A sudden, raking fire of automatic weapons cut down half the men in Devenko’s patrol in the first few seconds. A snowmobile burst into flames. Exploding grenades showered chunks of snow and ice that thudded against the armored vehicles. Vorashin dove behind his command car. All around him men were running for cover. The wounded were screaming. Half a dozen men were already dead.
“Devenko!” Vorashin shouted. A bullet pinged against the metal undercarriage and slapped the snow beside his arm. “Devenko!” He crawled backward, inching his way to the other side of the vehicle. A platoon leader ran to him, sliding to his knees he-hind the protection of the armor.
“An American patrol,” the lieutenant yelled urgently. “Right forward flank!”
“How strong?” Vorashin could see platoons already breaking away from the column, setting up defensive positions on both flanks.
“Twenty… thirty infantry. Light automatic rifles, grenades…”
Another grenade exploded twenty yards away. Vorashin and the lieutenant both ducked their heads from the shower of debris.
“Move these vehicles!” Vorashin shouted. “Don’t let them sit here!”
“Yes, sir!”
“Send Twelfth Company forward! Neutralize that—”
From the opposite direction, another barrage of gunfire opened up. The lieutenant screamed as a bullet pierced his forearm. Vorashin scrambled under the vehicle, pulling the wounded officer with him.
“Bastards!” the colonel barked. “Devenko!” He banged on the floor hatch of the communications van.
“I’m all right, sir.” The lieutenant winced as he rolled onto his side. “I will send the Twelfth immediately, comrade Colonel!” He pulled himself to the trailing edge of the vehicle, got to his knees, then ran for the cover of the rocket-launching craft.
“They came during the night!” Vorashin muttered angrily. He banged on the hatch again. They set up outside the perimeter and moved in this morning, he realized. He should have extended the night flank patrols, even though there was nothing in the vicinity but an undermanned company of the regional militia. He’d broken one of his own commandments: never underestimate the tenacity of your adversary.
The hatch above his head opened and a sergeant, armed with a pistol, poked his head down. “Colonel!”
“Get the vehicles moving!” Vorashin shouted. “All of them! Now! Put the missile arms carrier in the lead and order its commander to shoot anything in its path! This column must move out of a crossfire!”
The sergeant nodded quickly. “Yes, sir!”
“Now, Sergeant, NOW!”
Vorashin crawled out from beneath the vehicle and ran in a crouch to an icy gully, where a major was directing a two-pronged counterattack over his hand radio. Behind him, Vorashin heard the armored vehicles moving out. The rocket-launcher rumbled straight for the first source of gunfire. It fired a missile that exploded in the trees, directly above the Americans.
The major turned quickly to Vorashin. “They’ve stopped firing, sir.”
“Of course they’ve stopped,” Vorashin said. “They’re falling back. They can’t expect to sustain an attack.”
“Shall—”
“Keep after them!” Vorashin shouted. “Track them down and finish it! We cannot let them regroup for another skirmish!”
“Immediately, my Colonel.”
“Have you seen Devenko?”
“No, I…”
“Direct your men! The Americans must not slide away from us.”
Vorashin searched the hills ahead through binoculars. There was nothing to see and he knew it.
Whoever commanded this militia of part-time soldiers was no amateur. He knew how to employ inferior force tactics. But he wouldn’t get away, Vorashin thought. This was a one-time incident, and rather suicidal at that. The American commander was both brave and foolish. He’d hurt the column, but the damage wasn’t crippling. They’d be moving again in several hours. It was a temporary hesitation and a costly lesson. If it were to happen again, he’d be ready for it. But it wouldn’t happen again. The Americans would be tracked through the snow and eliminated. It was that simple.
Vorashin jerked the field glasses back to the west when he heard the distinctive thuup-thuup-thuup of slicing rotor blades.
The two Huey choppers rose over the distant ridge like a pair of deadly wasps. They swooped down side-by-side, barely off the frozen tundra, their fixed machine guns blazing, ripping through the middle of the column.
Bullets stitched a jagged line of divots through the snow. Vorashin dove to the bottom of the gully. He fell on his back, covering his head with his hands. He heard the major’s death-shriek, and saw his chest turn suddenly crimson before he disappeared over the crest of the gully.
The gunships passes directly overhead — Vorashin saw the underside markings clearly — in an earsplitting scream of engine roar and machine-gun fire. They were heading directly for the missile carrier. Vorashin suddenly realized what the strategy was. The rocket-launcher was aimed in the wrong direction to protect itself. Vorashin was out of the gully instantly, running to the armored troop carrier.
“Open fire! Open fire! Alert the rocket-launcher!”
He jumped on the moving vehicle and found two of its gun team dead. He pulled one of the men off the fifty-caliber machine gun and began firing it himself. Tracer rounds stung the air in an arc after the two helicopters.
“They’re after the rocket-launcher!” he screamed at the other gun crew. “Shoot them down! Shoot them down!”
Over the ridge ahead, Vorashin saw two more helicopters. They were moving slowly, keeping low, straining under heavy loads they were not designed to carry. It was the attack patrol, he realized. They were using the tiny gunships as troop carriers. He cursed violently. The American commander was a clever bastard. And he was escaping.
“Keep firing!” Vorashin yelled. “Keep firing!”
The heat of the fireball from the explosion of the first attack helicopter stung his face. He protected his eyes from the debris. When he glanced up again, he saw the burning wreckage hit the snow and break apart. The second helicopter was already fading into the distant horizon, trailing heavy black smoke.
The attack was over, Vorashin thought. One helicopter destroyed, the other badly damaged. But they’d done their work. Vorashin’s missile carrier was on fire. Men were clammering out from its hatches. A missile fired itself and zagged in a flat, winding trajectory, exploding harmlessly in the tundra half a mile away.
The colonel climbed down from the gun turret and stood silently, watching his men. They were crawling out of their defensive positions, checking the sky for hints of another attack, tending to the cries of the wounded. He counted a score of bodies scattered across the battlefield. Whisps of smoke swirled in the gusty wind.
“Alex! Alex!”
Vorashin turned quickly to see Major Devenko running toward him from the direction of the missile carrier. His forehead was bleeding.
“Alex, I—” he gasped for breath and knelt on one knee. “Where did they come from?”
“That isn’t the question,” Vorashin said. “Where did they go?” He leaned down to Devenko. “How badly are you—”
“It is nothing,” Devenko said quickly. He touched the gash with his glove. “I was standing in the way of a slight explosion.”
“See to it, Sergei. We must get the column moving again.”
“Of course. I—” Devenko stopped when he saw Saamaretz approach.
“So, Colonel Vorashin,” the KGB officer growled, “the small American detachment poses no significant threat!” He gestured around him. “What would they have done if they were not so threatening?”
“The responsibility is mine,” the colonel said. “I underestimated.”