His vision was suddenly interrupted as a myriad of explosions straddled the force of armour to the fore. Instinctively, he dropped down and closed the turret hatch as explosions buffeted his own tank. He peered through the vision blocks.
“Faster,” he ordered his driver.
The tank picked up speed, the driver pulling hard on the left stick as he veered around a crippled tank. Kovrov’s tank rocked again as another barrage of improvised munitions straddled the platoon he was with. The DPICM sub munitions that landed on top of the thinner armour of both the tanks and the mechanised infantry combat vehicles cut their way through. Some were deflected by the ERAs, but this defensive coating as a matter of course was slowly being stripped away. More bomblets battered the advancing lines of tanks as the British artillery threw down a carpet of destruction. Kovrov cracked his elbow as the tank rocked violently, the front slewing to the right as his driver lost control, the damaged track peeling off its bogie wheels. More explosions battered the advancing Soviet armour. Multiple explosions could be heard in all directions.
Clang. A piece of shrapnel struck the turret, causing his Gunner to shrink down towards the floor of the fighting compartment. Kovrov had told the driver and gunner to remain inside but to keep their eyes peeled for any advancing British armour. They couldn’t move, but they could still fight. Leaving the protection of their armoured shell to check for damage at this moment in time would be suicidal as a torrent of anti-personnel munitions engulfed the ground around them. The bombardment continued, Kovrov unable to pierce the haze of dust and debris thrown up by the myriad of explosions. The chatter between regiment and battalion confirmed that all three of the regiment’s battalions had been hit.
“One-One-Zero. What is your situation?”
“One-Zero… brought to a halt… engineers.”
“Understood. Fixed mines?”
“Negative… sir… dropped… the last salvo.”
“Your location?”
“Lo… n… xzxy.”
“Hold position until mine clearance. Out. Zero-Alpha. One-Zero. Need urgent mine clearance. Location west Lohfeld.”
“Will send. What is your situation, Colonel? You need to move. Elements bogged down behind you.”
“Zero-Alpha. Wait. One-One-Zero, this is One-Zero. Where are you? Over.”
“One-Zero. This is One-One-two. Comrade Major Yagalin is dead. We have three units destroyed, two damaged and stranded on the minefield, and no contact with our infantry. Over.”
“Understood. Hold position. One-Three-Zero. Stop, stop, stop. Report.”
“We have hit the same minefield, Comrade Colonel. One-Three-Three is stuck, two tanks damaged. No contact with One-Three-One and Two.”
He was unable to make contact with his other company or any of his Infantry.
“All One-Zero call signs. Consolidate your positions and await orders. Out. Zero-Alpha. Waiting confirmation, but estimate minimum additional twelve units disabled. Over.”
There was a pause, and Kovrov could picture his regimental commander grinding his teeth, dreading passing the information back up the line to the divisional commander. His lead battalion was down to less than ten fighting units, the infantry had been scattered, and his remaining two battalions had also lost seven T-80s between them.
“One-Zero. Hold your current line. Two and Three-Zero will continue to flank you left and right. Zero-Bravo will move your location. Mine-clearing units on the way. Out.”
Kovrov slumped in his uncomfortable seat, no longer worrying about the tactical situation. That had been taken out of his hands. For the moment, his battalion had effectively been withdrawn from the fight. Despite the odds against him, his inability to make progress would be seen as a failure. His future now would be in the hands of his seniors. His only hope, if given a second chance, would be to commit his battalion to fight, as dictated by his leaders, and succeed at whatever the price. Thinking that, he doubted he could even pull together a company, let alone a battalion. Before his thoughts could return to his current predicament, sat in the middle of a battlefield, the ground shook, as if a seismic event had just been triggered.
Romeo-One-Two, on the far right of the flight of three bombers, moved slightly ahead of its two sister planes and was the first to fire its anti-radar missiles, the AGM-54A Shrike, from its twin-launcher. At first, the AEO of the aircraft was unable to pick up any enemy radar. One was switched on briefly, but turned off again just as quickly. Just as he was about to focus on their primary mission, two radars suddenly lit up, searching the skies for any NATO aircraft in the vicinity. This created an immediate threat to the Vulcan bombers. One Shrike was fired and, after a slight adjustment to the flight line, the second one followed. The crew had no idea if the missiles were successful, destroying the ground radar that would feed target information to the SAM missiles. But the radar signatures disappeared. Once the bombing started, and the enemy were fully aware of what was occurring, the follow-on flights would certainly have plenty of radar targets to go at.
Back in Romeo-One-One.
“Nav, Radar. We’re on track.”
“Roger.”
“Two minutes till release.”
“Acknowledged,” responded the pilot.
Fifteen kilometres from the target, another check was made on their position, and the bomb-bay doors were finally opened. The pilot and co-pilot looked at each other again, both thinking the same thing. Where was the enemy flak and missile fire? It seemed to be going well so far, perhaps too well. Both wished for their good fortune to continue. The AEO had picked up a couple of high-pitched shrieks from a Straight Flush, the fire-control radar for a Soviet SA-6 surface-to-air missile, on his warning receiver, but they disappeared. He placed a hand on his headphones pressing them close to his left ear. Nothing. Perhaps one of the Shrike anti-radar missiles had put it out of its misery.
Speed was now 300 knots and the computer responsible for the timing, signalled it was time for the bomb release. The first group of bombs left the bomb bay. Within seconds, a retardation chute opened at the end of each one, slowing the fall of the bomb, allowing the delivery aircraft time to leave the area before the bombs exploded, showering a rain of death over its target.
One second.
The speed of bombs fall dropped, slowed down as the drogues released from the tail end did their job.
Two seconds.
Squadron Leader Merritt maintained his course as five more 450kg bombs left the bomb bay.
Three seconds.
He heard the shriek himself before the AEO warned him. “Shilka, twenty degrees port.”
“Roger.” He glanced left, knowing he would see nothing unless it was the bright flare of a missile or the flare of tracer rounds. He kept the aircraft’s flight line steady, the dropping of their bomb load the priority.
Four seconds.
Another five bombs had been released.
The aircraft continued on its level course, the pilot gripping the control stick tightly. He had no option if they were to drop their deadly load effectively, and lay waste to the unsuspecting Soviet troops below.
“Chaff fired,” informed the AEO.
Five seconds.
The last of the bombs tumbled from the aircraft. Squadron Leader Merritt could now manoeuvre, taking them away from the ever-increasing number of threats from the many fire-control radars that were lighting up below.
It took twenty seconds for the bombs to touch down, hitting the ground at quarter-second intervals. But when they did, they caused widespread destruction. Flanked by two other Vulcan bombers, Romeo-One-Two and Romeo-One-Three, sixty-three 450kg bombs blanketed the area beneath them. Through the sidewall of the cockpit and above the noise of the engines, they could hear the staccato crump as the bombs detonated. Behind them, eight more bombers would be dropping their bomb loads on the unsuspecting armour and infantry targets below.