Pickford returned in twenty minutes. He had spotted a Russian outpost six to seven hundred yards from the main camp. A newly dug machine-gun emplacement was flanked by hastily strung strings of antipersonnel mines, and sentries were posted every forty or fifty yards. He thought he saw a SA-7 missile team to the rear but wasn’t sure, and luckily, he hadn’t spotted any dogs. He hated messing with dogs.
“How about sensors?” Rawlings asked. Tiny acoustic or IR detection devices could be spread out randomly on the most logical approaches and tip the Russians off.
“No way to tell,” Pickford said.
“I didn’t detect any radar,” Rawlings offered. He had used the equivalent of a police radar detector to scan for low-power, antipersonnel radar. Nothing had showed. The place looked clean.
They sat in a tight circle behind the FAV, eyes glued on Rawlings. He drew his plan in the dirt, the penlight cupped in his blackened hand. “Snipers set up here and here,” he said, highlighting two locations outside the security perimeter. It would push the shots to maximum effective range, but they had no choice.
“If nothing blows after a couple rounds, you’re probably shooting at a dummy. Switch to another target. Fall back after thirty seconds to here,” he said, jabbing the ground. “Sergeant Pickford and I will split the difference between your positions and cover your retreat. We’ll meet back here and get out as fast as we can. Remember, our job is to get a quick, clean kill and get away.”
Rawlings pulled himself up on his knees. “Any questions?” Nothing. He pulled back his sleeve to read the luminescent dial of his watch. “Open fire at 2250. That should give you plenty of time to get in place.” The men got up and moved off, sniper weapons slung over their shoulders, M-4As across their chests. What a group, Rawlings thought. Not a hint of hesitation.
“Let’s get in position,” he said to Pickford. They both carried their carbines and hefted an AT-4 for cover fire.
Dampness had crept into the meadow, glistening drops of moisture clinging to needles and leaves, illuminated by the faint light radiating from the camp. They stepped deliberately, searching for booby traps or sensors, traveling a few yards, then crouching and scanning the tree line. Rawlings and Pickford settled into a depression that overlooked both the road and the camp. They would be no more than two hundred yards from each sniper. It was 2248 by his watch. Rawlings flicked off the safety of his M-4A and waited, staring intently at the shadowy figures under the nets. For a moment, he felt good.
Rawlings instinctively flinched as a Russian voice boomed in the distance. Before the unintelligible words disappeared into the night, a BMP mounted heavy machine gun lit off, the rapid retort shattering the calm, tracers spraying the location where the left-hand sniper was positioned. A flare popped overhead, and Rawlings could see Russian infantrymen surging forward in a wave. There were so many of them! Panic welled up in his chest.
The right-hand sniper opened up, the sharp crack signaled a well-aimed shot, but no detonation. Shit? wondered Rawlings. Did they put bulletproof panels over the missiles? They should’ve used the 50 caliber, he scolded himself.
“We got to move, Captain,” said Pickford, “or we’re goners.” The heavy gun ceased, only to be replaced by AK-47 fire and grenade explosions, the Russians overrunning the position on the left. He felt sick to his stomach. Another crack to his right brought an incredible brilliant flash that lit the night, followed by a deafening roar that rocked the entire meadow. The copper jacketed 7.62mm slug had pierced the rocket-motor casing and ignited the solid propellant, shattering the TEL into a thousand pieces. An incredible orange fireball roiled the camp, the heat palpable even where they crouched. The Russians nearby had been incinerated.
The Russians turned their attention to the Special Forces sniper on the right, unleashing a blistering volley that swept his position like a firestorm. “Captain,” Pickford insisted, grabbing his arm. “We got to go. Nothing we can do here.”
Rawlings followed Pickford, moving low back toward the FAV. So far the Russian troopers hadn’t spotted them. When they reached the hidden vehicle, Rawlings collapsed on the frame, panting. He turned and faced Pickford. The experienced sergeant had an expression that brought no solace to Rawlings. You know what you’ve got to do, it said. This was not the plan.
Rawlings struggled to catch his breath. The clatter of small arms continued in the background, the missile camp in chaos, a conflagration fueled by dry timber raging, consuming everything in its path.
“If we’re gonna hit them, it better be now,” Pickford said evenly.
“OK,” Rawlings replied. He said it without thinking what it meant.
“You drive, I’ll man the fifty.”
Rawlings crawled into the left seat and fired up the engine. Pickford climbed into the gunner’s seat and chambered a round in the .50 caliber. Rawlings shifted into first gear and eased onto the road. He was headed smack into the middle of a hundred angry Russians.
Hitting asphalt, Rawlings gunned the engine, lifting the front wheels on the ground. The FAV’s engine spun to maximum RPM, the exhaust echoing ominously down the road.
“There,” shouted Pickford excitedly. The surviving TELs had pulled away from the spreading fire, seeking safety. They were dead ahead, bare-assed in the open, along with BMPs and mobile antiaircraft batteries. Pickford began to pour continuous fire into the lead TEL, the tracers arching into the lumbering transporter. Rawlings roared down the road. The Russians were stunned by the volume of fire, but recovered quickly. The 25mm chain guns from the BMPs ripped the road with withering fire, the explosive shells blasting chunks of concrete skyward, but labored to find the range. Rawlings zigzagged with AK-47 slugs pinged off the frame. He felt one crease his right leg. He gritted his teeth and drove on.
The lead TEL suddenly disappeared in a gut-wrenching concussion that looked like a mini A-bomb detonating in their faces, consuming nearby support troops in an incredible yellowish-orange fireball. The second TEL in the train careened of the road into some trees. The surviving Russians fired even more intensely. One of the BMPs finally got calibrated. Rounds walked up the road and into the FAV, spinning it off the road where it tumbled end over end, coming to rest as a pile of useless junk.
Rawlings unbuckled himself and crawled out from under the wreck. He gagged and vomited as he turned to see Pickford literally ripped to shreds by the chain gun’s 25mm rounds. He could barely right himself against the twisted frame. His right leg was shattered, pain shot throughout his body. His head was ringing. He struggled to focus. He was alone and nearly in tears. The smoke stung his eyes; the noise assaulted his ears, shattering his sensibilities. He sat dazed. Nearby was an AT-4. He managed to grab it and crawl a few yards from the FAV.
An RPG round swished through the trees and clipped a nearby fir, detonating in a roar, hot metal fragments tearing unmercifully at the branches. The remaining SS-25 TEL gunned its engine desperately trying to escape. Small-arms fire continued to strafe Rawlings’s position. He managed to get himself upright behind a log. He was only eighty yards from the last TEL.
Shouting came from his right. They had him. A searchlight swept his position, a heavy machine gun kicked in, splintering the nearby trees. Rawlings steadied the missile tube on his shoulder, the helpless TEL filling the sight. Tears filled his eyes as he pulled the plastic trigger. The rush of the small rocket brushed his cheek, the stabilizing fins deploying, the solid propellant accelerating the deadly antiarmor warhead. As the missile flew true to the target, the Russians raked his position with fire, flinging him backward. Captain Jim Rawlings died without seeing the thunderous explosion that ignited the surrounding forest like matchsticks and consumed everything in its path.