Wiping away the bile, the dread of failure wracking her conscious, the radio crackled to life. In her headset came the command, “…Alpha Dog, I repeat, execute Alpha Dog.” Still on her knees, she glanced at the remaining three soldiers crouching nearby. By the look in their eyes, they too had received the battalion-wide command, but fear and shock seemed to hold them back. They needed leadership. She thought of the steel monsters in her sector and imagined the powerful armor racing forward. Death was coming.
Determined to fight back and defend the rest of her people, the launchers beckoned. She pointed towards the stacked weapons leaning against the far wall. Not waiting, she crawled that direction, and as she approached, she felt the trio close behind. Good, they were following. Above them, heavy machine-gun fire continued to snap.
As she reached for the nearest launcher, the earth shook, and a deafening roar knocked her flat.
On her stomach, ears ringing, chunks of concrete mixed with dirt and sand rained down. A few second later, spitting debris, McMichael fought to gain control. Shaking off dust, sand, and small pieces of concrete, she pushed herself onto her knees. Through smoke and dust, she could see her assigned pillbox thirty meters away. It was nothing but a smoking ruin. A sickening realization dawned. The rest of her squad was inside. Around her, the remaining three survivors lay flat, covered in dust, the air thick.
McMichael turned back to the pillbox and thought of the four young soldiers posted inside. Maybe they were still alive? She considered scrambling over and digging into the rubble. But she grasped the reality: the enemy was coming, and there wasn’t much time.
Compelled by a force she didn’t understand, McMichael reached out to the nearest soldier and tugged on his combat vest. The man looked up, blinking, eyes wide with fear. It was Private Goldstein, a good man. Over the roar and din of battle, McMichael pointed at the closest launcher and then cast her chin towards the enemy front. Amazed at his response, McMichael watched as Goldstein gathered himself, nodded in return, and crawled after the weapon.
After grabbing the launcher, rounds whining overhead, undaunted, she watched the private creep back to the front of the trench and place his weapon upon the parapet. In awe, McMichael turned and saw the other two remaining soldiers responding. They too were gathering loaded missile launchers. God, she was grateful and proud of their bravery.
And then it happened again. This time much worse as the earth shook in a violent upheaval.
Tossed like rag dolls across the trench, McMichael and the last of her squad tried to survive.
“Driver, back up, back up. Gunner, enable APS,” commanded Lieutenant Colonel Paulson. Under fire, he reacted with practiced calm. Through his thermal monitor, he could see the glowing wreck of Colonel Rourke’s Humvee and the smoking rubble of the point pillbox beyond it. Destroyed by his main gun, both initial targets lay in ruins, and he felt a deep sense of satisfaction. But there was more work to do. Multitasking, he listened as radio updates from his company commanders came piping in. The news was excellent. Many enemy targets hit, no losses yet. A minute gone by and all was going well.
Still, Paulson needed to protect against a potential counter Javelin strike and get away from the massive pre-planned artillery barrage. He didn’t want to die by friendly fire or a missile, and the best way to avoid both was to create some distance. The further he got from enemy lines, the better chance of avoiding a short artillery shell. As for defending against missiles, his tank relied upon its APS. Developed and sold by the ROAS years earlier, the APS was mounted near the top of the tank and, using radar, detected and destroyed inbound anti-tank threats by spraying a counter array of exploding projectiles. The farther from the incoming threat, the more time available for the APS to react. But he remembered the words of Rourke, who claimed the ROAS could defeat the system, and he decided to do more.
“Gunner, open fire with the .240 on the nearest trench. I don’t care if you can’t see shit, just let the smart bullets do their thing and keep raking.” A moment later, the light machine gun responded by firing short rapid bursts. Paulson decided more was better and took control of the remote heavy machine gun. Joystick in hand, he slewed the heavy weapon toward the enemy lines and squeezed out long, sweeping bursts of .50-caliber smart-bullet fire. As he played the gun back and forth, pouring lead down range, he didn’t care that he lacked specific targets. If a smart bullet detected a human target, it would follow. Most important, his purpose was to keep enemy heads down and missiles at bay.
The massive M1A7 continued to charge backward, away from the ROAS lines, when Paulson felt the tank’s APS engage. Vibrations rippled through his seat as the device launched thousands of exploding microbursts at an unseen incoming threat. A moment later, the M1A7 trembled, all sixty-five tons. Paulson stiffened, waited for a possible secondary explosion. Nothing! Relieved and exhilarated, Paulson let out a long, hearty laugh. Strapped in their positions around him, his crew didn’t say a word but just kept working to stay alive.
Shaking off the amusement, looking at his command monitor, Paulson observed the first artillery shells impacting near the enemy trenches. The concussions from the barrage bounced against his retreating tank and he winced. For a second, he felt a flash of fear, but as the tank continued to back away, he relaxed. A few seconds later, and he sensed they were far enough removed. Letting go of the joystick, he ceased firing the .50-caliber and spoke into the tank radio, “Driver, stop. Gunner, hold fire on the .240.”
Paulson considered the battlefield. Tons of debris hurled through the air towards his front as the pounding artillery ripped apart the enemy trenches. Things were going well. Surprise achieved, the enemy appeared overwhelmed. He and his tank were intact, and his battalion unscathed. He spoke into his headset, “Driver, until I say so, run us in a defensive loop. Gunner, keep hunting but only engage if you have a target.” Paulson laughed and added, “Boys, it’s time to let the artillery join the fun. This shit’s almost over!”
Chapter Nine
END GAME
Inside ROAS Central Command, General Bill Story watched the lopsided battle unfold on the many monitors viewable from his workspace. Angry, the general sat dismayed and powerless.
In his professional opinion, the fight had started with a cowardly sneak attack—the point-blank murder of Colonel Rourke. A few seconds later, two hundred Stonewall M1A7 main-battle tanks opened fire. It didn’t take long for the enemy guns to take every ROAS pillbox out of action. Simultaneously, the enemy launched a massive missile strike, overwhelming his advanced counter measures. The ROAS command bunker and air defense batteries were obliterated. Next, they struck with a self-propelled Paladin 109A7 artillery barrage using optical self-guided ordinance. Originally developed by the ROAS, the artillery shells precisely targeted the entire ROAS defensive trench network.
Still underway, the ROAS entrenched positions were taking a terrific shellacking. Huge geysers of sand, dirt, and rock sprayed upwards. The few remaining souls of the original three hundred were being pummeled with little opportunity to return fire.
Neutered, the general turned to his aid, Lieutenant Colonel Simpson, and said, “Send a clear text broadcast across the battlefield. Keep sending it until I say so. And I quote, ‘By command of ROAS Army of Defense General Story, the ROAS Second Infantry Battalion surrenders to the US Armed Forces attacking Mesquite. All combatants cease fire.’”