McRae did likewise, and less than a minute later had plopped down in the commander’s position in the tank. Reaching over, he grabbed his CVC helmet, placing it firmly on his head. He attached the communications cord to the vehicle’s communications system and then did a quick crew report check with his crew before reaching out to the other vehicles in his company.
“OK, guys. Let’s get this bad boy ready to go,” McRae announced. “It’s nearly time to roll out. Crew report!”
A few minutes went by as the individual crewmen ran through their various checks to make sure the targeting computer was up and running, the radios were set on the right frequencies for the day, and they had entered in the various navigational waypoints they’d be working off of for the next couple of days. Having completed their checks, all three crewmen reported ready, and it was time to get moving.
Changing to the company net, Captain McRae called out to his company, “This is Black Six to all Guidon elements. We’re moving out in three mikes. I want a wedge formation with Blue Platoon in the middle, Red Platoon on the right and White Platoon on the left in echelon formation. Acknowledge and send Redcon status.” he inquired of his platoon leaders.
“This is White One. Roger, Second Platoon is Redcon One,” said Sergeant First Class Mark Moore, who commanded Second Platoon.
“This is Blue One. Acknowledged, and we’re at Redcon One,” said Sergeant First Class Bobby Rickets, the sergeant in charge of Third Platoon, which consisted of the attached infantry platoon in the Bradleys. The Third Platoon also had the company artillery LNO, riding in his own fire support team vehicle, a Bradley Fist, which was why Captain McRae wanted them placed in the center of their formation.
“This is Red One. Red is Redcon One and ready to get some,” answered the young second lieutenant in command of First Platoon.
"Black Six, this is Black Five. We are Redcon One," reported his executive officer, First Lieutenant Charley Smith.
"Roger, Guidons, begin your movement," said Captain McRae.
In short order, his company team of tanks and Bradleys quickly formed a wedge and moved forward down the side of the P-258 highway toward the enemy. Intelligence said they were roughly sixty kilometers away, so they had a few minutes before they would run into each other. As his company of tanks and Bradleys continued to move toward the enemy, Captain McRae couldn’t help but think back to just five months ago.
His Minnesota Army National Guard unit, the 1st Combined Arms Battalion, 194th Armor had just completed an intense armor refresher course at Fort Benning, Georgia. One of their instructors, Major Joe Dukes, or “JD” as he preferred to be called, had been awarded the Medal of Honor. He often regaled them of tales of tank battles he had taken part of against the Russians; McRae couldn’t help but marvel at what this guy must have seen and lived through. What he’d said always carried a lot more weight than any of the other instructors, so at this moment, McRae had his words burned into his mind: “When in doubt, attack without mercy.”
As their tank rumbled down the field next to the two-lane road, his gunner keyed the intercom on his CVC helmet. “Captain McRae, you think your finance job at the dealership will still be there for you when we get back from the war?” he asked, trying to take their minds off the inevitable battle.
The mention of the car dealership immediately brought McRae back home. While in college, he’d worked part-time selling cars for a Chevy dealership in town. Once he’d finished his degree in finance, a position for assistant finance manager at the dealership had opened up. He had talked to the general manager about it and had been hired for the position. Three years later, he had been promoted to finance manager for the entire dealership and had personally been doing extremely well financially. He loved helping families and individuals acquire the financing to purchase the vehicle they either needed or dreamed of having. Of course, being gone and fighting in this war might have placed that position in jeopardy. Someone needed to fill in for him while he was gone, and the longer he was gone, the more the current managers might take a liking to that person over him. It concerned him, especially since he had four little kids to think about.
“I think they will, Spence. At least I hope they will,” said McRae. “I’ve worked with the general manager for eleven years and know the owner well. I send them a short note every now and then to remind them that I’m still alive and kicking. What about you? Is your boss still holding your job for you?”
“Yeah, I’m pretty sure they will. If they don’t, I’ll sue,” the gunner shot back, which brought some laughter from the others in the tank. Sergeant Justin Spence worked as a pharmaceutical rep for a large drug company. Judging by the Maserati he drove to drill weekends, he must have been pretty good at his job. He always picked up the tab when they’d go to a bar after training in Georgia.
Forty minutes went by as their tank rumbled through the prairie when they heard the first sounds of war. A jet engine roared overhead. “Whoa, what was that?” asked Specialist Gary Kostic, the loader.
“Probably just a jet on his way to attack the Indians,” replied Spence, trying to calm the young kid’s nerves. Specialist Gary Kostic was the newest member to their company, having arrived as a replacement roughly five weeks ago. The team wasn’t exactly coddling him, but they were trying to help ease the transition a bit.
Captain McRae opted to poke his head out of the tank to see if he could catch a glimpse at the aircraft that had just buzzed over them. He heard several jets: some were close, others far off in the distance. Looking to his right, he saw one aircraft explode in the air. That was the first time he had witnessed a fighter plane die, and while it was spectacular to look at, it suddenly sent a shiver down his back. “The enemy must be close,” he said under his breath.
A voice came over the battalion net. “All units, enemy planes in the vicinity. Expect enemy contact at anytime.”
Returning his gaze to the front, Captain McRae caught sight of the silhouette of an aircraft swooping up and over him and several objects falling from beneath its wings, right toward his company of tanks. Reaching for the talk button on his headset, he yelled, “Guidons! Incoming bombs from enemy warplanes!”
He ducked into the tank, and the ground around his tank suddenly rocked hard from one explosion after another. McRae grabbed for anything that would help him stabilize himself as he prayed none of the bombs landed on him or any of his tankers or infantry.
Seconds later, Sergeant Spence yelled out, “Tanks to our front, 3,500 meters!”
Turning to look at the commander's sight extension, Captain McRae at once spotted a line of tanks deploying from a single-file line to a full battle line, just as they had been told a lot of the Russian-equipped militaries did with their T-72s. “Holy crap, that’s a lot of tanks!” he exclaimed.
He switched to the company net. “Guidons, enemy tanks to our front, 3,500 meters. I want all tanks to change formation and move to a line formation. We’re going to snipe at them while they advance. Engage when you see my tank fire!”
He turned his attention next to his FIST team. “Black Eight, this is Black Six. I need a fire mission. Get us some arty immediately!”
Captain McRae then switched back to the battalion net, sending a quick message to his commander letting him know what they were seeing and asking if it would be possible to get some air support.
“Captain those tanks are charging!” alerted Sergeant Spence. “They’re crossing 3,200 meters.” The turret turned slightly to the right as it tracked their first target.