying to get into character.”

A contingent of Russian junior officers approached Arc-Blanchette, Caster, Connolly, and the rest of the contingent of Americans, then ushered them into the large tent.

It was dark inside, and all the radios and maps were covered with blankets, presumably to shield them from Western eyes. Connolly was pretty sure Major Griggs and his buddies at the NSA had detailed diagrams of every piece of equipment in here, but Connolly knew he would cover his gear if this meeting were taking place at the Marine regimental CP.

A barrel-chested bald man in a field-worn camouflage uniform with the stars of a Russian colonel general sat at a table on the far side of the tent. Connolly recognized Boris Lazar from the photos in his dossier. Three colonels sat on either side of him, and Connolly checked the Cyrillic name tapes on all the uniforms to see if one was Borbikov.

He couldn’t find the infamous colonel among them, and found himself disappointed he couldn’t look the bastard in the eye.

A young translator, an infantry captain, stood at the end of the table and beckoned the Americans to sit. Caster was in the middle, with McHale on his left, Connolly and Apollo on his right.

The general spoke in Russian, although Connolly had read that the man spoke fluent English.

The translator said, “You are here to surrender to our forces?” There was a faint smile on Lazar’s lips, while the colonels sitting next to him sat stone-faced.

Colonel Caster saw no humor in Lazar’s joke, either. “No.”

Lazar spoke Russian again. “Well, then,” said the translator, “what shall we talk about?”

“You called me, General.”

Lazar nodded and replied at length, and his words were translated into English. “Ah, yes. I did. You and your men fought valiantly. But I know you are low on ammunition, virtually devoid of armor, and weak at every point of the compass. I am told you have a carrier battle group steaming over from Asia, but they won’t be in range until long after I take those mines and make it impossible for them to dislodge us. We have other tricks up our sleeve, Colonel, and orders to achieve nothing less than victory here.

“I propose we stop the bloodshed. You and your men vacate the mine—our mine — and in return I can offer you safe passage to Mombasa.”

Caster did not respond favorably to the general’s request. In his Texas drawl he said, “You will quit Kenya, and you will quit Africa… or we will annihilate every last one of you.”

The general began speaking before the translator was even finished relaying Caster’s comments to him. The captain quickly switched to English. “So, it is the time for threats, then, is it?”

Caster replied, “Not threats. Facts. You leave or you die. You killed a lot of my boys and I sure as hell didn’t come up here for your jokes or your games.”

The general remained stoic as the captain replied.

The captain at the end of the table said, “No more young men should die on either side.”

“On that one item, you and I agree,” Caster said.

The translator began to say this in Russian, but Lazar just nodded and waved a hand. As Connolly had thought, the old man understood English.

Lazar drummed his fingers on the table a moment in silence.

Everything he said and did, Connolly observed, was calculated. He was a shrewd, savvy son of a bitch. One who had likely experienced much more on the battlefield than anyone else in this room.

Caster said, “You halted your attack because you could not break my lines. My Marines withstood all the pressure you could throw at us, and now your army is weakened to the point where you are unable to continue the attack.

“But I, on the other hand, have received reinforcements.”

Lazar smiled at this and looked around the room. “Really? I don’t see them.”

“That’s because you can’t see what’s sitting off the coast. Our carrier strike group has arrived to within striking range. And if I can hold back your entire force with a Marine rifle regiment, imagine what I can do now with dozens of Navy F-18s.”

After Lazar spoke animatedly, the translator relayed the message with similar enthusiasm. “A rifle regiment? You had more forces than that, Colonel. Those Tomahawk missiles fired from your submarine didn’t help you at all — is that it? What about the aircraft from your ship?”

Caster shrugged. “I brought along friends. And more friends have arrived. Where are your friends, today, General Lazar?”

Dust swept in under the tent flaps. Bugs crawled on the table and buzzed in the warm morning air.

The general leaned forward and spoke slowly, his voice metered and steady. “You, Colonel, must be quite a poker player, because I have been a professional soldier for forty-two years and I cannot tell if you are bluffing.” He smiled. “Are you? Because I don’t believe there are any more forces out there yet. My units have kept you under constant watch, and there is no movement from the coast, none of your LCACs crossing the marshes, none of your famous Ospreys in the air bringing in hundreds more troops. You might have your carrier coming, but it’s not here yet, despite what you say, or the skies would be full of your warplanes. I believe you are still nothing but a reduced regiment guarding a small clump of clay and trillions of dollars of damn bits of metal.”

