Normally, a few magic words spoken into that black box would bring down the wrath of God, delivered in the form of fast movers or massed artillery. These were far from normal times however. With the general’s maniac demands to reach the next town by yesterday they were operating well outside the range of artillery support.
Those guns were still sitting 20 miles north in Lake City and not going anywhere. As for air power, well, no one even bothered forwarding air support requests higher. No mission would ever be approved in this built up civilian area. Instead, miles back, the Squadron’s commander methodically redeployed his company sized Troops. He was going to have to do things the messy way.
One of the Kiowa’s hovered in place a little too long while examining some strange roadwork. The old highway must of had some potholes freshly repaved, judging from the heat signature. After all the route clearance operations they’d flown in Afghanistan, none of the crew believed in coincidences. Just as the gunner clicked his radio on to report the possible mines, a Stinger missile lanced out from the roof of a cheap motel half a mile down the road. The pilot dumped all his flares at once and dived for the deck.
He damn near made it.
His wingman raked the source of fire with a .50 cal. Too late to save the flaming Kiowa, but it at least made them feel better. After confirming there were no survivors from their leading helicopter, the other birds fell back to cover the flanks of the advancing ground element. With the goals of finding the enemy, determining his strength and general disposition completed there wasn’t much point in risking themselves now. It wasn’t their job to make the final kill.
That job fell to the three advancing cavalry Troops now moving from column formation and spreading out over a mile front. Like a well-oiled machine, the battalion moved as one. The mortars, accurately directed by a pair of forward observers, began softening up the enemy’s position. Most of the tanks, centered along the highway, set up a base of fire to pin down and distract the rebel defenders. They carefully covered the rest stop and surrounding woods and farms in overlapping fields of fire.
All the while, the federal infantry, out of sight to the defenders, swung wide to the east to flank the enemy’s position. There were some dry-ish swamps and a small stream to wade through before they could take the enemy in enfilade fire. The ever-present Kiowa’s protected the attacker’s flanks and rear, as well as kept an overwatch out for any enemy surprises. No West Point professor could’ve dreamed up a more textbook perfect deliberate attack.
That’s why it was so shocking when things stopped going by the book. The lead federal Abrams disappeared in a cloud of asphalt and black smoke. When it cleared, the 72-ton vehicle looked fine, except for the flames pouring out of all three hatches the crew should’ve used to escape. Another one crossing through the grass parking lot of some tiny deep woods church lost the left track and the exposed commander’s arm to another mine blast. A third explosion on a side road broke another tank open, as well as two of her crew.
Simultaneously, enemy artillery, not mortars but real life 155mm howitzers, started counter battering the hell out of the federal mortar platoon. All four mortar carriers, caught in the open, were destroyed or otherwise knocked out of the fight in the first two volleys. Thankfully, the enemy guns moved on to some more important and distant target soon after.
The speed and accuracy of this shit storm implied the rebels had an artillery locating radar involved. Somewhere out there it detected their outgoing rounds, backtracked them to the source of origin and fed that grid to the enemy’s hungry guns. All in 25 seconds. One hell of a useful tool that the Feds also possessed…way up north in Lake City.
Oh well. You didn’t become a cavalry trooper by being the dithering type. Without any higher-level guidance, each Troop rammed their vehicles off the crowded roads and into cover. Crushing quite a few pine trees, farm fences and the occasional armadillo in the process. Finally, with a little maneuver room and partial concealment, they could pick out targets. Of which there was no shortage. Rebel Javelin and TOW antitank missiles blossomed from behind every rooftop and parked car ahead.
Now, tankers enjoy the protective cover of friendly artillery as much as the next soldier does. They just don’t stress so much when it’s not available. If the enemy is in sight, a tank’s 120mm smoothbore cannon is fire support enough. The radio world became deathly quiet as up and down the line each vehicle commander, regardless of rank, “fought his track.” From the Squadron commander to the most junior NCO, they were all busy shouting targets and directions to their gunners and fine tuning movements to their drivers.
The dividends of countless hours practicing and drilling spoke for themselves. In less than 10 minutes, the Feds had systematically disabled every exposed enemy vehicle and set every building on fire, including both gas stations in a series of beautiful explosions. For good measure, any potential rebel firing positions also received bursts of .50 Cal and 25mm fire to discourage resistance.
The squadron’s flanking force finally got around Olustee Creek and began pouring their fire into the surprised enemy. Well, not nearly as surprised and disoriented as the Squadron commander hoped. Either way, with the main infantry force engaged, it was time for the base of fire to get in closer. The federal Cav colonel calmly received the slant reports from his subordinates and dispassionately adjusted his line accordingly. From long training, he didn’t dwell on how few of his men were still able to move forward.
He left his sergeant major to organize the casualty evacuation and let his gunner engage at his own discretion. Fun as the colonel had getting his hands dirty, someone still must lead the unit. He checked up with his Troop commanders. Two of whom were only a few minutes into the job. Cavalry leaders led from the front, but what an expensive motivator.
No time to worry about that now. He made another fruitless call for close air support and was told to, “Wait, out.” Knowing the only air assets around were running low on fuel and would have to leave station soon, he committed the five remaining Kiowa’s to provide direct fire support for his dismounts and accompanying Brads flanking the enemy.
The colonel dropped the radio when he heard that sudden, fast ripple of artillery and mortar fire. The Cav. lieutenant colonel knew exactly what that meant. He should, because it was standard doctrine for a US Army unit being overrun.
Final Protective Fire.
“Shit! All elements: move in fast!” As a basic component of any defensive line, FPF missions were simply a last ditch wall of artillery fire. A pre-planned line covering each side of a unit at skin-scorching range.
An FPF fire mission has priority over all others and is considered a “net call order.” In other words, when an FPF fire mission is heard over the radio net, every receiving fire direction center in range drops whatever target package they have and lays in all available fires on that grid. The FPF can also include a “dead man’s switch.” If communication with the unit being overrun is lost and not recovered in the time allotted, the fire mission’s target is shifted to the unit’s last known location.
When you encounter that type of Steel Rain, the only logical solution is to push on hard, before a forward observer refines the fire plan more accurately. Get out of the kill zone and close with the enemy as fast as possible. Of course, that same WWI style charge is only slightly less suicidal than standing still and watching the firestorm waltz towards you.
Not an easy choice to make, but then again, that’s why it was an all-volunteer Army. Without hesitation, federal platoon leaders recalled their dismounts into the still firing Brads. Six dismounted eggs in one steel-clad basket had a better chance of survival than alone with the thin Kevlar eggshells they wore.