“Take evasive action!” Mac ordered. “And put some fire on those helicopters!”
Mac radioed for help as every machine gun in the column opened fire. “This is Charlie-Six actual… We’re under attack from two Apache gunships. Over.”
“This is Bigfoot Five and Six rolling in hot,” a male voice said. “We will engage. Over.”
The Warthog pilot was as good as his word. Less than thirty seconds had passed when two A-10s swooped out of the clouds and fired rockets at the helicopters. All of them missed. But that was enough to send the Apaches running for cover as Charlie Company continued to speed down the freeway.
Mac was painfully aware that two-two had been carrying an eight-person squad of soldiers in addition to the vic’s crew. Eleven people in all. The reality of that hit hard. She couldn’t take time to grieve however… Not yet.
Mac’s eyes scanned her surroundings, looking for directional signs. There weren’t any! The Confederates had taken them down. Shit! Shit! Shit! It was too late to count side streets. All she could do was take a guess.
She ordered Lamm to turn off the freeway and found herself on Frontage Road. Damn! That wasn’t what she wanted. Wait… What was that? A sign that said OLD LOUISVILLE ROAD! It seemed that Frontage Road had morphed into Old Louisville Road. And there, visible in the distance, a bridge could be seen.
A Confederate Humvee was parked at her end of the span. It was armed with a .50 caliber machine gun, and it opened fire. Meanwhile, Mac saw two soldiers climb up over the railing on the east side of the bridge and run for the vehicle. Where had they been? Under the bridge? Setting a charge?
Mac had to duck for cover as .50 caliber shells hammered the front of the Stryker. One-one was equipped with a 105mm cannon. Mac felt the Stryker lurch as the gunner fired.
Eager to see the result, Mac stuck her head up through the hatch just in time to hear a loud clang as the empty shell casing hit the pavement behind the Stryker. She had surfaced too late to witness the hit… But, judging from appearances, the shell had struck the Humvee head-on. That caused the seven-thousand-pound vehicle to do a backflip. Now it was belly-up and on fire. That was when the .50 caliber ammo began to cook off.
So far so good. But that still left the question as to what the soldiers had been doing under the bridge. Planting charges? Probably, because a series of dull thuds was followed by an alert from one of Olson’s scouts. “This is Bravo-One-Two… They blew the I-65 bridge. An entire section went down. Over.”
More explosions were heard, followed by the sound of Olson’s voice. “Roger that, One-Two. This is Bravo-Six actual. They dropped the new Louisville Road bridge as well. Over.”
Mac’s thoughts were racing. Originally, there had been three bridges not counting a footbridge. Now there was only one. If that was severed, it would take days, if not weeks, for the Union Army to construct a temporary span across the river or circle around.
The decision seemed to make itself. “This is Charlie-Six actual. Truck one-one and one-two will take control of the bridge. Charlie-Seven will command the rest of the company—and check the underside of the bridge for explosives. Over.”
Then, over the intercom, “Hey, Lamm! Put your foot on it… Let’s cross this sucker fast!”
The truck commander had been listening and understood the risk they were taking. Was a reb watching? And waiting to blow the span with them on it?
Mac felt her head snap back as Lamm stomped on the accelerator. The engine whined, and one-one took off, with one-two right behind it. They had to swerve in order to avoid the burning Humvee. Ammo continued to cook off, and Mac heard a clang as something struck the hull. Her eyes were on the other end of the bridge at that point… Where a Bradley was starting to fire on them.
As one-one passed the halfway mark, the 105mm cannon spoke again. Mac saw a bright flash as the antitank round struck the Bradley and heard a burst of 25mm shells scream past her head as the tracked vehicle fired back. It had a chain gun that could fire two hundred rounds a minute—and there was no place for either vehicle to go. Nor could the forces behind them participate in the battle without running the risk of hitting their own people. All the respective commanders could do was fire and keep firing until one of them died.
Mac felt helpless, so she swung the 7.62mm machine gun around and fired short bursts downrange. There was a loud bang as Private Martinez fired the 105 again, followed by a flash at the other end of the bridge, and commentary from Lamm. “You hit his left track! Pound the bastard!”
That was good—but not good enough. Mac ducked as shells smashed into the vic. The Stryker’s armor was thick—but not thick enough. It would only be a matter of seconds before the Bradley’s 25mm armor-piercing rounds managed to pound their way in.
But by some miracle, the metal held long enough for Martinez to fire one last round. The shell hit the Bradley higher up this time, blew a hole in the hull, and triggered a secondary explosion. Mac didn’t see it, but she heard it, and stuck her head up in time to see pieces of fiery debris cartwheeling out of the sky. Then she was thrown forward as Lamm stood on the brake pedal. One-one was able to pull around the Bradley (which was hit moments earlier) and chase the fleeing rebs with bursts from its remotely controlled fifty. As that occurred, a squad of infantry deassed the vic and rushed to secure the bridgehead.
Mac heard the machine gun stop firing as she dropped to the ground and went up to inspect the damage. The front right tire and wheel were a mangled mess. But, because the Stryker had eight wheels, it had been able to advance in spite of the damage.
The armor plate on the front of the vic was bent, buckled, and torn. One additional burst from the chain gun would have left all of them dead. Mac made a note to pay Martinez a bonus and promote her to corporal. “Well, Captain,” a male voice said. “You have some explaining to do.”
Mac turned to find that Major Granger had approached her from behind. “Sir?”
“I ordered you to examine the bridge and report what you saw… I didn’t order you to capture it. Your top kick tells me that the rebs left a satchel full of C-4 strapped to one of the support beams. An EOD specialist is removing it now.”
So the rebs were preparing to blow the span. Mac had been lucky. Very lucky. “So charging across the bridge was a stupid thing to do,” Granger concluded.
Mac swallowed. “Sir, yes, sir.”
The look on Granger’s face softened slightly. “It was also a brave thing to do… And one that’s going to save us a lot of time. I’m going to see what I can do about making you a real captain… And that might come in handy when this mercenary crap is over.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You’re welcome. Now, have your people move this wreck out of the way. A platoon of tanks will arrive soon.” And with that, Granger walked the rest of the way across the bridge. He was armed with a pistol and an umbrella. The reason for that became apparent when it started to rain. The battle for Bowling Green had begun.
FORT KNOX, KENTUCKY
General “Mad” Mary Abbott stood a little more than five feet tall and couldn’t have weighed more than 110. But the tiny blonde had a personality large enough to fill the War Room from the moment she entered.
Sloan was there, as were General Hern and two dozen other officers, including Major McKinney. All of them paid close attention as Abbott gave her presentation. “Our forces are pushing into the town of Bowling Green,” she informed them. “The fighting is heavy, but elements of the 2nd Illinois Volunteers and the Oregon Scouts are about to flank the rebs. Once that happens, the bastards will be forced to pull back.”