Lt Col Chan called up the AWAC’s partner in crime, the JSTARS mirroring their racetrack circuit at 45,000 feet.
“Sabre Dance, Sabre Dance, this is Crystal Palace Zero Eight, over.”
“Go, Crystal.”
“It looks like the other guys are getting their act together, we have a regiment holding east of Dessau, loaded for bear and with nearby tanker support. What’s happening on the ground right now?”
“First line at Vormundberg was breached and the first attacks against the second line are underway, but its localised at the moment…we are seeing divisions deploying in the rear though, and we are predicting that if no breakthrough is achieved within the next couple of hours the Reds will launch a general assault along the entire line.”
Ann-Marie thought about that for a moment. It would take a couple of hours to get all the elements set for the divisional attacks and those regiments weren’t going to carry on burning fuel for that length of time.
“Is there anything else you need or has that answered whatever question you had?”
“Just one more thing…how come you get to have the cooler callsign?”
Her opposite number laughed and then they both returned to the business at hand. She knew where the SU-25s were going to be used, and it wasn’t against 4 Corps and it would be in the next few minutes, not two hours down the line.
She brought up a menu onscreen and cast her eye down the list of available units for those that had completed rearming and refuelling. There were three, one Greek, one French and one USAF, and she tagged two flights from each squadron for immediate take off, noting as she did that two regiments worth of fresh contacts were climbing toward tankers south of Plzen-Line, quite possibly prior to heading for 4 Corps, but it was the dozen radar contacts that were leaving the Dessau stack and making a beeline for Vormundberg which were of more immediate concern.
Abbot grunted in satisfaction as the Challenger crested the brow of the hill and halted.
“Please note boss, that I am not one to say ‘I told you so’.”
The hilltop had received serious attention, as logically it was a place dug in troops would be. It was pitted with shell craters and in places these overlapped, there was not a tree that still stood unharmed either.
No artillery was presently landing and Major Venables opened his hatch with caution, listening for the sound of incoming before heaving himself up and out, to stand atop the turret.
From the viewing blocks it had looked to be as much of a maze as the one they had recently given up on, and things didn’t look that much more hopeful when viewed from outside at first, but then he saw it.
Jumping down off the Challenger he ran to a nearby pine tree that had been stripped of almost all its limbs so that it stood like a feature in a kids jungle gym, slashed and hacked at by shrapnel but nonetheless easy to climb thanks to the stumps of branches. He clambered up until he could see clear across the hilltop, and although it would be a something of a roller-coaster ride, climbing in and out of deep craters, it was do-able.
Mark Venables took the time to memorise the twists and turns they would need to take, and then he heard the crack of a main tank gun firing from the direction of 4 Company.
A signaller turned in his seat and raised an arm to catch Pat Reed’s eye, the commanding officer of 1CG raised a questioning eyebrow.
“From Four Nine, ‘Contact, Wait out…’ that’s all sir.”
Lt Col Reed nodded his acknowledgement to that signaller and took a message form from another. It was from brigade and the text of the message was unwelcome news.
JSTARS REPORTS FURTHER ASSAULT IMMINENT. ONE ARMOURED COLUMN, SIX COMPANYS DEEP, ALIGNED WITH YOUR RIGHT FLANK POSITIONS.
He wasn’t sure that his two forward companies could deal with the simultaneous onslaught of over two battalions worth of armour without considerable help.
Pat crossed to the Royal Artillery reps position and noticing an unfamiliar face stood next to the RA lieutenant responsible for artillery support for the unit, and rightly assumed it was the heli-borne spotter who had been forced down. Being rather busy he gave a nod of welcome in passing and gripped his rep by the shoulder.
“Derek, I want MLRS, just a couple of rockets worth would be invaluable.” He handed over the message form before returning to his former place.
“What’s his name then, Derek?” asked the newcomer.
“Patrick Reed.”
The newcomer’s hissed response caused the rep to pause what he was doing.
“That’s Reed?”
“Yes, why?”
“His son is with my unit.”
“So how’s he doing?” Derek enquired. “If he is anything like his Father then you’ve got a good one.”
There was a long pause.
“He’s dead Derek, killed this morning at Magdeburg.”
“Oh shit…poor bastard.” Derek thought for a second, and there was nothing in the Guards officers’ manner than indicated he knew of the death of his son. Handing the appeal for MLRS support to the bearer of those sad tidings he then vacated his place.
“Can you take over with this request; I need to speak to the Adjutant.”
The current combat air patrol covering Vormundberg was being found by two flights of three F/A-18 Falcons of the Spanish Air Force. Their own radars were on standby as they followed the steers from Lt Col Chan’s controllers, guiding them on to the approaching targets and launched at long range all the AMRAAMs on their rails when instructed, but their targets did not contest the issue, rolling inverted and diving for the ground on burners the second the missiles were detected.
The AWAC had those twelve identified as SU-27s, not the type of aircraft a weenie straps to his back, and the controller providing the steers raised his eyebrows when they kept heading northeast, leaving the strike aircraft near Dessau with no cover.
The senior of the Spanish pilots could see on his datalink the aircraft abandoned by the interceptors, the SU-25s and tankers, and asked permission to engage with his own flight, the Caballero’s, and the second flight, the Cuchillo’s, which was granted by their controller who did not believe in looking gift horses in the mouth.
Lt Col Chan had cobbled together some help for the embattled troops at Vormundberg, French Jaguars for Wild Weasel flak suppression, USAF A-10s to stick it to some tanks, and Greek F-16s which when coupled with the Spanish F/A-18s should keep the Flankers busy whilst breaking up the inbound strike.
She was tired, and in organising the combined sorties her eyes hadn’t left the screen in front of her, but they hadn’t been seeing what was occurring either as her mind had been focussed on the task at hand.
It took a second for her to realised the Spanish CAP was off the reservation and making a beeline for the Dessau stack.
“What the hell…”
The F/A-18s were east of the Elbe and hustling to close the range so they could use their Sidewinders when powerful airborne radar illuminated them. Ann-Marie saw straight away what had happened and cut into the link, over riding her own controller.
“Caballero’s and Cuchillo’s, abortabortabort…Parase detenerse…Emboscada, it’s an ambush…get the hell out of there, one of those ‘tankers’ is guiding SAMs.”
At other times the rich Latin tones of the senior flight commanders voice would probably have made her toes curl, but this was not ‘other times’. His voice was calm but he was not immediately complying with her instruction.