The SU-39 could glide, but without knowing the full extent of the damage to his aircraft he couldn’t afford to shut down his remaining engine, in case it was the only system left that was providing power for the avionics. It would be ironic, he thought if in order to avoid burning he shut down the engine and crashed, because there was no electrical power to move the control surfaces.
The approach was straightforward and he cleared the treetops at the end of the clearing by a foot and throttled back, bringing the engine to idle without shutting it down. He flared, allowing the last of the flying speed to bleed off and then lowered the nose to avoid the tail catching and smashing the belly against the earth. Despite all that he was thrown violently forward against the seat straps when the aluminium belly met the earth, and the vibration, the bone shaking, jarring, seemed to go on forever.
The careering journey across the clearing ended as the crippled aircraft came to a halt, brought up against a bank of earth and a few moments later its pilot emerged without bothering to shut the remaining engine down, rolling out of the open cockpit and hurriedly regaining his feet before running a hundred or so metres and flinging himself to the ground behind an old fallen tree trunk near the edge of the clearing.
The sound of the aircrafts single operational engine carried beyond the clearing and through the trees, a noise as alien and invasive as the stinking fumes it gave off. Smoke leaked into the air from the battered fuselage but after a few minutes that had reduced to little more than whisp’s. There was no fire, no explosion, and the pilot’s still helmeted head emerged from behind a tuft of grass, peering at the noisy aircraft for long minutes. It did not seem fitting to leave the aircraft here with its jet engine still turning over, it had saved his life and it was only respectful that he showed his appreciation of that fact. He slowly regained his feet and after a few seconds hesitation he walked back to the aircraft, unaware that he was in the crosshairs of several gun sights.
“Are you going to shoot him, sergeant?” The question was whispered by a young Canadian subaltern to his platoon sergeants back.
Sergeant Blackmore of the Nova Scotia Highlanders rolled his eyes and carefully turned his head, ensuring no waving items of undergrowth gave away his position as he moved.
2Lt Ferguson was his fourth platoon commander in as many weeks. The first officer to hold that post was now the battalion 2 i/c, and his predecessor had lasted almost a fortnight before sticking his head up to see where some firing had come from instead of keeping it down even lower. Sergeant Blackmore could not remember the next ones name. On his third day, that particular young man had decided that consulting a map whilst out of cover had been a good idea. Mr Ferguson had joined the Highlanders recce platoon less than a day ago and already there was a book going. The smart money said young Mr F would not make it through the day, but it was Blackmore’s to keep the man alive.
Plus of course, Blackmore had $100 riding on 48hrs!
“Sir, shooting him would be noisy.” He whispered back. “And we are the recce platoon, not the anti-tank platoon. The anti-tanks are the battalion’s loud buggers, and we are supposed to be the really quiet ones.”
Ilya Morimsky was now stood upon the aircrafts wing, and leaning inside the cockpit, flicking switches, going through the proper shutdown sequence for the last time and the sound of the jet engine sank away to nothing. He patted the fuselage affectionately before walking south, taking a cigarette from a pocket in his flight suit and lighting up once he was clear of the stink of aviation fuel.
“And besides,” Sergeant Blackmore explained. “It took balls to do that; I’ll send Junot and Hicks to take him prisoner.”
A pair of military policemen collected the Colonel from his captors, escorting him away through woods where men were taking down camouflage nets and stowing them away in their fighting vehicles in preparation to move.
Everywhere he looked Ilya saw enemy armour, the Highlanders LAV III Infantry Fighting Vehicles, the Coyote armoured recce vehicles of The Fort Garry Horse, and Leopard C2 MBTs from two different regiments, the Royal Canadian Dragoons and the Canadian VIII Hussars.
Morimsky told himself that his navigation had to be out and that he was further north than he had thought, because the alternative did not bear thinking of, a NATO armoured force on the loose amid his armies supply lines.
The time for concealment had passed, the crews mounted up and the armoured fighting vehicles of the 2nd Canadian Mechanised Brigade roared into life.
The close support from the air force hampered the efforts of the defenders long enough for a plough tank to get to within sixty metres of the first of the 4 Company trenches before it was destroyed by 94mm LAW’s, fired point blank from the infantrymen’s fighting holes, but the damage had been done, the minefield had been breached.
The sound of small arms fire and grenades almost drowned out the voice of a sergeant in the 82nd as he gave a sitrep to Pat Reed, communications had been lost with 4 Company command post and the platoon commander of 12 Platoon, the sub unit facing the breach in the minefield, was dead. The Czech’s had taken four trenches after fierce fighting but they had been unable to increase that number, being repelled with heavy losses on their last attempt.
The cleared path through the mines had been blocked by good fire from 10 Platoons Milan team, firing across the front of 12 Platoon and knocking out a T-72 and a T-90, isolating a T-72, six BTRs and BMPs that had followed the mine plough through. Five armoured vehicles, including the T-72, were stopped and burning on top of 12 Platoons positions, but the infantry the APCs had carried were in and around the captured trenches and being supported by fire from their comrades beyond the minefield. The remaining two Soviet fighting vehicles had driven through the 12 Platoon position and further uphill to where the platoon in depth, 11 Platoon, had taken the pair under fire and destroyed both.
The American NCO wanted the enemy supporting fire suppressed in order for a counter attack to retake the holes.
After tasking the mortars to drop smoke in the way of the enemy support fire Pat called on 1 Troops commander and was alarmed to find that the troop commander had the only vehicle of the troop still in action. The other Challenger had been struck at the base of the turret, the shot had failed to penetrate but it succeeded in buckling the armour and fusing enough of it to the chassis that it could no longer traverse its gun. The Chieftain of the troop was undamaged but it was out of sabot and almost out of HESH. Pat told the man to ‘wait out’ and shifted to the battalion command net, but there was no response from Mark Venables on that means or by Ptarmigan. He called up 3 Company, but as they had not seen or heard from the Squadron Commanders tank he had to switch back to 1 Troop.
“Hello Tango One One, this is India Nine…where is your Sunray? Where is Tango One Nine, over?”
“Tango One One, I have heard nothing from my sunray for figs two zero.”
It was almost a dilemma, not having sufficient tank killing power to enable the defeat of the enemy who were within 4 Company’s positions, without diverting 2 Troop away from where they would soon be desperately needed. Fortunately the AS-90s of the Royal Artillery had completed their move to a new gun line and the Czech supporting fire dried up soon after the 155mm guns were turned on them.
The Czech battalion commander was on foot, having gotten as far as the mines where both tracks had been blown off, he and his crew abandoned the vehicle just prior to a Milan destroying it. He had neither the means nor the willpower to force his men to stand and fight, all the plough tanks had been knocked out and the defenders fire too accurate for the mines to be cleared by hand. He couldn’t even get a ride, several tank and APC commanders saw their Colonel and his crew running from shell crater to shell crater, but possibly fearing he would order some futile action they ignored him, withdrawing back the way they had come.