“If you will excuse me now sir, we have to make tracks to our pick up point.” They shook hands once more and the major disappeared back into the trees. SACUER climbed inside a M113 command post vehicle and the convoy moved off, with the sounds of battle drawing nearer.
Pc Pell was dozing in a chair in the kitchen at the back of the house when the motion sensor alarm sounded; he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and looked at the monitors. The milkman had woken him half an hour before as he delivered the daily pintas, but this time he was expecting to see Stokesy, Constantine, and Scott coming down the footpath. They had been at the RAF station all yesterday and all through the night, waiting for word that the Nighthawk had arrived safely in Russia. However, the monitors showed a tanned man in his 30’s struggling with suitcases and carry-on bags, bringing up the rear behind an equally tanned woman of the same age, who was also straining to carry a pair of suitcases, trudging through the snow that accentuated their bronzed complexions. He checked the other monitors and found nothing untoward, so he clipped his MP-5 to its harness, adjusting it so that it hung below his right elbow by its butt clip, and slipped on a jacket. Cocking his Glock he approached the front door, where a key was now being tried in the lock without success.
On taking over the premises, all the original locks had been replaced, and a Kevlar panel bolted to the inside of the door. Beside the door was a tiny monitor, which was receiving live feed from a palm-sized camera tucked into the ivy beside the door.
Pell could see the couple looked tired, unhappy and their clothes were creased. The woman put down her cases, nagging the man at the same time to get the door open; his look of pained exasperation brought a grin to the police officers face.
Holding the Glock in his right hand, Pell undid the locks and pulled the door open a foot, keeping the pistol out of sight. The tanned man looked up with shock on his face, from his position knelt on the doorstep where he had been attempting to look through the letterbox. The woman started also, stepping backwards with a startled “Oh!” and knocking over one of the milk bottles that toppled off the doorstep and broke with a smash.
“Yes?” Pell asked the man. “Can I help you?”
“Oh, do excuse us,” the tanned man replied, struggling to stand. “I didn’t know the place was being let right now… we are the McCardle’s, we own this house… and we have had the most horrendous time getting home from Saudi, what with the war and all.”
Pell frowned.
“I’m afraid the house has been leased by the MOD, to billet aircrews and the like… is there anywhere else you could stay?”
“I really don’t know… darling?” turning to his wife.
For just a moment the man's body masked the woman’s, and then he stepped swiftly to his right. Pell saw the woman was crouched in a gunfighter’s stance, both hands grasping a pistol that was aimed right at his face. The police officer had started to move, had started to shove closed the door when she fired.
NATO artillery and mortars were creating a barrier midway across the river that the Hungarians had to cross. The gunners knew that the chances of scoring a direct hit were not that high, but that the stovepipe shaped air intakes that the enemy vehicles attached when fording rivers were un-armoured. Air bursting shells holed the air intakes, and the waters made stormy by exploding ordnance swamped the engine decks. Water found its way into places where it was not wanted, and if enough of it got in then engines choked, spluttered and stalled. A half dozen from the first companies were already drifting down river, at the mercy of the current. A mechanic could have the machines in running order after just a short time, but right now they were useless, and not a danger to the defenders.
Driving snow reduced unaided visibility for both sides, but the battalions principal tank killers, the Hussars Challengers and Chieftains thermal sights had no trouble see through the storm or the smoke being dropped by artillery or by the armours own smoke generators.
The first two companies reached the ‘island’ and began climbing ashore
“Target tank… range, three one five zero… eleven o’clock… PT-76, get it while it’s still climbing the bank.”
Venables gunner had his eyes pressed against the padded sight and rotated the turret to the left, seeking out the target that had been indicated, and shouting. “On!” as he laid the gun on to the AFV climbing out of the river. “Firing!” The big Charm gun recoiled as it sent a tungsten steel sabot round across the canal, over the length of the island and into the lightly armoured belly of the tank. The effect was immediate, as hatches blew off and the vehicles forward motion came to a halt. “Reload, HE… lets save the Sabot’s for heavier armour… Target BTR, just left of the tank, range same!”
The loader slid the round into position and placed a bag charge behind it, closing the breach he stepped clear and slid the safety gate across firmly, ensuring it clicked home, if it had not been then the in-built safety device would have physically prevented the weapon from firing.
“HE Loaded!”
“Firing… good ‘it!..Load HE!”
Major Venables left the gunner and loader to fight the tank whilst he himself monitored his Squadrons efforts. Aside from the Chieftain destroyed by the Spetznaz assault, a Challenger had been destroyed during the shelling, and another had a drive wheel and track blown off by a near miss, it could still fight but was immobilised and would require REME to remove it later for repair. His remaining tanks were firing and reloading, the turrets moving as the guns picked up the next target to appear in their assigned sector, and then they fired again.
After fifteen minutes of continuous firing the, the riverbank was littered with the burning hulks of tanks and APCs; those crewmen and infantry that had bailed out of the knocked out vehicles were being picked off by the snipers, unless they found cover quickly and stayed there.
Colonel Lužar ordered his remaining companies to remain below the riverbank, out of sight of the NATO defenders. His first two companies had been picked off piecemeal, but if the remainder crossed the bank en-masse, they would deny the defenders the easy pickings of before. Calling up his artillery rep he requested suppressing fire on the ground beyond the canal, the destruction of the canal sides would have to wait.
A Royal Artillery Phoenix, twelve miles to the enemies rear was watching another battalion of armour move up. Its operator’s attention was drawn to the lead tank, obviously the commanders’ vehicles owing to the mass of antennae it sported. He had noted it five minutes before, but the tank had now broken away from the column to approach a small wood. As he watched, the tank pulled up beside the edge of the trees and a man approached from under the sheltering boughs. Impressive shoulder boards declared the rank of the approaching man as being a senior staff officer, the operator called over his supervisor who watched for a moment and then picked up a field telephone.
Only two MLRS launchers remained under brigade control, the remainder had been diverted south to assist in holding the line, the brigade commander agreed with his intelligence rep that they were in a position to remove the Hungarians of two critical factors necessary for a successful assault.
The reply Colonel Lužar received for his request was mixed good news and bad, he was berated for dallying instead of pressing home the assault but promised his artillery fire-mission once it finished firing its present tasks, provided they press on immediately. He gave the order to advance and six companies worth of engines changed from idling to a roar as they clawed their way out of the river.