From his perch, Capell watched a convoy moving south along the main road.
With his binoculars he could see that many were fuel trucks and that the escort was light, very light. Before leaving his observation point and returning to his Bradley, he made one more sweep of the area.
Though he didn't expect to see any, he searched for telltale signs of combat units or defenses. The only thing that came close was what appeared to be an air-defense unit equipped with missiles. They could do nothing to his scouts.
Satisfied, he slithered down off the rock pile he was on and trotted back to his Bradley, where he switched his radio to the battalion-command frequency and called the S-3. "Bravo Four-five, this is Mike Eight-eight. Spot report. Over."
"Mike Eight-eight, this is Bravo Four-five. Send it. Over."
With the aid of a preprinted form in which he had filled in the blanks, Capell began to send his report. "This is Mike Eight-eight. Two zero trucks with three BRDMs escorting moving south along the highway at grid four six five, nine eight five, and one air-defense unit located at three nine six, nine eight zero, time now. Request permission to engage. Over."
After acknowledging, Dixon plotted the location on his map and considered Capell's request. "Mike Eight-eight, 268 this is Bravo Four-five. Do you see any other enemy units or activity? Over."
Capell replied in the negative. Dixon called the battalion commander, who had been monitoring the transmissions. Dixon recommended that the scouts lead off the attack by hitting the convoy. The battalion commander concurred. They had gone as far as they could expect to go without being detected. It was time to go in and begin hacking away at the Russians.
Capell, tired of sneaking about and reporting, was looking forward to doing some serious fighting. He did not need to be told twice.
With the six Bradleys of his scout platoon on line, concealed behind a small hill crest, Capell prepared to attack. He stood high in the turret of his vehicle, waved his arm over his head and then dropped it, pointing in the direction of the convoy of fuel trucks. Yelling over his intercom, he ordered his driver, "Kick it in the ass!" The other track commanders in the platoon did likewise. Together, the six Bradleys lurched forward and began their attack.
The platoon crested the rise that had concealed them. Dead ahead, at a range of three kilometers, was the convoy. As the Bradleys began to accelerate, track commanders marked their targets and issued fire commands.
"Gunner-HEAT. Moving truck."
With eyes glued to their sights and hands on their controls, the platoon's gunners searched for their targets and yelled out, "Identified!" when the first truck they saw was in their sight.
Automatically the track commanders let go of their controls and let the gunners prepare to do their thing.
Rapidly the platoon closed. Two kilometers. Drivers in the convoy and men at the SA-8 battery, their attention drawn by the huge clouds of dust to the east, watched the six tracked vehicles racing at them and wondered what they were doing. Sulvina and his commander also watched.
Sulvina was angry that a BMP company commander would allow such a flagrant waste of fuel. He was determined to find out who their commander was and personally rip his rank off him.
Fifteen hundred meters. Two Bradleys strained to keep up, while another slowed to maintain alignment. Capeli stood upright in his turret. With goggles down and olivedrab bandana covering his mouth and nose, he held on and swayed with the rocking of the Bradley as it rolled forward. He could almost feel adrenaline pumping into his system. With the sun to his back and their field of fire clear, he keyed the platoon radio net and yelled, "Fire!"
The tracked vehicles charging from the east began to fire. In bewilderment and horror the Soviets at the SA-8 battery and Sulvina saw half a dozen fuel trucks explode. The crews of the BMPs must be insane-they were actually firing on their own trucks. Even when one of the officers from the SA-8 battery, using his sight, yelled that they were Bradleys, Sulvina still could not move. His commander shared his disbelief, turning to Sulvina and yelling, "How can this be? Where did they come from?"
The truck drivers either panicked, stopping their trucks and bailing out, or turned away from the attacking Bradleys in an effort to escape.
There was no escape however, as the Bradleys raced forward and began to fire up the fuel trucks with their machine guns as well as the 25mm.
cannon. Capell turned the killing over to his gunner. Still standing upright in his open hatch, he scanned the area, keeping track of his platoon and searching for targets. Once the fuel trucks were disposed of, he intended to turn on the antiaircraft battery. Until then, he called for the battalion mortar platoon to fire on them.
The reality of the situation finally hit home when large caliber mortar rounds began to impact on the SA-8 battery. Crewmen, scurrying about in an effort to prepare their vehicles for movement, were cut down or ripped apart by the mortar shells. Sulvina turned away and raced for the command post. As he drew near, he yelled to several drivers to crank up the commander's and his armored vehicles. He ran into the command center, pushing back young staff officers who were trying to go out to see what was happening.
Once inside, he yelled, "Ground attack. Grab critical items only and get to your vehicles. Rally at the 127th division's command post. Move."
Not waiting for a response, he grabbed his map, a briefcase with orders and papers, and ran out to his waiting vehicle. The commander's BTR was already moving off to the west. Sulvina waited only a few seconds in his own BTR for several staff officers to pile in before he ordered his driver to follow the commander's carrier.
The movement of two BTRs and several trucks heading west caught Capell's attention. He watched for a moment, then realized that he was probably looking at a command post of some sort. What a chance. What a fabulous chance. But there was nothing he could do. His platoon had driven among the burning trucks in pursuit of the survivors, and the smoke and confusion now frustrated his efforts to regain control. He called desperately over the radio for all tracks to rally on him and ordered his driver to stop.
Once stationary, he told his gunner to fire TOWS at the escaping BTRs before they disappeared. Capell watched as the TOW launcher slowly rose into the firing position, then locked. He looked back, to see that the first BTR had already disappeared. He ordered the gunner to aim at the second BTR. The gunner did so, but called out that he did not have a ready-to-fire light. Capell dropped down and looked. The safety was still on. He yelled to the gunner to switch his safety off.
When the gunner complied, the ready-to-fire light came on. Capell yelled "Fire!" and stuck his head up to watch the flight of the missile. The missile launched. It popped out of the tube and went several meters before its, rocket motor kicked in and it began to pursue the second BTR, now cresting the rise. Seconds, mere seconds, meant success or failure, life or death.
For Colonel Sulvina, acting chief of staff of the 28th Combined Arms Army, the issue was decided in his favor, this time.
An enemy that had come out of nowhere was suddenly everywhere. Wild reports from combat support and service unit personnel flooded a communications net that was rapidly collapsing as relay sites were overrun or moved. Rear-area personnel, unused to the proper reporting procedures and to being exposed to danger, added to the confusion rather than clarifying the situation. Some support-unit commanders requested permission to move. Others simply moved without informing anyone and clogged the limited road network. Panic became the order of the day.