“November One Gator,” the radio in his HMMWV (high-mobility multipurpose, wheeled vehicle) blared, “this is Gator Zero-Four. Blue Force has crossed the line of departure. The OPFOR hit its start line five minutes ago. OPFOR recon elements report the destruction of four BLUFOR scouts.”
Stern picked up the hand mike. “This is Gator Five. Roger. Has the scout reported enemy contact back to his boss?”
“Negative.”
They’re traveling blind, thought Stern as he pulled his pipe from his pocket and rummaged around for tobacco and matches. This won’t take long.
He could see the dust clouds of the two oncoming forces as each entered the wide valley from opposite ends. From the east, an American battalion/task force, outfitted with big M1 A1 Abrams tanks and stubby Bradley fighting vehicles, advanced timidly onto the battleground. From the west, the lead elements of the 32d Guards Motor Rifle Regiment — their sand-colored fiberglass replicas of T-72 tanks and low-slung BMP fighting vehicles nearly invisible save for the telltale dust signatures — poured onto the valley floor with a purpose.
No, he decided, this won’t take long at all.
Artillery began to fall among the Americans, slowing them even more. As he eavesdropped on the Blue Force command radio frequency, he heard indecision in the commander’s voice. Then a steady low tone cut off the conversation. The OPFOR’s jamming them, thought Stern, nodding absently as he puffed on his pipe. The American task force, without communications and apparently afraid to follow its last order, ground to a slow halt. The OPFOR advanced.
Even though the Americans fired first, it was an uneven contest from the beginning. Companies of T-72s swung wide around the lead American company, hitting it in the flank while the BMPs’ Sagger missile fire held the Americans by the nose. The return fire from the Bradleys’ autocannon and missiles and the Mis’ main guns came in ineffectual dribs and drabs. As the Mis and Bradleys died one by one, Stern mentally reviewed the plan the Blue Force staff had briefed the night before. It depended too much on being able to talk as they moved, he remembered. It was slow and methodical, not aggressive — he’d told them so then. Now his prophecy was playing itself out. But as an observer/control-ler he could only recommend, not demand. He grimaced. It was just like his relationship with Veronica.
Tn the distance a BLUFOR company/team swung out of the gaggle of dead and dying vehicles and started to force its way to a small hill. Tank cannon belched smoke as the OPFOR reacted. The Blue Force lost five tanks and six Bradleys trying to seize the high ground, but the infantrymen scrambled out of the Bradleys even before the back ramps of the vehicles touched the ground. The men took up hasty fighting positions in an effort to halt the OPFOR’s onrushing mass.
We might have a fight here after all, thought Stern, although that company commander will probably catch hell for taking a risk.
Through his binoculars and in his mind’s eye, he could see the small battle unfold before him. Mis ducked into wadis, pulling forward and back, showing themselves for only seconds to get off a hasty shot. Small puffs of white smoke rose from behind the wrinkles of the desert hill, signaling the simulated launches of wire-guided TOW missiles. Although at this distance the infantrymen scurrying over the hillside were no bigger than ants and the only sound was the confusion coming from the radios, he could see and hear it all clearly: platoon leaders shouting at men to get into position, squad leaders yelling out fire commands, the hot rush of air and noise as tablecloth-wide sheets of flame burst from the back of the infantry’s antitank missile launchers. The soldiers would be frantically diving behind even the most minute fold in the ground, looking for any pile of rocks or a small dry stream-bed that might offer protection from both the OPFOR's laser beams and from being crushed by a half-blind, buttoned-up tank.
As the number of flashing “kill” lights in the OPFOR’s columns grew, it seemed to Stern that the Blue Force company might have a chance. Seven T-72s fell victim to the Blue company’s tank gunnery, and when a line of ten BMPs made a drive up the middle toward the Americans, three Bradley fighting vehicles rolled into hasty firing positions on the OPFOR’s flank. Despite his obligation to remain neutral, Stern cheered inside as the strobe lights mounted on top of the Bradleys’ 25mm chain guns flashed, signaling the firing of the vehicles’ autocannon. It took very little imagination to see three streams of tungsten carbide slugs cut through the air and the thin armor of the BMPs. One soldier took a risk, Stern thought; one soldier acted. He might just save this whole battalion. In quick succession the BMPs’ orange kill lights flashed and the formation stopped — still on line — dead in its tracks.
But the OPFOR regimental commander evidently grew tired of the hillside thorn in his side. From the rear of the OPFOR column, a reinforced battalion turned on the Blue Force company grimly holding out on the hill. As artillery-delivered smoke began to obscure the hill, Stern knew the fight would indeed soon be over. Twenty tanks and double that many BMPs bore down on the defenders, and even though the Americans’ “shoot and scoot” tactics thinned the OPFOR’s ranks, there were just too many of them. One by one the Blue Force company’s vehicles died. A hundred OPFOR infantrymen dismounted from their troop carriers and swarmed up the hill. They outnumbered their counterparts by at least five to one, for when a Bradley’s ramp drops, only six infantrymen — if the squad is at full strength — dismount. The thin line of Blue Force riflemen took their toll. But, as position after position fell and soldier after soldier pulled off his helmet and sat up in the universal war-game gesture acknowledging he’d become a casualty, the OPFOR infantry advanced. Before the smoke rolled over the desert rise and blotted out his view, the last thing Stern saw was an OPFOR squad clearing the high ground and taking out an M1 tank from the rear.
Another HMMWV, the diesel-powered modem version of the once-ubiquitous army jeep, pulled up beside him. Stern turned, recognized his boss sitting in the vehicle, and saluted.
“How’s it going, Alex?” asked the man in the HMMWV’s passenger seat.
“They’re dead in the water, Sir. Looks like one company tried to do something, though.” Stern pointed to the fight on the valley floor.
Brig. Gen. Sam Mentorson snorted. “Too little, too late. Let it go on for another ten minutes or so, then have Control issue an end of mission. This after-action review is going to be painful.”
“Yes, Sir. The BLUFOR commander didn’t act or react, and by doing nothing he lost everything.”
“If these were real bullets instead of laser beams, blanks, and simulators, there’d be almost a thousand dead soldiers out there — all because the man in charge didn’t take charge.” In frustration Mentorson slammed his fist on the dashboard, then ordered his driver to move out.
As the HMMWV drove away, Alex Stern took a last look at the desert floor, now littered with the remnants of what was once a mighty battalion. Even the one company on the hillside had been overrun. You have to act, Stern thought as he put his binoculars away and the OPFOR drove unopposed into the mythical American rear area. You have to do something, no matter how bad the situation. He turned to stare at the bald crags of Tiefort Mountain, which towered over the desert training area, rubbing his wedding band as he did so.
Maybe later.
Even dressed in civilian clothes, Bundeswehr general Karl Blacksturm and his entourage still bore the unmistakable carriage of military men. The group of four traipsed slowly from one end of the parking lot of the autobahn rest stop to the other, Capt. Wilhelm Schneck pointing out tentative positions along the wood line and explaining the planned sequence of events. Satisfied at last, Blacksturm dismissed Schneck with a final warning about security.