Red Storm Rising (1986) (99 page)

“Fortieth Tanks reports a major enemy attack under way on its front.”

“What do they mean by ‘major’?”

“The report comes from the alternate command post. I can’t reach the divisional HQ. The assistant commander reports American and German tanks advancing in brigade force.”

“Enemy attack in progress at Dunsen.”

“Dunsen? That’s close to Gronau. How the hell did they get there?” Alekseyev snapped. “Confirm that report! Is it an air or ground attack?”

“Hundred twentieth Motor-Rifle has a full regiment across the Weser. They are advancing on Brökeln. Eighth Tanks’ leading elements have the Weser in sight. SAM units are setting up to cover the crossing point.”

It was like having people read different parts of the paper to him simultaneously, Alekseyev thought. General Beregovoy was at the front, coordinating traffic control and setting final assignments for the post-crossing maneuver. Pasha knew that was his proper place, but, as before, he was annoyed to be far from the real action, giving orders like a Party boss instead of a fighting commander. The artillery from all the advancing divisions was well forward to protect the crossing against counterattack.

My rear areas are awfully weak
. . .

“Comrade General, the attack at Dunsen is composed of enemy tank and motorized troops with heavy tactical air support. The regimental commander at Dunsen estimates brigade strength.”

“Enemy ground units at Bremke, strength unknown.”

That’s only fifteen kilometers from here!
Alekseyev reached for some maps. It was cramped in the command vehicle, so he went outside and spread them on the ground with his intelligence officer beside him.

“What the hell’s going on here?” His hand moved across the map. “That’s an attack on a twenty-kilometer front.”

“The new enemy division is not supposed to be in place yet, and Theater Intelligence says it will be broken up for spot-reinforcement use all over the northern front area.”

“Headquarters at Fölziehausen reported a heavy air attack and went off the air!”

As if to emphasize this latest report, there was a massive explosion to the north in the direction of Bremke, where 24th Tanks had its main fuel and ordnance dump. Suddenly aircraft began to appear low on the horizon. The mobile command post was in woods overlooking the small town of Hunzen. The town was largely deserted, and the unit’s radio transmitters were there. NATO aircraft had so far shown a reluctance to damage civilian buildings unless they had to—

Not today. Four tactical fighters leveled the center of the town, where the transmitters were, with high-explosive bombs.

“Get Alternate One going immediately,” Alekseyev ordered.

More aircraft swept overhead, heading southwest toward Highway 240, where Alekseyev’s A units were moving toward Rühle. The General found a working radio and called CINC-West at Stendal.

“We have a major enemy attack coming southeast from Springe. I would estimate at least two-division strength.”

“Impossible, Pasha—they don’t have two reserve divisions!”

“I have reports of enemy ground units at Bremke, Salzhemmendorf, and Dunsen. It is my opinion that my right flank is in jeopardy, and I must reorient my forces to meet it. I request permission to suspend the attack at Rühle to meet this threat.”

“Request denied.”

“Comrade General, I am the commander at the scene. The situation can be managed if I have authority to handle it properly.”

“General Alekseyev, your objective is the Ruhr. If you are not able to achieve that objective, I will find a commander who is.”

Alekseyev looked at the radiotelephone receiver in disbelief. He had worked for this man—two years. They were friends.
He’s always trusted my judgment.

“You order me to continue the attack regardless of enemy action?”

“Pasha, they make another spoiling attack—nothing more serious than that. Get those four divisions across the Weser,” the man said more gently. “Out.”

“Major Sergetov!” Alekseyev called. The young officer appeared a moment later. “Get yourself a vehicle and head for Dunsen. I want your personal observations on what you find. Be careful, Ivan Mikhailovich. I want you back here in less than two hours. Move.”

“You will do nothing else?” the intelligence officer asked.

Pasha watched Sergetov board a light truck. He could not face his officer. “I have my orders. The operation to cross the Weser continues. We have an antitank battalion at Holle. Tell them to move north and be alert for enemy forces on the road from Bremke. General Beregovoy knows what he’s supposed to do.”

Alekseyev looked up. “The battle orders stand.”

“Yes, Comrade General.”

“The report of enemy tanks at Bremke was incorrect.” A junior officer came over. “The observer saw our tanks coming south and misidentified them!”

“And this is good news?” Alekseyev demanded.

“Of course, Comrade General,” the captain answered lamely.

“Did it occur to you to inquire why our tanks were heading
south?
Goddamn it,
must I do all the thinking here?”
He couldn’t scream at the right person. He had to scream at somebody. The captain wilted before his eyes. Part of Alekseyev was ashamed, but another part needed the release.

 

They had the job because they had more battle experience than anyone else. It had never occurred to anyone that they had no experience at all in this sort of operation. They were
advancing.
Except for local counterattacks, no NATO unit had done very much of that, but Lieutenant—he still thought like a sergeant—Mackall knew that they were best suited to it. The M-1 tank had an engine governor that limited its speed to about forty-three miles per hour. It was always the first thing the crews removed.

His M-1 was going south at fifty-seven miles per hour.

The ride was enough to rattle the brain loose inside his skull, but he’d never known such exhilaration. His life was balanced on the knife-edge of boldness and lunacy. Armed helicopters flew ahead of his company, scouting the route, and pronounced it clear all the way to Alfeld. The Russians weren’t using this route for anything. It wasn’t a road at all, but the right-of-way for an underground pipeline, a grassy strip one hundred feet wide that took a straight line through the forests. The tank’s wide treads threw off dirt like the roostertail from a speedboat as the vehicle raced south.

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.

“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 toward 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 vehicle 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.