The tone was cold, almost sinister.

The carrier strike group was, in fact, another seven and a half hours from being in position to deploy its F-18s, and then only at their maximum range, and the Russians could probably take the mines in half that time if they threw all those BTRs Connolly and the entourage had seen on the way in at the hill right now. Lazar must have suspected this, Connolly thought, and while he certainly hated the general for what he’d done, he had to respect Lazar’s ability to read his adversary.

Caster waited a moment. The room was so quiet now Connolly could hear the muffled sounds of the Russian radios hidden from view under blankets.

Then the colonel leaned forward and said, “If you don’t believe me, little froggy… then jump.”

He waited a minute as the interpreter translated the curious phrase. There were puzzled expressions on the faces of Lazar and his colonels, and then the Russian side of the table erupted with anger.

Everyone looked at the general. He remained still a moment; then he began to chuckle. His laugh grew. He had to clutch his side with an arm that Connolly only now noticed he was in a splint, half hidden under the table.

Caster remained emotionless.

To Connolly’s surprise, Lazar switched to English. “Okay… little froggy.” His smile drifted away. “I must tell you something that is relevant to our meeting. I have here”—he handed a piece of paper to Colonel Caster—“a direct order from General of Russian Federation Forces Ketsov instructing my army to retire to Djibouti for some resupply and refit. There we will join our tanks, which have been refueled by friendly African nations — I cannot say which. You understand. And then we will decide whether we will come back and seize the mine or return to Russia.

“I will tell you… you must not interfere with us as we return to Djibouti. If you do, I will not hesitate to defend myself with the significant forces and munitions I have available.

“Am I clear, Colonel?”

Caster didn’t blink. “General, you can take all the time you want to head back north. But if you take one… more… step to the south, it’ll be your last.”

A murmur went around the room. One of the Russian colonels leaned in and whispered in the general’s ear. Lazar listened while sitting back in his chair.

He switched back into Russian and spoke to Caster, who waited for the translation. “Then it is settled. We will begin preparations to withdraw immediately. There is nothing further for us to discuss. Thank you, Colonel Caster.”

Caster stood and started to walk out, followed by Connolly and the others. When he stopped and turned back around, the men around him did the same. Caster said, “If your forces are still here tomorrow morning, I will consider it a further act of aggression.” He nodded at the general and touched his Marine Corps cover as if it were a Stetson.

Then he pivoted and walked out.

Connolly, McHale, Apollo, and the rest of the Marines followed.

Dan Connolly’s last view was of Colonel General Lazar sitting still at the table, narrow eyes following the Americans as they left.

Five minutes later Connolly again rode with McHale in his LAV, on the way back to Mrima Hill. “Borbikov wasn’t there,” Connolly said. “And he was the mastermind behind this whole thing. The one guy who would be there, front and center, if they still intended to attack. His absence means he’s been killed, wounded, or… relieved. Either way, I’ll bet you a hundred dollars — no, make that a mine full of rare-earth minerals — they will be gone by tomorrow.

McHale said, “Lazar just wanted to see if we would blink. Caster didn’t, so now Lazar’s more concerned about getting what’s left of his boys home.” He added, “You’re probably right about Borbikov. You think Caster got all that?”

Connolly shrugged, looking out at the devastated landscape. “Doesn’t matter. He played it like a true Texan. ‘Get off my land or I’ll fuck you and your whole posse up’ was all those Russkies heard.”

They passed again through the graveyard of American and Russian vehicles. Several crews of Russians were scattered on the battlefield, along with American Marines in Humvees and French soldiers in trucks gathering what remained of fallen comrades. Connolly watched a tank recovery crew stopping to assist a Russian unit pulling a missile-and-flame-ravaged BTR out of a wet, swampy irrigation canal.

McHale said, “A few hours ago we were killing each other.” He shook his head. “War is fucking insane, Dan.”

Connolly nodded. “You’re preaching to the choir, Eric.”