Local Time 1647 Hours
“Colonel Remington. Major Rebreanu at your service.” The man saluted smartly.
The title sounded like music in Remington’s ears as he gazed at the sharply dressed United Nations major standing in front of him. He didn’t bother to point out that he hadn’t yet accepted Carpathia’s offered commission.
“Major.” Remington returned the man’s salute.
“I’ve been instructed by SecretaryGeneral Carpathia to put myself and my men at your disposal.”
“Acknowledged, Major. Glad to have you.”
The man stood at rigid attention. He was medium height but broad shouldered. His uniform blouse stretched across his chest, and his muscles rolled beneath his skin. His square jaw thrust out prominently.
“At ease,” Remington said.
Rebreanu fell into parade rest and stood beside the jeep that had brought him to meet Remington. Three other soldiers stood with him. All of them wore the bright blue helmets of the United Nations Peacekeeping Forces.
“I’ll depend on you to keep me up-to-date with your staff, Major,” Remington said. “When I get more time, I’ll know them all.”
“Yes, sir. I’d be happy to help.”
Remington wondered if that was true. Getting ordered into a potentially highly lethal losing situation wasn’t something any soldier would wish for. He wouldn’t have wanted to be Rebreanu.
“We need to shore up the south end of the city,” Remington said. “Create some space between ourselves and the Syrians. I don’t want them inside the metro area if I can help it.”
“Yes, sir. Permission to speak freely, sir?”
That, Remington knew, was dangerous given that he didn’t know the man. But Remington nodded anyway.
“Holding the city in its entirety might be impossible.” Rebreanu’s words held only a hint of an accent.
“That’s not the kind of thinking I need out here,” Remington said. “If we give up any part of this city, we’re going to have to give it all up. So we’re not going to give the Syrians anything.”
Rebreanu nodded stiffly. “Yes, sir.”
Underneath the major’s calm words, though, Remington knew that the man didn’t believe it could be done. “We’re going to make this happen,” Remington said.
“Yes, sir. The secretarygeneral said that you would be a man of conviction and that you’d have high expectations.”
“I do. Allowing the Syrians to entrench themselves in this city means they don’t have to depend on supply lines as much as they currently do. I’m not going to allow that. If they have supply lines, they’re exposed. We’re going to concentrate on holding our position and make them pay the cost for being in an indefensible posture.” Remington stared at the battlefield, across the smoking ruin of the Syrian armored and downed planes. “Put simply, we’re going to outbleed them.”
“Yes, sir.” Rebreanu frowned a little.
“I’m aware that this isn’t the kind of action your team is used to seeing,” Remington went on. “They’ll adjust. The same way we’ve adjusted.”
“That’s what the secretarygeneral said too, Colonel.”
Remington smiled. “He’s a smart man.”
“He has absolute faith in you, sir.”
“That just means he’s more intelligent than I realized.” Remington saluted. “Now let’s get out there and put a boot to some Syrian butts.”
Local Time 1743 Hours
“Incoming!”
Remington dropped down behind a barricade of sandbags and tucked his face into the crook of his elbow. A tank round struck a building behind him. A storm of cracked stone and mortar peppered his helmet and body armor. A few chunks ricocheted from exposed and unprotected flesh. He’d have bruises on his forearms, thighs, and calves later.
The explosion left Remington partially deafened. The hoarse yelling and screams of the wounded sounded like they were a million miles away from him. He straightened and peered over the sandbag wall.
“They’re massing,” Sergeant Whitaker said. Young but experienced, the sergeant held the line beside Remington.
“I see them.” Remington stared through his protective eye gear. On the other side of the bare ground, the Syrian army prepared to launch an offensive. “We should have mined that area.”
Remington had ordered his men to use the local earthmoving equipment to clear all trees and rock in a two-hundred-yard band on all sides of the city. That task still wasn’t finished, but all the areas along the thoroughfares had been plucked clean.
“Yeah,” Whitaker agreed. He grinned a little. “When we give ’em the fall line, they’re going to be in for a nasty surprise.”
Under Remington’s direction, a line of claymore antipersonnel mines lay beyond the first defensive barrier outside the city. Holding that position long enough to convince the Syrians they were determined to keep it was risky and would undoubtedly prove costly.
The Rangers and the United Nations troops held solid, but Remington recognized fear in those mud-streaked faces. The rain continued unabated and washed out gullies across the barren land the earthmovers had left.
“Sparrow Leader,” Remington called over the com.
“Sparrow Leader reads you.”
“Ready?”
“We were born ready.”
“On my go,” Remington stated quietly.
“Sparrow Unit is standing by.”
Remington watched the line taking shape. Despite the torrential downpour and the quagmire of mud pits that had formed in front of them, the cavalry of the Syrian army advanced. Tires and tank treads churned through the loose soil. Men marched beside them. The grinding roar of machinery came closer.
Someone opened fire. Remington didn’t know if it came from the defenders or the Syrians, but the shot escalated the approach into a fullfledged firefight. He remained behind cover and took aim with his M-4A1. He snapped off tri-bursts at the human targets. They fell, tumbled, and twisted away.
Bullets ripped across the heap of sandbags and through the air only inches from his ear. One slammed into his helmet and startled him. Controlling the fear that writhed within him, he shook the rain from his eyes and took aim again.
Syrian soldiers trailed the tanks, APCs, and mobile artillery pieces. They were exposed and knew it. Handfuls of them fell at a time; lifeless bodies and wounded were left behind. The advance was inexorable. Without the reinforcements, Remington knew his soldiers wouldn’t have been able to hold the city from the invaders.
Timing, he reminded himself. It’s all about the timing. He fired again and again. One of the soldiers he aimed at went down.
The trick, Remington knew, was to reshape the front line. Then he had to attack before the second wave followed. Once the Syrians had their full momentum up, the city could still be overrun.
“Sparrow Leader,” Remington called.
“Ready.”
“Hit ’em. Hit ’em hard.”
Immediately a dozen attack helos lifted up from the streets back in the middle of the city. They thundered by overhead and divided into two groups of six, then launched rockets and 20mm cannon rounds at the ends of the advancing line.
Devastated by the withering fire, giving in to their instincts for self-preservation, the units on the ends of the Syrian line pushed in toward each other, and the front lost a third of its width. The helos came under fierce attack. One of them exploded in midair, struck by a surface-to-air missile that rained down debris. Another lost its main rotor and went down, smashing against an APC before exploding and taking out the tank and several infantrymen.
Remington cursed. Even with Carpathia’s promise of still more machines and troops, losing hardware like the attack helos chafed him.
The second wave of Syrians formed but held their positions.
“Sparrow,” Remington called, “get out of there.”
The remaining helicopters swooped around and streaked back toward the city.
“Keep firing till I call for the retreat,” Remington ordered his men.
The first wave of Syrians kept coming. They smelled victory even though they took steady losses. All they had to do was secure an anchoring position. Then they’d be inside the city.