The driver slowed for a sweeping turn while Mackall squinted ahead, trying to see whatever enemy vehicle the helicopters missed. It didn’t have to be a vehicle. It just could be three guys with a missile launcher, and Mrs. Mackall would get The Telegram, regretting to inform her that her son . . .
Thirty kilometers, he thought. Damn! Only a half-hour since the German grenadiers had punched a hole in the Russian lines, and zoom! goes the Black Horse Cav! It was crazy, but hell, it was crazy to have stayed alive ever since his first engagement-an hour after the war started. Ten klicks to go.
“Look at that! More of our tanks southbound. What the hell is going on?” Sergetov snarled to his driver, even talking like his general now.
“Are they our tanks?” the driver asked.
The new major shook his head. Another one passed through the gap in the trees-the turret had a flat top, not the usual dome shape of Soviet tanks!
A helicopter appeared over the gap and pivoted in the sky. Sergetov didn’t mistake this for a Russian, and the stubby wings on either side of the fuselage marked it as an armed attack-chopper. The driver lurched to the right just before the nose-mounted machine gun flashed at them. Sergetov jumped clear as the tracers reached out. He landed on his back and rolled toward the treeline. His head was down, but he could feel the heat blast when the machine-gun tracers ignited the spare gas tank on the back of the truck. The young officer scampered into the trees and looked around the edge of a tall pine. The American helicopter flew to within a hundred meters of his vehicle to ensure its destruction, then spun off to the south. His radio was in the overturned, burning truck.
“Buffalo Three-One, this is Comanche, over.”
“Comanche, this is Three-One. Report, over.”
“We just popped a Russian truck. Everything else looks clear. Roll ’em, cowboy!” the helicopter pilot urged.
Mackall laughed at that. He had to remind himself that this wasn’t really fun. Quite a few tank drivers had gotten into trouble by getting just a little too unwound on the German countryside, and now they were being ordered to! Two more minutes and three kilometers passed.
Here’s where it gets tricky.
“Buffalo Three-One, we show three Russian vehicles standing guard on the hilltop. Look like Bravo-Tango-Romeos. All the bridge traffic seems to be trucks. The repair shop is on the east bank north of the town.”
The tank slowed as they came to the last turn. Mackall ordered his “track” off the road, onto the meadow grass, as it edged ponderously around a stand of trees.
“Target BTR, eleven o’clock, twenty-seven hundred! Fire when ready, Woody!”
The first of the eight-wheel vehicles exploded before any of their crews knew a tank was near. They were looking for aircraft, not enemy tanks forty kilometers in the rear. The next two died within a minute, and Mackall’s platoon of four tanks dashed forward.
They all reached the ridge three minutes later. One by one, the huge Abrams tanks crested the hill overlooking what had once been a small city. Many days of continuous air attacks and artillery fire had ended that. Four ribbon bridges were in operation, with numerous trucks crossing or waiting to cross.
First the tanks located and engaged anything that looked even vaguely dangerous. Machine-gun fire began working on the trucks, while the main guns reached into the tank-repair yard established in the fields north of the town. By this time, two full troops were in place, and infantry vehicles took on the trucks with their light 25mm cannon. Within fifteen minutes, over a hundred trucks were burning, along with enough supplies to keep a whole Russian division in business for a hard day of combat. But the supplies were incidental. The rest of the squadron was catching up with the advance party, and their job was to hold this Russian communications nexus until relieved. The Germans already had Gronau, and the Russian forces east of the Leine were now cut off from their supplies. Two of the Russian bridges were clear, and a company of M-2 Bradley infantry carriers darted across to take up position on the eastern edge of the town.
Ivan Sergetov crawled to the edge of the grassy road-he didn’t know what it was-and watched the units pass while his stomach contracted into an icy ball. They were Americans, at least a battalion in strength, he estimated, traveling light. No trucks, just their tracked vehicles. He kept his wits enough to begin a count of the tanks and personnel carriers that raced before him at a speed that he’d never really appreciated before. It was the noise that was most impressive. The turbine-driven M-1 tanks did not make the roar of diesel-powered tanks. Until they were a few hundred meters away, you couldn’t even know they were there-the combination of low noise and high speed . . . They’re heading towards Alfeld!
I have to report this. But how? His radio was gone, and Sergetov had to think for a minute to determine where he was . . . two kilometers from the Leine, right across that wooded ridge. His choice was a difficult one. If he returned to the command post, it was a walk of twenty kilometers. If he ran to the rear, he might find friendly units in half the time and get the alarm out. But running that way was cowardice, wasn’t it?
Cowardice or not, he had to go east. Sergetov had the sickening feeling that the alarm had not been sounded. He moved to the edge of the trees and waited for a gap in the American column. It was only thirty meters to the far side. Five seconds to cross the gap, he told himself. Less.
Another M-1 blazed past him. He looked left and saw that the next was nearly three hundred meters away. Sergetov took a deep breath and ran into the open.
The tank commander saw him, but couldn’t get to his machine gun fast enough. Besides, one man on foot without even a rifle wasn’t worth stopping for. He reported the sighting on his radio and returned to the mission at hand.
Sergetov didn’t stop running until he was a hundred meters into the trees. Such a short distance, but he felt as if his heart would spring from his chest. He sat down with his back against a tree to catch his breath and continued to watch the vehicles pass. It took several minutes before he could move again, then it was up the steep hill, and soon he was once more looking down at the Leine.
The shock of seeing the American tanks was bad enough. What he saw here was far worse. The Army tank-repair yard was a smoking ruin. Everywhere there were burning trucks. At least it was downhill. He ran down the east side of the ridge right up to the river. Quickly stripping off his pistol belt, Sergetov leaped into the swift current.
“What’s that? Hey, I see a Russian swimming!” A machine gunner swiveled his .50 caliber around. The vehicle commander stopped him.
“Save it for the MiGs, soldier!”
He climbed up the east bank and turned to look back. The American vehicles were digging into defensive positions. He ran to cover and stopped again to make a count before proceeding. There was a traffic-control point at Sack. Sergetov ran all the way.
After the first hour, things settled down. Lieutenant Mackall got out of his tank to inspect his platoon’s positions. One of the few ammunition carriers to accompany the troop stopped briefly at each tank, its crew tossing out fifteen rounds each. Not enough to replace what they’d fired, but not bad. The air attacks would be next. Crews were out chopping down trees and shrubs to camouflage their vehicles. The accompanying infantry set out their Stinger crews, and Air Force fighters were already circling overhead. intelligence said that eight Russian divisions were on the west side of this river. Mackall was sitting on their supply route. That made it a very important plot of real estate.
USS INDEPENDENCE
Quite a change from the last time, Toland thought. The Air Force had an E-3 Sentry operating out of Sondrestrom to protect the fleet, and four of their own E-2C Hawkeyes were also up. There was even an Army-manned ground radar just coming up on Iceland. Two Aegis cruisers were with the carriers, and a third with the amphibious force.
“You think they’ll hit us first, or the ‘phibs?” Admiral Jacobsen asked.
“That’s a coin-toss, Admiral,” Toland replied. “Depends on who gives the orders. Their navy will want to kill us first. Their army will want to kill the ‘phibs.”
Jacobsen crossed his arms and stared at the map display. “This close, they can come in from any direction they want.”