He spotted the Russian artillery position on a small ridge, behind a clump of trees. The trees were meant to provide cover for the TOS-1s, but they also hid John’s approach. The Rough Riders wheeled right, crossing the empty highway, and stopped to dismount thirty yards from the Russian vehicles. The horses’ reins were all quickly lashed to the guard rail before the men moved to close with the enemy. John urged them on, reminding them their only chance lay in stopping those rockets from being fired.
As they reached the thin screen of trees, the soldiers with the AT-4s were ushered to the front. In the clearing beyond, John counted five TOS-1s. In front of them was a single BTR-T. He knew the fighting vehicle wasn’t to be underestimated, since this particular model had been designed using the hard lessons the Russians had learned during the war in Chechnya. Thicker armor as well as a gun with a higher traverse meant enemies in an urban environment couldn’t engage it as easily as its predecessors, the BTR-80 and BMP-2.
That was why he ordered two of his men with AT-4s to hit it first. The others would simultaneously strike the rocket artillery vehicles and thereby reduce the threat.
With his men quickly in place, John gave the hand signal to fire.
The first anti-tank rocket streaked out from the tube and impacted the turret of the BTR-T, knocking its main gun out of action. But the squad of Russian troops stormed out of the vehicle and dove to the ground, firing their weapons. John tapped Benson, his SAW gunner, on the helmet and Benson swung around, laying down an impressive volume of fire.
The other anti-tank rockets fired soon after and three of the five vehicles went up in a pillar of flame. The Russian infantry on their right were still pinned down, but a few had managed to toss hand grenades toward John’s line, killing two of his men and possibly wounding a third.
That was when the two remaining TOS-1s fired their payload. The field filled with white acrid smoke and the deafening roar of rocket motors igniting. Suddenly everything disappeared from view. The men stopped shooting and only the sound of the wounded could be heard. Slowly the air cleared about a second before the rockets found their mark. Dozens of explosions rocked the American position.
The Rough Riders charged from the treeline, killing the remaining members of the Russian infantry squad and knocking out the two remaining TOS-1s.
“Reese,” John shouted into his walkie. “Status report.”
There was no response. He called again and waited before hearing a voice on the other end.
“Nearly bit the big one there, Colonel,” Reese said. “Looks like part of the church is on fire.”
“We tried, Reese. Really, we did. We just couldn’t get them all in time.”
The sight of Russian tanks in the distance engaging targets let John know not all the Americans were dead or wounded.
He tried to bring up Rodriguez and General Brooks at headquarters and faced a wall of static. His calls a moment later to Henry were more successful. They struggled to hear each other over the roar of weapons firing nearby.
“I’m trying to get through to General Brooks,” John shouted. “Tell him we knocked those last TOS-1s out of action.”
“I don’t know how to tell you this,” Henry said. “But the headquarters took a direct hit.” The emotion in the radioman’s voice was unmistakable. “General Brooks, Colonel Higgs and Rodriguez. They’re all dead.”
Chapter 58
John and the others raced back as quickly as they could. The death of the senior leadership was a terrible blow. It could lead to a panic or, worse, the American forces being routed from the field. But the other stark implication was that John was now in charge.
Thick towers of black smoke rose from craters where the missiles had impacted. Several of the structures lining the highway as well as the suburban dwellings to the north were ablaze. Galloping alongside Interstate 81, John could see the Russian armor battling ferociously against his men. Tracers streamed back and forth. A BTR-T lowered its ramp to offload a squad of troops right as an AT-4 streaked in through the hatch, blasting the vehicle into the air and killing everyone on board.
The handful of American tanks and Bradleys running and gunning from one concealed position to another didn’t stand a chance. Seeing the burning hulks of American armor made John sick to his stomach.
Approaching the industrial building they’d been in before launching the attack on the TOS-1s, John saw that it had taken a direct hit and was on fire. He got on the walkie and called for the company commanders to report in. Slowly they came in, one by one, often little more than a quick reply amidst the sound of machine-gun fire. By the end, only fifty percent of the units called in. That didn’t mean they were all dead, but it did mean issuing them orders would not be easy. He could only hope that their training and personal initiative would keep them alive and fighting.
The building next door hadn’t been hit and John and his men climbed to the roof. Keeping low, they made their way to the edge where a platoon-sized group was already dug in along the edge, pouring fire on the enemy.
One of them was a Lieutenant from the 101st. “Sir, General Brooks is―”
“I know,” John snapped, crawling next to him and taking aim with his AR. A group of Russian infantry were running behind one of the T-90s, taking fire from both sides of the highway. John looked for the squad leader and saw a soldier waving them forward. That would be his target. He squeezed off four rounds. The first two ricocheted off the rear of the tank and bounced harmlessly into the air. The next two found their target, dropping him to the ground. With the squad leader dead, the rest of the troops attempted to scatter and were immediately cut down.
“Russians are trying to flank the northern embankment by cutting through the suburbs,” the lieutenant shouted. “If we don’t do something they’ll roll up our positions to the north and then do the same to us. What are your orders, sir?”
They were being overrun, plain and simple. Apart from attempting to retreat, there was no tactical decision that could win the day. What they needed was more help from the air. He got on the walkie to Henry. “I want you to find out what air assets we have nearby and patch me through to them.”
Just as Henry acknowledged the order, the T-90 that had been trying to shield the infantry began swinging its gun turret in their direction.
“He’s gonna fire on us,” Moss shouted, getting up and preparing to relocate. The others followed suit.
They hadn’t gotten more than five feet before the Russian 125mm smooth-bore gun shot a round straight into the side of the building.
Shards of searing hot metal and chunks of cinderblock were thrown in every direction. Four men were killed outright, others lay wounded. John caught a scream ahead of him. Moss was lying on his back. A piece of shrapnel had taken his leg off below the knee. Blood gushed from the wound. With ringing ears and blurred vision, John scrambled on all fours to his friend. Reaching into one of his utility pouches, he came out with a tourniquet. Moss was still in shock and hadn’t yet realized what had happened. He tried to stand up and fell back down.
John jumped on top of him, cinching the tourniquet above his wound. “Hold still, you stubborn mule, or you’ll bleed to death.” He applied a pressure bandage with blood-clotting chemicals and shouted for a medic.
John’s walkie came to life. “Colonel, I’m putting you through to Major Donaldson.”
“Major, this is Colonel Mack. We’re in a real bad way here and could use a hand. A Russian armored division is about to break our position in half.”
The walkie filled with static. “The Russians aren’t supposed to be this far south.”