“Hold north of Todenmann and wait. Out.”
Barbolin cursed at the delay and indicated for his driver to head northwest towards Buchholz. He then contacted the rest of his formation to do the same. He pushed his shoulders through the hatch, checking the ground ahead as they crossed an open field. He kept his forces moving forward at speed, suspecting, yet unsuspecting; comfortable that nothing could stop them now. In fact, he was confident the division could reach the River Weser without stopping. The British didn’t have a unit this side of the river that was actually capable of stopping the regiment’s seventy-plus tanks and additional BMP-2s. He believed that there was nothing between his unit and the river.
Lieutenant-Colonel Kovrov, commander of the 1st Tank Battalion, ordered his driver to ease the T-80K forward another metre, the barrel of the 125mm gun poking through the other side of the line of trees. Once across the high ground, he had moved his unit off the Autobahn, where they would be sitting ducks if they remained. Out to his front-right, he could see an uncultivated field, and to his front-left a field with row upon row of what looked like the green foliage of a root vegetable. The German farmer wouldn’t be harvesting any of it this year that was for certain. Kovrov had just been informed that his regimental commander, along with the 2nd Tank Battalion, had skirted north of the E8/A2 crossroads and was preparing to move along the Autobahn behind him. The artillery battalion, with its twelve 122mm self-propelled howitzers, would form up east of Buchholz, ready to support the regiment when called upon. One platoon of six guns had been lost as a consequence of some effective counter-battery fire from the British. Their 175mm M107s, although not the most accurate of weapons, had a range of nearly forty kilometres. The platoon of Soviet 2S1s had been too slow in relocating after firing and was destroyed by the heavyweight shells.
Kovrov’s headphones crackled, and he received orders to move out, protecting the right flank of the regiment’s advance. He ordered 1st Company to go right, in formation with a platoon of BMP-2s, and he would lead the 2nd Company across the field of root vegetables with the 3rd Company following as the reserve. He felt the edge of the hatch dig into his back as the T-80K powered forward.
“Hawk-One and Two, this is Buzzard-One. You have business coming your way. Over.”
“Hawk-One. Roger.”
“Hawk-Two. Acknowledged.”
“Hawk-One, Hawk-Two. Three, Tango-Eight-Zero. Two thousand metres Red-Bravo.”
“Hawk-One. Understood.”
“Hawk-Two. Roger.”
The two hovering Lynx helicopters now knew the enemy tanks were north of Eisbergen, and it was time for them to go into action. The Helarm had been initiated as a last resort, to blunt the attack of the massed line of tanks that were steadily rolling towards the Weser. Another pair of Lynx was positioned further north, and one pair was covering the road that ran parallel with the northern bank of the River Weser to the south. Hawk-One and Two, in the hover, slowly rose above the treeline that had been concealing them. The co-pilot, using the roof-mounted sights, zoomed in on the armour heading towards them, the tanks weaving around dips and potential barriers as they advanced, turrets swivelling as the gunner’s turned their main guns towards where a potential threat could be waiting to ambush them.
“Hawk-Two, Hawk-One. I’ll take right.”
“Roger, Hawk-One.”
Staff-Sergeant Hill, the gunner sitting in the left seat of Hawk-One, looked at the pilot. They were both ready. They were going into battle for the first time since the war started. Up until this moment, they had been held back in reserve. But now a Helarm had been requested, and they would get the chance to make their contribution and let the Soviet armour know the tables were about to be turned. He turned back to the weapon sights and prepared to fire. Once the target crossed the 1,500-metre line, the TOW missile was launched.
Kovrov flinched as to his right one of his tanks flared up, flashes and sparks thrown up and out into the air, followed by billowing black, oily smoke as the T-80 skewed to the right before labouring to a halt. The shock wave of the explosion reached him, taking his breath away. His head snapped left as a second tank was struck by a TOW missile’s extended probe. The 5.9kg warhead detonated, the shaped-charge jet-formed and, at hypersonic speed, twenty-five times the speed of sound, the stream of heated material penetrated the armour, killing the crew inside. Two more missiles were launched from the pair of helicopters. Once clear of the launch tubes, the four short wings sprang out, and the tail controls to the rear sprung open. The two gunners, using a small joystick, kept the crosshairs on their respective target and, five seconds later, two more tanks were hit. This time, though, the TOWs were less successful, the explosive reactive armour fulfilling its intended role. On one, the outward explosion deformed the jet enough to prevent it penetrating through the turret. On the second, although one of the ERA plates did its job, the molten jet still managed to damage the turret ring enough to lock it in place. The crew survived, but the T-80 would need to be recovered and repaired.
“One-Zero call signs weave, weave for God’s sake. Weave. Six-One-Zero and Six-Two-Zero, this is One-Zero. Contact, contact. Where the hell are you?”
“One-Zero, Six-One-Zero. Six-One-One hit. Moving forward.”
“Hurry. Six-Two-Zero, report!”
“One-Zero, Six-Two-One engaging now.”
Far off to the right, where his flanking company was on the move, a flash caught his eye as another tank was hit. Kovrov cursed, angry that he hadn’t brought his air defence forward sooner. He had just lost one of his ZSU 23/4s. Another lost the previous day; he desperately hoped the remaining two could do something. The three SA-9 mounted BRDM-2s were also moving forward to give cover. He nearly slipped down into the turret as the driver swerved the tank violently to the right, doing his best to make them as difficult a target as possible. Kovrov pulled himself back into position as a blurred object shot by, striking the tank just behind to his left. The missile had detonated, but the reactive armour again defeated its effect, the tank surviving to fight another day.
“Hawk-Two, Hawk-One. Moving.”
Hawk-One dropped back down behind the trees just as the Gazelle, Buzzard, took up a position 200 metres to the right, ready to plot the movement of the armour as the two Lynx moved further back to new positions. Two missiles fired. It was time to relocate.
A flash of light swamped the gunner’s view, overpowering the sight of his left eye as Hawk-Two, struck by a surface-to-air missile, fired by an SA-9 Gaskin, erupted into a multi-coloured, glowing cloud, as the explosion tore it apart. The two-and-half kilogram Frag-He warhead had struck the Lynx directly at the point where the fuel tanks were positioned.
“Christ!” Shouted Staff-Sergeant Hill as he watched the Lynx plummet to the ground, a much larger explosion engulfing the helicopter’s body as over 300 litres of fuel exploded, a tower of flame and smoke pirouetting upwards. There would be no survivors. The pilot couldn’t look. His focus had to be on getting them away and into their next location.